The last few months have been a chaotic mess of holidays, illness, cabin fever, and extreme stress about things I can’t control (mostly graduate school applications and everything related to politics). I have been spending most of my time either working, volunteering, or trying in vain to keep up with the news. I have so many irons in various fires that it’s no wonder I’m feeling a little bit burned-out.
In some ways having a goal to work towards, however lofty (e.g. end racism), is very healthy and invigorating for me. I have an anxious mind, and keeping it occupied seems to be one of the more ideal ways to keep myself in check. In other ways, though, this business is my kryptonite. I have been sick about once every two months for the last ten years, mostly because I have a history of taking on too many things at once, which generally results in diminished hours of sleep. Ten years of the cycle of work- no sleep- sick- eat bad- stop exercising- feel bad about self- pick up more tasks to avoid thinking about bad feelings has shown it to be an ultimately destructive and unsustainable way of life. Even before all the Trump shenanigans that 2017 has showered upon us, I was working my butt off to figure out a better way to cope with the daily trauma of being a human. I had no idea how soon and how severely my progress would be tested.
As a child, reading was both my main source of entertainment, and my means of self-care. I didn’t know those words at the time, but I knew that if I was feeling sad or bad or mad and I picked up a book and went somewhere quiet for a while, I would soon feel better. Books were my refuge, and being “a reader” was my identity. I don’t know how or when it happened (I blame a combination of high school and underwhelming YA novels), but at some point I stopped reading as much. I read tens of thousands of pages of history textbooks, research studies, news articles, and blog posts between high school and college, but rarely books, and rarely for fun. I continue to buy books that I have every intention of devouring “as soon as I have free time”, but that time just never seems to come. I sit down fully intending to breeze through a novel and barely get past the first chapter before becoming distracted by the thoughts of other things I should be doing. I am ashamed that something that was once a necessary part of my day is now so difficult.
As I continue to contemplate how I will possibly survive the current and future period of political unrest without my usual negative strategies (taking on too many responsibilities, binge-eating, drinking, shopping) I am attempting to find healthier and less destructive alternatives. Exercise is one option, though I am limited in athletic ability by past physiological and psychological injuries. And so I am attempting to learn to read again, an exercise that has so far been painstakingly slow, but exciting for both its nostalgic and meditative possibilities. In a way, books are slowly (so slowly) taking me back to a version of myself that existed before my turbulent adolescence; before acne and braces, before boys and body-shaming and gossip girls, before bras and binge-eating. I think that there is a part of me that also hopes that if I can get back to the generally happy, nerdy, and pre-pubescent Johanna, I’ll also see a way for us to get back to the way the world was then- before 9/11 and the war in Iraq; before Bush vs. Gore; back to when the world felt safe and it seemed like we were making steady progress towards really making things better. I know now that that’s not really what was happening then, either, but in comparison to the present it feels like an absolute dream.
weary traveler 