Litany

I am wound tightly these days, I admit it. I feel as though gravity is exerting an extra pull on me. I walk, shoulders slumped, through a good portion of my day.

It’s not Minneapolis, which has unfolded itself to me in a sea of treetops from my picture windows, a lake that sparkles with mischief and flicks golden sparks with every breeze, a city full of charmingly unexpected side streets canopied by old, gracious trees.

No, it’s me.

I don’t think of myself as a control freak, no, not exactly. I am something far more unpleasant. I am a nudger, as in, if only I could nudge the Universe into going in my general direction, everything would be so much better. Pixie posted something about Bryon Katie the other day--about the unhappiness that can come from arguing with reality.

This is a lesson I need to learn again and again, and inevitably, it washes away like a sandcastle after the tide rolls in.

You see, in spite of my best efforts, I am someone who cocks her head and squints at the reality of whatever is in front of her, convinced that if I pulled an errant thread, it would finally fall into place beautifully. Perfectly. There is a perfect litany of "it only needs this..." or "if only this could occur..." that keeps me firmly focused on the lack amidst the abundance. On the negative space.

Immigrants are past masters of this relentless focus on the future, usually because the present, whatever the present is, is so unpleasant. So I grew up waiting and wishing for whatever was NEXT, whatever would happen "if only" something else fell into place.

I suppose my parents found it motivating. Optimistic, even. They never allowed themselves to be swayed by whatever unhappy circumstance was oppressing them at any given moment. My mami, especially, is a firm believer that ANYTHING can be improved, and to relax your constant vigilance is to invite the Universe to leave you by the side of the road, stuck in the mud. The sheer force of your will and hard work would twist your future into submission, and lead you into the life you've earned and thus, deserve. And best of all, this process never ends. You can continue to push and push...forever!

To be contented was to settle, and in her eyes, NOTHING was worse than settling. There was always something better, just down the road. Nothing was perfect.

My parents look at me and shake their heads, saddened by what they believe I have become. Someone who allowed herself to become sidetracked from their inexorable march towards progress. Someone who had endless opportunities, nay, a responsibility to blaze my family’s name in lights.

Since I was the only one who was born here, after all.

So I breathe. I try to stay in the moment. Try to focus, loosely, on the way the world is, rather than how I think it should be.

Lately, I am failing miserably.

I wonder whether my parents are right, after all. Certainly, no one could argue that I have been blessed with opportunities, and few could argue that I haven't squandered them. Not that I regret going to a Name School and majoring in English. Not that I regret following my passion for literature.

But I do regret the fearful little person I became there, wilted by the heated blast of so many big, confident personalities. People who had money, family prestige, knowledge of a world I barely saw even on television. People who were entitled, and knew it.

I am not entitled, and know it. So I spent four years expecting to be passed over, and for the most part, I was.

Sadly, this pattern has continued since then. I still meet people I admire, and expect to be ignored by then. And of course, I shrink myself to the most innocuous little ball...to the point where even I am bored by me.

And the prophecy is fulfilled. They DON’T remember me. One could argue they never really met ME after all.

I fell into an abyss of depression at college.

Bewildered, my parents waited for me to "snap out of it." I had finally made it. I was finally leading them into the very echelon of the mainstream of genuine American life. We had almost done it!

Problem was, no one showed me how to do it. I felt inadequate, gauche, forever policing my tongue in case I mispronounced a word I had only seen on the page and revealed my "true" self. I needed to follow the rules, make sure to carefully imitate my "betters" so as to avoid embarassing myself.

So I wait for the world to tell me if what I am doing is worthy. I wait for your comments on my writing, for TEG’s occasional compliments, for Madam to get an "all-clear" from the doctor. The glow of excitement when I think something works fades away when the world seems to disagree. And then I feel foolish, again, for relaxing into contentment. My mami's words come back to haunt me.

All I want to do is to hide, to rest. But I resist that, ashamed, and resolve to be ever more vigilant with my list of "should bes" and "if onlys..."

Because I can’t shake the feeling that I am letting everyone down. My parents. TEG. Madam. I look in the mirror and am startled by the reflection. Who is this person who drags herself around town in an ever-present t-shirt and yoga pants? Who slouches about unkempt? Who can’t seem to ever see the other side of her to-do list? I have a JOB, damn it. I need to prove to the world that my family did the right thing by coming here. That we’re just as good as people who are descended from those who came over on the Mayflower. I need to prove that my expensive education was not a waste. I need to prove that I am not just settling.

The problem is, I don’t think I believe any of that.

My head feels heavy from this endless resistance. I wish I could trust that if I just release this tension, this need to prove that I deserve to be here, that I wouldn’t fall even further into confusion.

That I wouldn’t be left, mired in mud, by the side of the road.