Sunday Gazing

I made a necklace instead of writing this newsletter

Welcome to the first edition of Sunday Gazing: a twice-a-month newsletter for all subscribers of Navel Gazing.

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My ADHD is ADHDing. Here is the necklace I made instead of writing this newsletter when I said I would:

It’s a good necklace. It was worth it. I picked out all the beads at a little shop called “Bead It” here in Honolulu, randomly plucking all the tiny ones that caught my eyes and weren’t too expensive before choosing a few fancier gems. Yesterday morning I got up at 6:00am and did a short exercise program. I made a list of everything I am supposed to do this weekend.

• newsletter

• grading

• Canvas for class

• finish prelims list

• finish comp syllabus

• exercise

• beach day

Why have I been putting off this newsletter? Because I don’t want to admit that I’m burned out. But, of course I’m burned out. I turned in the final draft of my book a little a month ago, and somehow I didn’t manage to catch up on two years’ worth of rest in the time in between then and now. I am so fucking tired, y’all.

Currently I am teaching a class called “The American Short Story” to high-school students here in Hawaii. Every morning I teach for several hours, then I spend an hour or so building up the Canvas site, which I am taking week by week (and day by day, if I’m really honest). My students are wonderful and I love teaching fiction. I’ll be sending out some of the stories I’m teaching later this week.

I’m slowly remembering what it feels like to teach for an institution that cares about me, and to teach a class whose materials and curriculum I’ve chosen myself. I’ve not gotten one threatening email from my bosses here, which I cannot say about my own PhD program. Here the school provides our teaching supplies. I don’t have to buy my own paper for student handouts. It’s both refreshing and depressing, knowing how little support I have back in Florida when I return, but also knowing that I could someday have a permanent job where I am actually supported. It’s hard for me to admit to myself that I don’t want to go back to Florida at all. Maybe that will change by mid-July. I do miss my cat (very much).

I am slowly reconciling who I was before my PhD program and endless book revisions and my insurmountable workload with who I am now, two years after back surgery and starting my PhD. I am so good at putting my head down and getting the work done. I’m less good at knowing what to do with myself without extreme external pressure forcing me to be ultra-productive.

I’m burned out, but I can’t stop working. And I need space. Space for gathering. Space for inspiration. I am sunk. At a loss. Exhausted.

I ask myself: how can someone write a newsletter in this condition? My answer is: this is the exact condition in which I need to write my newsletter.

The view from where I am sitting is beautiful. The ocean goes on forever. Near the shore it glimmers turquoise. Farther away, cerulean. I love staring at the unbroken horizon line, where two blues create a long, airy white line.

I am grateful and at the same time very sad. There are moments when I feel lost in my own life. I want to rest but I have forgotten how to rest. I want to lay down but there are so many things to do.

I have quit drinking, and I have not had a drink, and that is good.

When I catch myself spiraling I remind myself that I have ADHD. That I am autistic. That I am still learning what works for me. That I just finished two years of PhD coursework and teaching and also turned in the final draft of my book.

I remind myself that sadness is okay. I won’t drown unless I deny my feelings.

I remind the parts of myself who protected me for so long that they can rest. I place my hand on my neck. My chest. Where those parts live and sometimes beat against my throat and breastbone, warning me of all the terrible outcomes, protecting me from getting my hopes up. I place my hands there and tell myself that I don’t need to catastrophize anymore.

Don’t you know, I say to myself, that it won’t hurt you to believe in all those good things?

Oh, the freedom to want good things and believe they will happen.

I am allowed that now, but it takes constant reminding to remember my own agency. When I do, the freedom flows like an ocean, cascading into the present moment, and I no longer feel scared of the future.

It’s not that I don’t know myself, but that I am constantly coming into contact with the parts of myself begging for rest as well as those parts of myself who cling to behaviors and thought patterns that kept me safe for so long. Safe, but also scared. Now it is time for me to do more than merely endure. I’m still learning how to do that.

Slowly, I am rebalancing. It began with doing nothing. Watching shit TV. Beating myself up for it. Staying up way too late. Beating myself up for it. Eating too much. Beating myself up for it. Then I remembered that this is what I did for almost all my life: the beating myself up. I don’t have to do it anymore. So I did the things, minus the self-flaggelation. My shame evaporated in the sunlight of my own acceptance. I started sleeping more. Watching less TV. I swam in the ocean. Went for a walk.

My average sleep has gone from 5 hours and 58 minutes to 6 hours and 32 minutes a night. I’ve started crawling into bed at 8pm, reading, and falling asleep before 10pm. I may not have all the space I want, but I have a more space than I’ve had in a long time. It’s not a vacation, but sometimes it feels like one compared to the past two years.

Sometimes, when I am tired, I can crawl into bed around noon and take a 20 minute nap. I haven’t had the space for that in a very long time.

tired, but also hopeful.

Yesterday I met with my therapist on Zoom. “I’m always thinking about the maladaptive parts of myself,” I said to her. “The parts that protect me in ways that no longer serve who I want to be in the world. But I also want to acknowledge and notice the adapted parts of myself. Those parts that always want to do better.”

I turn towards these parts. The internal drive I have towards equilibrium. My strong inner sense of knowing. What’s miraculous is that they are one and the same. The maladapted parts are also the adapted parts. That familiar drill sargeant voice has good intentions at heart. Accepting my whole self means accepting that nothing needs throwing away or discarding, nor do I need to add anything new. It’s all here. All the materials I need for my own well being are at my disposal. I don’t need to accomplish anything or buy anything or be anything new in order to attain peace, but peace is not something that can be attained. Not permanently.

I used to be scared of swimming in the ocean. Sometimes I’m still scared of swimming in the ocean.

Actually, I am always scared of swimming in the ocean.

But I swim despite my fear. In my best moments I can let go and let the water carry me, but those moments are always fleeting. But why is there a but? Those moments are real. They happen. Isn’t that everything? That in the midst of my fear I can also experience moments of supreme peace and joy? Those moments aren’t meant to last forever. That’s why they’re so wonderful.

So here I am, in the ocean. Leaping in again and again despite my fear. That’s all I can do at the moment, and it is more than enough.