an open space

The more I pursue the unconventional life of a designer, the more I think I’ll fit and function much better in the practical workplace. The good ol' 9-5 really is not so bad. I’m reticent to compare myself to the stereotypical dysfunction of the artistic mind, but just yesterday, I spent all morning, writing everything out. And having all of my honest hopes and dissembling fears on paper, shakes me to my core of discomfort. Instead of the abstract orb they usually float vaguely around in, instead they felt much more tangible. And this, I don’t like.

Yesterday, I went to work feeling absolutely disconsolate; my mind ruminating over and over ominous and cynical what-ifs. Always assuming the worst of my career and future and relationships. And maybe the transition period is the hardest time, where thinking and worrying doesn’t improve or affect, rather it just causes us to rationalize our gut reactions and talk ourselves out of our natural impulses, which aren’t always unwise. Especially mine.

Yesterday, I felt so stressed from very little happening, again the anticipatory grief rushing to cover every inch of my skeleton. Every time I tried to eat I would begin to feel sick to my stomach, and without eating, I began to feel faint at work, faking smiles to my customers.

The dinner rush came surprisingly hard, and I was forced to hustle: carrying out plates, restocking, ringing up checks. And then when it ended, I felt much better, and suddenly, starving. Yolanda made me a burrito and I ate the entire thing too quickly, running to the bathroom, feeling like I was going to throw up. And as I leaned over the toilet, eyes beginning to blur with tears, my next impulse, rather than to cry, was to laugh, at how dysfunctional I am, and how much fear motivates my actions and reactions. And how connected our emotional and physical hearts really are. And how dinner rush was the only hour I had felt peace the entire evening, when I wasn't able to let my mind worry about everything.

Reflection is a wonderful thing, but not all the time. I think about growing up and wanting to do freelance, and now the idea just makes me feel exhausted. Of not having the same schedule all the time, not having your set hours posted on your schedule on the fridge, not knowing that the amount of money you need is arriving safely in that crisp white envelope in the mail at the same time every month. Inconsistency. I’ve learned quite a bit in the last year that this kills me much more than I realized. I need a plan. I need things to be sound. I need to remember that every decision I make won’t be perfect, because life is not crafted that way, and every circumstance we place ourselves in still has both its disadvantages and advantages. But those moments, when we are happy and content with the decision we made and the work and effort we expended to get there, these are the moments I hope to have, and to have often.

I guess i'm alluding to the fact that it's okay to be unsure, and to dedicate yourself to it anyways, with confidence. I love what I love, what I do, and can't help it. The possibility exists that everything could still fall apart. But when I take a good look at this mixed bag called life, like that bag of trail mix where the raisins always get thrown away, or given to someone else to eat, I feel okay. Even though I don't thoroughly enjoy every aspect of it, the good still clearly outweighs the bad, just because I don't like the raisins doesn't mean that the peanuts still don't taste so wonderful mixed with the M&Ms, and I still don't hesitate to purchase it time and time again.

It'll all be worthwhile someday. Or so I tell myself.

The irony of commitment is that it’s deeply liberating - in work, in play, in love. The act frees your from the tyranny of the internal critic, from the fear that dresses itself up and parades around as rational hesitation.