Welcome Back to Your Over-Active Mind

The house is empty and quiet, nestled under the first heavy snowfall of the season. No one is home but me and the dog, and possibly a hawk which found its way into our garage this morning. Outside in the yard, the snow glows a blueish light. I sit with my feet curled under me at the kitchen table, sipping a mug of tea, and watch as it fades with the sun. My FedEx uniform and Barnes and Noble business-casual clothes lie in layered piles on my bedroom floor, shed like snake skin. For once, I do not need them.

This is the moment I have been yearning for these past two weeks, I realize. This is the first afternoon since the beginning of December which I have had free to sit, think, drink tea. Collect myself.

I have not found it to be as restful as I dreamed.

In the past twelve days, I worked every day except Christmas for a minimum of eight hours, more frequently upwards of twelve or thirteen. I woke up at 5 am, worked at FedEx, changed in my Barnes & Noble clothes in the bathroom when my shift was done, drove straight to the mall, worked at the B&N cash register for 7 or 8 hours, drove home, shoveled some food into my mouth, fell into bed, and woke up shortly thereafter to do it all over again. I didn't have time to think. I didn't have time to clean to my room or run. I didn't talk to or see any friends. I barely had time to shower and eat. The primary reason I looked forward to Christmas this year was so that I could sleep in. Which I did. For a long time.

In some ways, despite the sleep deprivation and physical exhaustion, the crazy work schedule was nice. For a long time this fall, my introverted brain has been working overtime, analyzing every bit of my life, turning it over, worrying about it, giving me no peace. The days crawled along. These past two weeks, on the other hand, flew by. I shut down all my unnecessary mental operations and focused exclusively on the task at hand: counting change, scanning packages, getting from one house to the next. All other thoughts blurred into the background. This was especially convenient given that there are a few things I'm trying hard not to think about right now. Each minute of my day was spoken for, so there was no reason to consider how I should spend it. I had no options.

Though it came with its own stressful situations, this time has been a mini-vacation from other less tangible anxieties. A little escape from the discontented parts of my mind. Which is why this afternoon my precious hours of peace and quiet have not been as soothing as I hoped.

It would appear that the refusing to think about certain things does little more than build up pressure, like water behind a dam. And today, the cracks are showing. The leaking has begun. As work hours slow down, I find myself having to face my life again, and I am reminded that I do not always like what I see.

On these days, I feel like a child playing grown-up, playing at being a truck driver, playing at being a cross country coach, a “positive influence” on high school freshmen. My uniform is a costume, a disguise, meant to trick people into thinking that I'm responsible. Today for an interview I stole make-up from my little sister's room in a (probably hopeless) attempt to look above the age of seventeen. I put on my big-girl dress, the chic, black one. And I felt like a fake. Though I may look the part and even say the right things, I haven't got a clue what I'm doing.

Madeleine L'Engle wrote in her book Walking On Water that no one is ever just one age. Though I am twenty-two, I am also eighteen and eleven and five and every other age I've ever been. I carry a piece of each with me. It is the twenty-two-year-old me that is the newest, the youngest, really. I haven't yet learned how to live into my years. I've had sixteen years of experience being six, but only a few months of being twenty-two. There is a lot of child in me still.

And yet, child though I am, I am responsible for my life. These cracks, these leaking fissures, will break open whether I want them to or not, probably for the better, and I can either deal with it or not.

I think my life as it is has finally come to a point, and my refusal to plot a course is becoming a course in and of itself. I just don't want to admit it because it means facing some major decisions and most likely letting go certain dreams in pursuit of others. Though I want to, I can no longer choose not to choose.

Today I had an interview for a “real job,” a salaried, full-time position at a respected company. And it went well, I thought. I know I should care about that because I know I don't want to stay in my current line of work, but I'm struggling to muster up the proper enthusiasm. At present, this job, as “career advancing” as it may be, feels like nothing more than another rope tying me to Grand Rapids, a place where I feel like I'm drowning in water I can't see, which makes it difficult to find the surface. But I'm not sure what I would prefer instead. I'm not sure how I have managed to make life so complicated for myself. It would be better if I knew what I wanted. All that self-examination this fall and I still haven't figured it out.

I'm thinking about these things as I sit at my kitchen table, and now the sun has set and I can no longer see the snow outside, just my own reflection in the window. And I am thinking about other things besides, and wondering how I got to this place and how I will move on.