another navel-gazing entry on ghosts of the past
I'm realising, the more and more time elapses, that I will probably not accomplish much in this life. I mean that in nearly every way possible. My legacy, if you can call it that, will be a lot of poorly conceived phrases and half-thoughts that don't make much sense.
I have a bit more perspective on my life, I think. I see now that not only should I have worked harder as an undergraduate (one of many laments) but I should have actually concocted a formalized plan. As I've touched upon recently, some financial problems, a lack of planning and foresight, a lack of any sort of idea or program befell me. And, in the end as in the beginning, I let personal problems cloud my judgments. Thus, though I dream that the degree did not really happen, I can still go to sleep most nights looking at that degree on my wall and wondering how I got it --both from an academic perspective and from a financial perspective.
As I write this, I realise I always will be decidedly middle-class. I may have aspirations of wanting to engage in social mobility, and I may have fears of slipping lower --if that's possible --but, even given the horrible times we live in, as long as I actually do go along and get this teaching credential, I will have something. But what?
What have I gained?
In a highly over-used anecdote I feel should be repeated, I'll take you back to when I was 8 years old. I was weighing myself and calling myself "101: A Fat Oddity" (like 2001: A Space Odyssey). Because of that enormous weight problem --and the realisation even then, that it would haunt me the remainder of my life-- I feared an early death. I was 8, but I felt that heart failure or some other malady would claim me before I was 10.
By the time I was 13, I knew, in my heart of hearts, that I probably would not make it to 20. I almost didn't, incidentally. But, that is another story, the story of October 16, 2003. There has been much ink and internet space devoted to that seminal moment in my life.
For whatever reason, I am here, at 25. And, once more, there is a part of me that worries I will not see the end of this decade, either. Will I make it to 30? If so, what will my life be like then?
I don't know. I'm just, once more, so scared about the present.
A confession: Part of my reason for having a difficult time getting to bed was being worried about my parents. Ever since I was young, perhaps around that age of 13 or so, I was worried about them. My worry then, and, now, again, is that something could happen to them on their way home from gambling. I actually shed tears last night, as I thought about such. I don't shed tears very often, but I was moved in such a way that how I only trickled a few tears and not a geyser is beyond me.
Today another worry has fallen me. My sister, apparently, had some sort of operation yesterday. Today she had to go back to the doctor, because of pain and blood or something. I'm not really sure.
I've never been sure of anything, despite how many times, especially lately, I've been writing "I get it." (Incidentally, between the "I get it's" and the "I don't know's" I don't seem to say much else).
I'm terribly afraid of life and death. That's part of my own narcissistic problem.
As I write this, my mind skips about the many, many subfields of interest I've had. I don't know that I'll ever be able to do what I want, because I don't know how to articulate what it is I want. I'm filled with so much doubt --which, not inevitably, but quite naturally, nonetheless --turns to fear, anger, and depression.
I am depressed, again. I suppose a part of me always will be, mostly because, I don't really know any other way of living. I know that may strike some as pure hogwash, but really, I don't know many other ways.
I'm 25. Some would say that is the beginning of life. And yet, I always feel like I'm at an ending, rather than a beginning. If you've read this, and if you believe it, you know that that fear goes back to at least age 8. I turned 8 in 1994 and it is now 2011. That's almost 20 years of worrying, and what has it gotten me?
I"m not sure.
I wanted to write of Russian history, to try to find some way to connect it, but I can't. I don't know how to do that. Not tonight, anyways.
"Cause tonight is just like any other night
That's why you're on your own tonight
With your triumphs and your charms
While they're in each other's arms..."
You know, this was supposed to be an entry about something my dad had said. Two things, actually. And how they pissed me off and made me feel really sad.
Oh well. As my journal and life have indicated to me, I'll probably forget about it before I click "post to" and then, whenever I return to this entry, will scratch my head in wondering what could have been so offensive and monumental to warrant a whole entry, when the truth of the matter is, it was just an obscure footnote...
I have a bit more perspective on my life, I think. I see now that not only should I have worked harder as an undergraduate (one of many laments) but I should have actually concocted a formalized plan. As I've touched upon recently, some financial problems, a lack of planning and foresight, a lack of any sort of idea or program befell me. And, in the end as in the beginning, I let personal problems cloud my judgments. Thus, though I dream that the degree did not really happen, I can still go to sleep most nights looking at that degree on my wall and wondering how I got it --both from an academic perspective and from a financial perspective.
As I write this, I realise I always will be decidedly middle-class. I may have aspirations of wanting to engage in social mobility, and I may have fears of slipping lower --if that's possible --but, even given the horrible times we live in, as long as I actually do go along and get this teaching credential, I will have something. But what?
What have I gained?
In a highly over-used anecdote I feel should be repeated, I'll take you back to when I was 8 years old. I was weighing myself and calling myself "101: A Fat Oddity" (like 2001: A Space Odyssey). Because of that enormous weight problem --and the realisation even then, that it would haunt me the remainder of my life-- I feared an early death. I was 8, but I felt that heart failure or some other malady would claim me before I was 10.
By the time I was 13, I knew, in my heart of hearts, that I probably would not make it to 20. I almost didn't, incidentally. But, that is another story, the story of October 16, 2003. There has been much ink and internet space devoted to that seminal moment in my life.
For whatever reason, I am here, at 25. And, once more, there is a part of me that worries I will not see the end of this decade, either. Will I make it to 30? If so, what will my life be like then?
I don't know. I'm just, once more, so scared about the present.
A confession: Part of my reason for having a difficult time getting to bed was being worried about my parents. Ever since I was young, perhaps around that age of 13 or so, I was worried about them. My worry then, and, now, again, is that something could happen to them on their way home from gambling. I actually shed tears last night, as I thought about such. I don't shed tears very often, but I was moved in such a way that how I only trickled a few tears and not a geyser is beyond me.
Today another worry has fallen me. My sister, apparently, had some sort of operation yesterday. Today she had to go back to the doctor, because of pain and blood or something. I'm not really sure.
I've never been sure of anything, despite how many times, especially lately, I've been writing "I get it." (Incidentally, between the "I get it's" and the "I don't know's" I don't seem to say much else).
I'm terribly afraid of life and death. That's part of my own narcissistic problem.
As I write this, my mind skips about the many, many subfields of interest I've had. I don't know that I'll ever be able to do what I want, because I don't know how to articulate what it is I want. I'm filled with so much doubt --which, not inevitably, but quite naturally, nonetheless --turns to fear, anger, and depression.
I am depressed, again. I suppose a part of me always will be, mostly because, I don't really know any other way of living. I know that may strike some as pure hogwash, but really, I don't know many other ways.
I'm 25. Some would say that is the beginning of life. And yet, I always feel like I'm at an ending, rather than a beginning. If you've read this, and if you believe it, you know that that fear goes back to at least age 8. I turned 8 in 1994 and it is now 2011. That's almost 20 years of worrying, and what has it gotten me?
I"m not sure.
I wanted to write of Russian history, to try to find some way to connect it, but I can't. I don't know how to do that. Not tonight, anyways.
"Cause tonight is just like any other night
That's why you're on your own tonight
With your triumphs and your charms
While they're in each other's arms..."
You know, this was supposed to be an entry about something my dad had said. Two things, actually. And how they pissed me off and made me feel really sad.
Oh well. As my journal and life have indicated to me, I'll probably forget about it before I click "post to" and then, whenever I return to this entry, will scratch my head in wondering what could have been so offensive and monumental to warrant a whole entry, when the truth of the matter is, it was just an obscure footnote...