You met me at a very strange time in my life.

If that isn't the understatement of a lifetime...

You said that phrase and I knew I had to write something, but I wasn't sure where to take it.  But now I know.  It'll serve as my annual reflection.  I've been putting it off until pretty much the last possible moment.  It's stretching into the evening of the 31st now, so the year is almost over.  And I still don't even know what to write here.  But I guess that's something in and of itself.

2012 has been the first year in quite a while that didn't bring a big change into my life.  And I'm happy with that.  It's been a relatively calm year, a stable one.  I've known where I was and where I was going, and it was a lovely change from the turmoil of years past.  That's not to say there weren't troublesome spots and little upsets, but they were so minor next to everything else, that I really can't complain.

I don't think I've changed much.  Maybe I've become a little bit more emotionally stable, perhaps I've become more committed to my career, but that's all I can really think of.  I don't think that's a problem, though.  I'm very happy with how the year turned out, and I can only hope that the next one continues in much the same fashion.

In the next year, I'd like to take better care of myself.  That's really it.  It's not a resolution (besides, I've only ever made one of those), but it covers my hopes for the new year.

Happy New Year, if you're reading this.
May it bring you health, fortune, and joy.

I shouldn't have waited four days to write this

It's always strange.  It's so familiar, but at the same time, so distant.  It isn't part of me anymore.  It isn't in my veins, it doesn't throb like a headache in my brain.  It can still make my heart race, but...not at all in the same way.  And it's going to take a while to fully wear off, if it ever does.  Going back there is like dissecting my own body, my own mind.  The stories of my life are carved on every corner.  Memories are littered like autumn leaves around every turn.

I wish I remembered exactly what he said, but the paraphrase is this: 

"Very few people have come through here who I thought could really change academia.  But I think you're one of the ones who could."

If that isn't putting tremendous pressure on me, I don't know what could.  Even after a year and a half, when I think of the word "mentor," he's the person who comes to mind, not the individuals I work with now.  I always think carefully about his advice, because there's just something about him, about the way he seems to understand me.  

I never really thought about our similarity before, but I think he had it right when he said I'm going to have a hard time settling down.  It's like that movie we watched last year, where the woman couldn't be tamed, not even by the man she loved.  And in the end, he killed her because he couldn't trap her in a marriage.  I feel like that woman, sometimes.  As though even the career I love is going to feel like it's trapping me.  I've always felt a restlessness when approaching the end of anything, about a year before I was supposed to be moving on, I found that I was ready to.  

I always hoped that I'd grow out of it.  That once I found my place, I would relax and calm down and be satisfied with where I was.  But maybe I won't.  Maybe I'm like him in this way.  Maybe I'll need a change at least every five years.  "It's a good place for wanderers," he said.  I can't get that out of my head.  Because I'm reasonably sure he meant it from his perspective, considering a position I may be in after another decade or so, but something about it just really struck me.  Maybe there's more to it, but I haven't figured it out yet.

And as I sat there four hours later, letting the place soak in, the memories from so long ago mingled with the things he'd said that day, and I couldn't move.  The blue carpet, the strange ceiling, the couches I spent the better part of three years on, the deathly quiet and the stale air that I knew could so easily invade the soul.  I lay there for half an hour, opening myself to the waves of nostalgia, the good and the bad, allowing them to crash against me, to smother me in memories.  And when I couldn't take it anymore, I stood up and left.  

I don't think I said a proper goodbye, but by then I couldn't.  I was too full of the emotions of the place, of the words, of the people.  So I left.  And I still feel bad.  But I'll be back.  And maybe it'll be easier the next time.  I guess I'll find out.

Desecrating our Sanctuaries

The problem with being awake at 4 am and then also at 9 am is always that no matter what, the same people you talked to when you went to sleep are never around when you wake up.  And that's always bothered me.  Because the thing about 4 am is that it's a particularly kind time.  It's the sort of time I seek refuge in when I know that all is not right because it's soothing.  4 am is like cowering under the blankets when you're five years old and there are monsters--it protects you.  Even it you know it doesn't really do you any good, you feel safer.

Which means that you can say things at 4 am that you wouldn't have said otherwise.  4 am is my church.  And like most humans, I'm not particularly devout until I need something.  And that's when I seek 4 am.  What 4 am means to me is that I don't have to try to make myself presentable.  That I can cry when I need to.  That I can say horrible things or suggest implausible scenarios.  And even though I know things won't be better after a few hours of sleep, they feel better.  It's temporary relief.

Because even knowing that these thins are going to dig into me, hollow me out, make me nothing but a shell of misery the very next morning, 4 am soothes the wounds.  It makes it okay to go to bed.  It helps me fall asleep.  It's where I seek refuge.  It's numbing.  Both staying up until one should reasonably be getting up, and surviving the next day on reduced sleep.  Sometimes it's the only thing that helps.

So if you ever wonder why I keep coming back--this is why.  I come back because I have no other place to go.  Because it's my solace, my haven.  It's the only way I stay sane anymore, and it is such by virtue of being inexplicably close at hand whenever I need it to be.