There is no way around it. I am definitely in a slump.
I have no idea what's going on, why I feel this way or what exactly I can do about it. Suddenly and without warning I am completely powerless. This body is not my body, these limbs are not my limbs but the limbs of a tree, a self-aware tree that somehow senses its own powerlessness. There is a strong feeling, both physical and mental, of total weakness, as if my ability to effect change in any way, on the world or on my own condition in it, were absolutely zero. This, I would say on lighter days, sucks.
Maybe I'm homesick, which would explain why I find this feeling so unfamiliar. Truth be told I don't think I've ever been homesick before, either because I'd never felt a particularly strong attachment to where I was or who I was with, or because I had to come to a place where I know absolutely no one to understand what it means to be around people who care. In fact, I think I would welcome this feeling as homesickness because it would mean not only that I'd learned something but that I could figure out what to do about it.
Truth be told, though, there's another dimension to this feeling and it's as simple as this: uncertainty. Uncertainty and the fear that comes with it, there fear of not knowing what I'm doing or where I should go, who I should be talking to, or whether each day is a riotous success or a crushing failure. For all my unceasing whining about the virtues of spontaneity and whimsy it seems like when confronted with actual unstructured freedom my first instinct is to shrink from it. Turns out I really like having things planned out. It frees me from having to make choices, which frees me from having to think about whether or not I'm making good use of my time.
A confession: this last point obsesses me constantly, and I've read recently that as an American an obsession with not wasting time is so common it's downright patriotic. Every moment that slips by in which I haven't single-handedly cured cancer with the best symphony ever written feels like a personal failure. I guess it's anything but surprising that, isolated from most of the people I work with, from my friends and family who (hopefully) enjoy my company and from any real schema for measuring forward progress, I feel completely adrift.
Two forces pull against each other at this point. The first says--quite rightfully--that I am being unfathomably selfish, that far from revolving around me the world barely even stops to think of my existence, and that instead of putting so much pressure on myself to expand my greatness outward I should align my happiness and my sense of achievement with that of the people around me. The second says--quite rightfully--that exactly this unease, this sense of never being satisfied with oneself, is what propels people to the loftiest heights. The great women and men of history are seldom portrayed as content and self-confident; on the contrary they are tortured, obsessed, even syphilitic. The price of that greatness seems to be the tortuous, dolorous path itself.
Of course, both are right, and as Alain de Botton (yes, I like TED talks, yes I am a philistine) points out the idea of having balance in ones life is itself a sacrifice. To thrust oneself completely towards an endeavor is the only way to move forward, and unfortunately with total devotion there will always be sacrifice, even abdication.
But I am going to push past this feeling which, like shyness, is ridiculous. While feeling full of ennui, powerless and adrift certainly brings me closer to the French people it is no way to go about living ones life. This is a wave, a phase, a correction that we all must pass through from time to time. As countries from birth to dissatisfaction to revolution, so too individuals from uncertainty to depression to inspiration. Hopefully, anyway.
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| Above: Basically how I feel |
Maybe I'm homesick, which would explain why I find this feeling so unfamiliar. Truth be told I don't think I've ever been homesick before, either because I'd never felt a particularly strong attachment to where I was or who I was with, or because I had to come to a place where I know absolutely no one to understand what it means to be around people who care. In fact, I think I would welcome this feeling as homesickness because it would mean not only that I'd learned something but that I could figure out what to do about it.
Truth be told, though, there's another dimension to this feeling and it's as simple as this: uncertainty. Uncertainty and the fear that comes with it, there fear of not knowing what I'm doing or where I should go, who I should be talking to, or whether each day is a riotous success or a crushing failure. For all my unceasing whining about the virtues of spontaneity and whimsy it seems like when confronted with actual unstructured freedom my first instinct is to shrink from it. Turns out I really like having things planned out. It frees me from having to make choices, which frees me from having to think about whether or not I'm making good use of my time.
A confession: this last point obsesses me constantly, and I've read recently that as an American an obsession with not wasting time is so common it's downright patriotic. Every moment that slips by in which I haven't single-handedly cured cancer with the best symphony ever written feels like a personal failure. I guess it's anything but surprising that, isolated from most of the people I work with, from my friends and family who (hopefully) enjoy my company and from any real schema for measuring forward progress, I feel completely adrift.
Two forces pull against each other at this point. The first says--quite rightfully--that I am being unfathomably selfish, that far from revolving around me the world barely even stops to think of my existence, and that instead of putting so much pressure on myself to expand my greatness outward I should align my happiness and my sense of achievement with that of the people around me. The second says--quite rightfully--that exactly this unease, this sense of never being satisfied with oneself, is what propels people to the loftiest heights. The great women and men of history are seldom portrayed as content and self-confident; on the contrary they are tortured, obsessed, even syphilitic. The price of that greatness seems to be the tortuous, dolorous path itself.
Of course, both are right, and as Alain de Botton (yes, I like TED talks, yes I am a philistine) points out the idea of having balance in ones life is itself a sacrifice. To thrust oneself completely towards an endeavor is the only way to move forward, and unfortunately with total devotion there will always be sacrifice, even abdication.
But I am going to push past this feeling which, like shyness, is ridiculous. While feeling full of ennui, powerless and adrift certainly brings me closer to the French people it is no way to go about living ones life. This is a wave, a phase, a correction that we all must pass through from time to time. As countries from birth to dissatisfaction to revolution, so too individuals from uncertainty to depression to inspiration. Hopefully, anyway.
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