Solitude

Being in a new place has made me realize many things about myself.  1) I recognize my own independence and I also recognize, despite my obstinacy, that the solitude in which I bask is not a sustainable state of being.  As an introverted philosopher, I tend to seek solitude to process my world, ponder what is, what is not, what is what; the revelations of this process have taught me that humanity's worth inherently depends on social relationships.  People just want to love and be loved.  The love of others validates our existence.  This is why Christianity is so appealing - Jesus, humanity's savior, unconditionally loves and accepts humanity.  What could be more fulfilling than that, to be loved and accepted?

I push hard against the notion that I need external love.  I am hell bent on proving that I can be alone and be happy.  To some degree, I believe that if one is unhappy with oneself (i.e. low self-esteem), it is impossible to be happy with another person.  Perhaps another person could assist one in developing self-esteem, but if that self-esteem is dependent on the other person, one will not sustain happiness.

I'm at the point in life where I have yet to discover my own identity and sustain my own self-esteem independent of anyone and anything.  (Unresolved Erikson phase of identity vs role diffusion?).  It's taking me a while to figure my shit out.  Still, I crave romantic love, even though I know I'm not ready for it.  I don't think I can honestly love another person when I don't love myself fully.  I seek external love to fill the void I currently cannot fill on my own. 

Hard days elucidate my desires. Today was one of those days. I would have loved nothing more than to come home to the welcoming arms of a lover and the hormonal high triggered by physical touch.  I would have loved to be overcome by emotion and to have let my rational mind take a hiatus.  In the absence of such an opportunity, I opted for the sweet coo of Merlot.  I'm convinced that the sweet caresses of a Jewish philosopher would tip the scales over a hearty glass of Merlot, but I'm a resourceful, opportunistic betch, and I'll take what I can get.

Moral: I'll cozy up with my blissful cup for now and schedule a prompt temple crawl.

-Midnight E.

Fear and Courage

I find myself in a typical predicament; not being happy with my life.  As could be predicted, my life as a nurse in the CICU (what I once considered would be my only acceptable nursing job) does not satisfy me. I've spent the entirety of my adolescence and early adulthood trying to find myself and something to do with my life.  I have this notion in my mind that I had to have it all figured out by the time I got out of college.  I don't know - maybe social expectations. 

The reality is that I have no idea what I want to do with my life, but I know that I want to do something that is meaningful and fulfilling for me.  I wish I had a passion in life or at least something that makes me feel satisfied.  I'm at the crossroads now of practical and happy.  I appreciate so many things about my job - the status I will hold after a couple years of experience, the excellent training I'm receiving, the opportunities I will have after some experience.  I just wish this were the job for me.  It will certainly be an experience.

Lately, I've been facing my own mortality and every day I think about what makes me happy. I want to lead a happy life - I want to know that what I am doing makes me happy. (this leads me toward the happiness is the goal of life theory).  I think what everyone wants is to be happy.  But I'm afraid.  I have this intense fear of doing something I want to do.  I don't know where this fear comes from - actually, I'm sure it's society and my parents talking, reminding me that I have to do something practical, that work has to suck, etc. The American Dream is to acquire everything one can, to better oneself and strive to achieve as much STUFF as you can.  I don't really care about stuff - I mean, i do like some stuff, but I also just want to be happy.  I'm facing the reality that my happiness and my ability to live comfortably on a reasonable income may not align. 

I just want to philosophize - maybe teach some philosophies - but I'm so afraid.  Frankly, it terrifies me.  I am so afraid.  I have been conditioned to value excellence and achieving greatness, and being "the best."  I don't think being "the best" or at least trying to do so is doing anything for me.  Egocentricity at its best - I'm under the impression that being excellent (according to what standard?) is what I need to do in life.  I think there are many things that render one excellent.  I just want to have a relaxed, comfortable life. 

I wish I knew what I wanted in life.  I wish I knew what to do.  I wish I weren't afraid.  I wish I could be happy with mediocre.  I wish I could redefine excellent.  I wish I had less expectations of a life that I don't understand.  I wish I weren't having distress about this.  Sometimes I think about crashing on a deserted island and wonder how different my life would be like.  Any of this foolishness wouldn't even cross my mind.  What if I crashed on an island and my prospect of life totally changed?  Would my life be worthless?  What if I got crushed by a bus tomorrow and became paralyzed and unable to do what I think would make my life wonderful?  What if I sudden developed a fatal arrhythmia and dropped dead tomorrow?  Would it matter?

This life stymies me.  The more I think about it, the more I try to understand it, the less and less I know.  I wish I weren't afraid.  I wish I could be brave enough to lose my expectations and be happy.

Home

Ah, work. The good news is class got out early and only two days and one more shift stand between me and five days of freedom and a journey home.  I realize how much sweeter the days at home are now that miles separate us.  I kind of like it this way; the perspective is giving me some appreciation.  I also think the opposite applies for me; when I'm at home, I can appreciate the life I have here in Philly.  I'm also starting to notice that I haven't been able to call Philly my home or even a home for that matter. I definitely have to do some acquainting with the city of brotherly love when I come back next week and into the future.

I think that the environment of a location contributes to how attached one becomes to that location, but relationships and social connections significantly contribute to the attachment as well.  Being that I have little connection to the former and little to no connection to the latter, my home remains in New England.  I have no expectations of where I will be in the future, thought part of me definitely feels as though this stay in Philly has an expiration date.  Only time will tell.

-M.E.

Moving out of the Moratorium

Caught in torrential downpours and the odd candidness of hypnogogia, I realize how vulnerable I've been feeling lately.  Sixty days into a new life with no point of reference have felt like a rug has been pulled from under my feet and I still hover in the air, my stomach in my throat, waiting for my feet to reconnect with the Earth.  My solitude here has largely contributed to my sense of disconnection.  Some days, I have intense moments of deep-seated misery, which I instinctively attribute to homesickness.  After a flashing moment, I realize that what I'm feeling would not be alleviated by being at home.  I know the feeling emanates from something else.

I know that I've been missing something from my life for a long time, really since I've disconnected from religion.  By no means am I on a journey to find religion, but I am looking for something to fulfill my life between these transient moments of happiness. 

I learned a new word today: raconteur.  What I learned about this word is that I am its completely opposite.  There are some people who can tell stories about the most banal things.  I frequently range from overtelling every detail of a story to the point of boredom to prematurely cutting to the punchline.  My own self-awareness prevents me from recounting the details of my life because I know I won't retell them in any important way. 

Until my next substantial thought.

-M.E.