persistence and progress

Dear Anonymous Commenter(s),
Thank you. You could be anyone. You could be one of my best friends who simply neglected to fill in their name; you could be someone I've never met in my entire life (which is becoming increasingly possible since I apparently have blog-readers from New Zealand). Regardless of who you are, THANK YOU...for demanding emphatically that I don't give up (in all caps, no less). Thank you for also demanding more posts (plz) because I am overdue (this is a genuine thank you, no sarcasm present).

For the record, I haven't given up. I've fucked up and slipped up, but I haven't given up by any means. If anything, since my last post I've been all shades and colors of inspired. My lack of blogging isn't because I've stopped caring---it's because I've been out actively caring enough to do something with myself. Also, it appears that the only time I feel compelled to blog is when I've slipped into a downward spiral of depression and Cheetos and want to talk about it. And there is only so much to talk about (it's cyclical.....Grey's Anatomy + take out + fetal position moping in bed with a beer or 6).

But really? This past week alone, I've done so many things out of my normal routine. Because let's face it, my normal routine sucks...it needs a face lift, liposuction and rhinoplasty simultaneously. It needs to be gutted. I've rediscovered the borderline cathartic power of aimless solitary autumn walks. In middle school, I lived in this beautiful albeit claustrophobic tiny town and I would spend almost every single night out taking walks in the cold with my walkman and Our Lady Peace cds. It was during that seriously downtrodden socially awkward and clinically depressed stage and I would just walk for hours and hours, long past when the street lights came on and sneak up the front stairs before my parents could assess what time it was. I forgot how nice it is to turn off your cell phone, turn on some music and take one step upwards and out of your life (your bedroom, the computer lab, your house, your car, your job) and turn your thoughts over and over in your mind, even if they never come close to making any semblance of sense.

Truth is, for the most part I'm still upbeat and confident. Those emotions just crest and fall like anything. Last Thursday night, I finally attended one of our off skate workouts which is like step aerobics on twenty stimulant drugs (we're talking crack and amphetamines). I was quickly reminded why I avoid group exercise classes...there is a gigantic wall sized mirror, reflecting back to you every single jiggle, every awkward movement, every little detail that you would prefer to ignore. It's moments like that, when I feel so humiliated and discouraged, that it's difficult to maintain that enthusiasm.

But in reality, within the past 6 weeks, I've radically changed my habits in huge ways---it isn't front page news anymore because they've become just that: habits. I haven't had a Red Bull in 6 weeks! (exception being when I attempted to drink one at the Zombie Prom and my friend Kim promptly stole it from me, held it above my head and then smashed it in her bare hands...she's a good pal) I've cut my daily caloric intake by 500 calories easily and I've fundamentally changed WHAT I eat. Lately, when I have caved to cravings, the guilty pleasure food I've eaten has physically made me ill---which is a good sign because something must have changed inside of my body so that it is now rejecting junk. I've attended derby practice and off skate workouts at least twice a week if not three times. My quad muscles are hulking out and feel like a frozen turkey after 5 minutes of thawing.

I wonder what the nutritional value of blood is....Zombie Walk 2010

While I may have only lost 7 lbs so far, my body is readjusting and I guess I just have to trust in it and remind myself that the goal of this process was not to lose weight---it's a goal so much bigger and more respectable than that, and that goal? The goal of health and self-respect and instating change? I'm actually achieving it. I haven't given up, I can promise you that.

PS: I've also done something I promised I would do years ago---booked an actual show along with the talented Rocki Rock and For the Kid in the Back on November 12th at 6:30 at the Koffee Kat (if you're local, you should absolutely attend and cheer me on)---Alison and I are officially debuting our fantastic duo, The Knitting Club, complete with cable knit sweaters, a dazzling rendition of 'I want you back' by the Jackson 5 and the robot...

 

If you were wondering...I sometimes make music and stuff. Feel free to admire my 1968 Playboy Cover t-shirt, I know I do.

PPS: I've also recently discovered how therapeutic Justin Bieber dance parties and verbal pep talks are. I think they should become standard protocol for cases of the blues.

