The February Curse

I think for Lent, I'd like to give up crying. And also resentment, bitterness, paranoia, and cynicism. If only that were like fasting meat or chocolate; difficult but not entirely unreasonable. Really though, I wouldn't mind seeing the watery eyes and sobfests go, because chances are they were brought on by the stirring of Lo the Angry Monster of the Deep to life. (My sincerest apologies to all who have fallen victim to the wrath of this incorrigible creature.)

Unfortunately, there seems to be a mutual agreement of hatred between February and me. Every year when this time rolls around, everything settled suddenly jumps up and scrambles around like a desperate game of musical chairs, except rarely is there anything pleasantly entertaining or melodic about this chaos.

I generally don't support declarations of strong emotions because that usually turns blogs into self-deprecating pity parties of writers fishing for sympathy and attention. I do not wish to fall into the aforementioned category, but...I am having a rather turbulent month. There I said it. I wish I could attribute things to PMS, meaning all will come to pass in due time (read: give it about a week), but that period (no pun intended) has come and gone and I'm still feeling as psychotic as ever.

Thanks to a situation that continues to eat at the core of my being, I am a bomb set off by every little thing--emails, sleepovers, platonic arm caresses, the entire race of girls. Then I get caught up hating myself for the ugliness it creates inside. The weakness of the flesh overtakes now and again. Visions of friends' deaths and suicides of long ago haunt me. My aunt is having brain surgery for a recurrent tumor in a week. And in the day-to-day, I can hardly get a moment's rest between four classes, two jobs, and a looming, imminent graduation.

February is the James month. Not simply because this is when memories of both James', my friend who died of congenital heart failure and the acquaintance from freshman Bible Study who committed suicide, plague me like a swarm of pesky gnats as the sixth anniversary of the former passes. But also because James 1:2-4 necessarily becomes my go-to. "Consider it pure joy, my brothers, when you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything."

God, I've learned that I can't learn grace and love on my own. I've tried and am failing miserably. I need You to break the chains of a curse that this year means stubbornness of heart, holding onto resentment, and defaulting to paranoia.

I guess this is where curse becomes blessing, when it pulls me back to the Cross.

And it kicks so hard, it breaks your bones.
Cuts so deep, it hits your soul.
Tears your skin and makes your blood flow.
It's better that you know that love is hard.

[Things to work on: titling]

We had a house dinner last night, and much of the conversation centered around the fast approaching departure of my beloved third roommate J. Listening to her detail the murky uncertainty most newly minted graduates face, the arduous process of job hunting in an economically unfacilitating year, and the implications of moving back home, I was terrorized by the realization that that will be me in just few months.

Oh dear.

These days when I do chance upon rare moments of free brain space, my thoughts are generally occupied with endeavors to figure out the future. 'What in the world am I going to do with my life?' begs the million dollar question. I know this much: I don't know much.

I've managed to narrow down my list of interests I realistically envision myself pursuing, as well as my list of projected cities I think would prove stimulating and most importantly, survivable. It has essentially come down to an epic battle between law school vs. journalism school. Pros and cons lists galore ensue. The margins of my notebooks, journal, and scattered 3x5 cards are littered with scribbles of random revelations, advantages and disadvantages, and probabilities of plausibility.

I won't lie. I like the idea of law school. I like the practicality of law school. I like the prestige of law school. But I don't know if I can really hack law school. Whenever I entertain the thought of three years of academic rigor of nightmarish proportions, I wonder if I possess the intellectual and disciplinary capabilities required of the hell that law school purports. I don't think I'm smart enough and I am far too skilled at procrastinating, so aspirations of law school could just be mistaken projections of what I wish I was good at. Not to mention, the inevitable incurring of outrageous loan debt is intimidating enough in its own right.

So then there's journalism. My brief stint as an editor and columnist with the Jaguar Times in high school was fun enough, and the blog I kept about my year abroad raked in some decent reviews. Besides, I journal like a fiend and most of the time, I actually think in blog entries. (Don't judge me.) But I sputter when I'm forced to write against my will and especially things about which I don't care the slightest. Nonetheless, I think I could enjoy and sniff out a niche somewhere in the world of print media.

The problem is, I am essentially starting at ground zero with both law and journalism-related ventures. Looking back at the last four years, my curriculum, internships, and directed passions garner me little experience and credibility with regards to either of my considerations. I am desperately trying not to dwell on wishing I could do college all over again, this time with the single-minded notion of what one thing I was going to pursue and then doggedly centering everything around that vision.

My coping mechanisms are limited to making extravagant and entirely unrealistic globe trekking plans on a regular basis and hinging my hopes on a miracle that I will end up like Dancing Matt. Or vegging on the couch, losing myself in episodes of Scrubs, pretending as if I am already entrenched in mid-life. Or simply not coping and just straight up FREAKING OUT, which really, is just as terrible a solution as consuming an entire 99c box of peppermint Joe Joe's in one sitting. (Or so I think. I have not resorted to this...yet.)

J seemed pretty content last night. Maybe inside she's scared to death too, but I love that she held her head up maturely. She exuded dignity rather than grudging resignation. Her thoughts and emotions were raw and real, but watching her take the pill of incertitude with a heaping does of faith and a glass half full of optimism convicted volumes to me. I guess I could try that too.

But I'm keeping that box of Joe Joe's handy. Just in case.

"Who ARE you?!"

she asked me. "You are nothing like the L I met two years ago."


I feel like a train wreck these days. I would just like to sleep for a very long time and wake up to find life simple again.