Hot dogs and white bread

I've fallen off the bandwagon a bit, I'll admit it. It's been more of a slow and steady dismount. Like a gimpy tumble. When I started this blog, I was so hopeful and empowered...I was convinced that this time would be different, this time it would STICK and my life would be gumdrops and rainbows and rollerskates and size 12 pants. I lost 4 lbs in the first week, I stopped drinking Red Bull entirely, I started actually USING my fabulous tie dyed steel Nathan water bottle...but as the days got darker and rainier and significantly more dismal and disgusting, I fell on my sufficiently padded ass.

It's easy for me to procrastinate and excuse my actions----to tell myself that it's alright to hibernate in my bedroom adding movies to my Netflix queue, religiously watching Grey's Anatomy and drinking PBR---because it's just a funk, it'll pass and I'll pull myself up by my boot straps (uh shoelaces) tomorrow.

Well, news flash, it isn't excusable. Sure, it's okay to slip up and occasionally be an antisocial bum who sleeps with a Winnie the Pooh stuffed animal, but I told myself I would stick with this, for the sake of my own health and happiness. There are always going to be gray rainy days, sad days, so-discouraged-I-want-to-punch-inanimate-objects days. It's easy to make the right decisions on good days when the sun is shining and the birds are chirping and I'm absolutely chipper; I need to learn to do so on the days when I'm not. And THAT is the real challenge.

After work on Tuesday, I went grocery shopping for the first time in over a month. I've been subsisting on flatbreads on campus, Quiznos and residual left-over food like ramen noodles and chicken noodle soup. Typically, when I go grocery shopping I head straight for the 'Healthy Choice' frozen meals that taste like cardboard and the Rice A Roni whose preservatives are so strong you can feel them corroding your taste buds. I like food that I can make in less than five minutes and take out the door with me because I'm one busy lady, hence my atrocious fast food habits.

Megan, Sarah and Alison were constantly cooking and baking these culinary masterpieces last year. I would walk into the kitchen and it would smell like the stuff of dreams...stir fry, fucking delectable pasta dishes, homemade hummus, you name it...our pantry was like a whole foods store.

And me? Hot dog on white bread. I ate hot dogs on white bread.

 

And mind you, they never let me live it down and constantly laughed at me...because my eating habits were the polar opposite of theirs. Not because I actually ENJOY hot dogs on white bread (okay, maybe a little)...I love me some vegetables and soysage just as much as the next girl. No, because I never had (or took) the time or energy to valiantly attempt cooking. WELL, my friends, that is all about to change.

This time when I went grocery shopping, I didn't buy instant mashed potatoes, I bought a BAG of potatoes. I didn't buy instant rice, I bought a BAG of whole grain rice. I bought carrots and radishes and green peppers and cucumbers and apples and oh it was glorious, GLORIOUS! Anticlimactic, you say? When I came home from practice Wednesday and ate a fresh green pepper, THAT was climactic. Like orgasm in the mouth climactic. I was raised (mostly) in a house where fruits and vegetables were plentiful and my mom was constantly watching her weight, eating 100 calorie bags of popcorn, cucumber and potato skins to survive. You don't need to twist my arm to eat vegetables, it's just getting into the habit of having them present in the fridge when I'm hungry. It's getting into the habit of having ANYTHING present in the fridge when I'm hungry.

Truth is, I'm awful at taking care of myself. Sure, I bathe and clothe myself, I manage to pay my bills (albeit sometimes a few weeks late) and do my work like a good girl but somewhere along the way I missed the lesson where you learn to feed yourself adequately and nutritiously. My parents were both busy or employed growing up and other than the occasional delicious meal when my mom would get home from work early, I fended for myself which usually involved not eating or eating poorly.

When I was 16, I got a job at the mall and found myself gainfully employed with spare cash in the land of Taco Bell, Burger King, Quiznos and Flaming Wok. That didn't bode well, and that coupled with dining hall food freshmen year? Recipe for disaster, literally. I moved out on my own my sophomore year and had hardly any money to my name. I could barely pay my bills and I just ate corn nibblets, ramen and Banquet meals religiously.

Freshmen 20. Sophomore 20. Junior 20. And here I am.

It's never too late to grow up a little, learn something new, slice and dice and saute some shit...I mean, how hard can it be?

And for the record, I didn't buy hot dogs. Or white bread.

The Verdict

  

The pros far outweighed the cons. The decision has been made and a break is happening. A break which will hopefully allow me time to get steadier footing and take a deep breath before drowning in academia. Again.

(Yes, one of my pros is more time for procrasturbation...it's my forte)

The future is a scary place

Monday, I thought I had finally managed it...I had found the tears I knew were hiding somewhere and I was ready for a torrential downpour. I thought I had, but I didn't. I teared up, my chest tightened and my throat felt like there was a boulder caught in it, but they didn't come. Funny thing is, it wasn't some dramatic interpersonal conflict or the culmination of 6+ months of mope. No, it was because my 'future' is approaching at warp speed and I'm ill prepared to meet it.

I've been a colossal nerd my entire life. When I took the CAT tests, I scored in the 98th percentile or above for every subject. In 7th grade, I was offered the chance to take the SATs and if I achieved a certain score or higher, I could skip a grade. When I applied to SUNY Plattsburgh, I applied and interviewed for and ultimately received a full scholarship. Since I've been here, I've maintained a 3.8 GPA, been a teaching assistant for multiple classes and done research for over three semesters with three different professors. I've presented at the Eastern Psychological Association's conference in Brooklyn and will hopefully be presenting at the Association for Psychological Science's annual conference in D.C. this winter.

I'm not describing these things to brag or honk my own horn---I think it's become pretty salient at this point that regardless of achievement or reality, I don't feel particularly intelligent or attractive (who does?)---I'm describing them because it has become one of the cornerstones of who I am, the way I define myself, and at times that is difficult, especially now. I've always held myself to unrealistically high standards and if I don't reach them, I cut myself down. I live my life according to 'If...then' statements (appropriate for someone who lives her life in the world of hypotheses)...'If I get an A in this class, then I'll be satisfied'...'If I lose 20 lbs, then I'll be happy'...'If I ace the GREs, then I'll feel successful'. But the problem with those statements is that the stakes keep getting higher and higher---and I'm never satisfied.

I'm proud of my accomplishments and I love what I do. I love Psychology and there isn't a single doubt in my mind that it will be my field. Psychology never ceases to flat out enthrall me---when someone can discuss brain physiology with me, it's like foreplay. The first time I ran my own study that I designed, I felt like King Kong on cocaine. I was ready to go stop a train with my bare hands, cure AIDS and stop world hunger all in one fell swoop. I know that I want to ultimately work in academia, to teach hungover college students and also conduct research, but I don't know if I'm ready to commit to a 4-6 year PhD program in one field quite yet.

This gives me a boner.

On top of not being positive what specific field of Psychology I want to commit to, I don't have the time or energy to make my application count. For the first time in my life, I am a small fish in a massive pond---a pond populated by brainiac fish who were child prodigies, have publications under their belts and GRE scores above 1500. Students who crap out genius. And as much as I'd like to think I'm one of them, I'm really doubting it.

I'm rushing myself and forcing myself to make decisions that I feel unprepared to make. I've had this steadfast plan that I would immediately transition from undergraduate into a doctoral degree in Social Psychology. I picked out the schools, researched their credentials and requirements, and until recently never really evaluated what a monumental decision I was making. Reality has chased me down, and it's time to make a choice. Not a choice of whether or not to attend graduate school but a choice as to whether or not to do it IMMEDIATELY.

For the past few hours, I've been running possibilities in laps around my mind, comparing the pros and cons of taking a year break before enrolling in a doctoral program. I've had numerous friends and Professors tell me it isn't a bad idea---that in fact, it may be a great one, but I can't help but feel like I would somehow be failing if I did. I'm a raging hypocrite because objectively, I would never consider anyone a failure for doing so---but subjectively? I'm my own worse critic and I can't help but feel like I would be letting my family down, regardless of the fact that I'll still be getting my PhD. But that's who I am. It's who I've always been.

A break would allow me to study and raise my GRE scores without the distraction of school, save money for when I do move someone new and potentially expensive, get a decent job with my BA, focus on my schoolwork and psychological studies this year and beef up my application, continue skating and bout with my amazing derby girls and truly evaluate what I want with my life and future.

My brain hurts. I'll probably cry soon.

Crawling out of the bell jar

I'm overdue for a relevant post...but let me explain why I've been M.I.A.

I crawled into the Bell Jar this past week and curled up there. I've done nothing but sleep, watch Grey's Anatomy from bed (anxiously awaiting the episode where Callie releases her inner-homo) and halfheartedly study for the GREs. The past month or so has been serving up tragedies left and right and it seems like no one escapes unscathed. I've been lucky that the blows haven't hit closer to home and I feel almost guilty that they haven't. I realize that's silly---no one wishes these things on anyone, but regardless I feel bad for even discussing it as though it happened to me. It's just like this cloud of misfortune has descended upon everyone and everything and I'm hoping it passes.

Marry me?

On the bright side, I've crawled out of said Bell Jar, mostly aided by the fact that I (1) was able to attend derby practice yesterday and (2) was able to hit hard at said practice---oh, and the sunshine that has finally decided to make an appearance. I can't do rainy days....they're awful anxiety inducing asshole mechanisms that make me want to eat and drink everything in the fridge (inadvisable since none of it is mine and it's mostly rotting vegetables and beer) and sleep. Without Red Bull, I sleep...a lot.

But yesterday, I was able to make my first derby practice in TWO WEEKS. Two weeks is a long time without skating when you've designated roller derby as your salvation. Between work and rainy days, I was seriously jonesin' for some quality pack work, booty blocking and squats. Well, GUESS WHAT? We've finally started contact. That's right, I get to smash bodily into other girls and knock them on their asses, which, let's face it, is the best part of roller derby.

Oh my god, I love it.

Being 5'2" with a low center of gravity and a lot of junk in the trunk has never come in handy for me (except when I walk downtown late at night and men aggressively call me 'shawty,' which no one wants)...UNTIL NOW. I've been anxiously awaiting the skill in derby that I have serious prowess at. I'm no speed skater, my endurance needs a lot of work and my skills are pretty standard, but hitting? Hitting is something I feel like I can be fucking awesome at and I intend to. God, it's so fucking intoxicating----don't get me wrong, I'm not going to be caught in a downward spiral where I start punching strangers during stressful work shifts, but I can assure you I will be doing a lot of hitting on the track.

One of my favorite blockers, Annie Cockledoux of the Green Mountain Derby Dames, gettin' down to bidness

I think hitting is so appealing to me because I'm the antithesis of aggression. When it comes to conflict, I've always been passive to my detriment. I've let one too many girlfriends push me around (and throw laptops at my head) and that has never ended well. I would rather have tons of whiny inner turmoil than deal with the overt confrontation that would be much quicker and more satisfying. Recently in a counseling session, Christy and I were discussing the past 6 months and the fall out from Kate, along with the relationship itself, and she said to me, 'What I'm wondering is why you aren't ANGRY.'

It never occurs to me to be angry, to hold people accountable for their actions and just be fucking PISSED at them. I'd rather be sad or tired or disappointed or frustrated. In a lot of ways, I'm sure that's been beneficial, but in just as many ways it hasn't. And so when I have the opportunity to slam into another girl on rollerskates, I'm ecstatic, and I'm not holding back.

This month, we start having indoor practices twice a week and off skate workouts twice a week. I'm the happiest girl. I absolutely fucking adore my derby girls, they're my family, and seeing them regularly just makes me feel so happy and squirmy inside. Today, my whole body aches, including muscles I didn't know I had (I pulled a muscle in my throat...IN MY THROAT) and I feel like myself. It's been two weeks without a single Red Bull, I've kept off the initial weight loss and lost another pound, and hauled my ass out of the bell jar.

I'm doin' alright, how about you?

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