the sleeper awakens (circa 2005)

In years prior, I was a person going through the various stages of cynicism: denial, anger, apathy. I was not handling life stressors well.  This phase of life was best illustrated by Groening’s “Life in Hell” series, which depicted man’s inability to come to terms with the demands of corporate life after art school.  I was Binky, the character that works the treadmill job, with the early am alarm, waking to bloodshot eyes, rousing oneself to bad office coffee, bad food, that can’t sleep at night, tired during the commute, at the office during the day, the in/out boxes without end, the meaningless work.  Those are simply realities for the average civil servant/corporate office worker.  I knew what I was going through, and why I was so pissed off and stressed out.  We’d been through 9/11 and my brother was sent off to war as a sergeant in artillery and world events in general were not happy ones.  I had historic issues that seemed just as relevant as ever, maybe even more so, since I’d reached my thirtieth year without resolution. My dad had died unexpectedly, leaving a gaping hole where his presence had been, my mother’s persistent mental illness, the custody and financial issues without easy solutions.  I read Frank McCourt’s “Angela’s Ashes,” “Saturn Returns to New York,” which documented to some extent the head space I was in at the time.  I was too depressed to even have a sense of humor about it all.  I lacked friends; I lost lovers I was attached to because I held onto my anger.  I drank, had insomnia, anxiety and was alien to myself.  

In the interim, I kept thinking about culture and art, attended events, meeting people at openings.  It was strange tome how many times people inquired if I was the artist?  I just said “No, I’m just here to see the show, or I’m just here with ____.” The truth about my life during this time was not pretty, and I was generally reclusive.  I gave myself reasons about why I couldn’t do it.  The usual excuses persisted: lack of space/time/money, I sometimes lacked money to pay bills, my job was stressful, and I was too tired after work.  I had the typical Gen-x parent angst magnified by the fact that I was a single, living in substandard housing, of a high maintenance only-child, whom I spoiled out of guilt about being only “the weekend parent.” Although I had a workaholic schedule, during this time, underneath it all, I thought about it daily, if not constantly.  I distracted myself during this time by absorbing the creative output of others in the form of mainstream media of various sources.  It was during this time that I became familiar with the concept of “information overload,” which I have since then studied in-depth.

Boredom is a great motivator.  I recently experienced few striking, but accumulated changes.  I realized that without a shadow of a doubt that I had been through intensely difficult and unique experiences.  Nine months ago, I left a toxic, burnout, overtime job for one that paid just as well, yet was a lot more benign.  Without guidance or a mentor, I learned everything the hard way.  I questioned whether my professional identity had any real meaning in the greater context of the priorities of life and I came to the realization that my work identity was secondary to what was truly important.  I questioned why I was making myself unhappy trying to be what I wasn’t? 

During this same period, my son’s father left the state to pursue his career in law, leaving Connor behind.  I enrolled him at a local school, and suddenly I had the social calendar and status of custodial parent, resulting in scores of additional social resources and connections (and responsibilities) that I cultivated, and reciprocal relationships were formed.  I met many local parents who had almost nothing.  Having been through all of that as well, I developed a sense of place, I rediscovered my native love of food culture, felt happy having folks over for dinner parties, where everybody eats and the kids play together.  My son blossomed with minimal input, having formed is own friends and opinions about things, he was suddenly primarily self-sufficient, once his basic needs were met  I stopped worrying about having no safety net, or who was or wasn’t there for us, we have only what is needed.

Somewhere in this period, and I am still trying to understand how this happened, I felt myself go from being a bland, quiet wall-flower and solidify into a personality again.  In my professional life, I developed more confidence, practiced being articulate, with strangers via informational interviews and talked myself into applying for jobs that would be challenging on the basis I had nothing to lose.  I told outrageous (and true) stories about my experiences to my friends, who told me I should “write that one down, Jen that would make such a great short story!”  I dug out my old portfolio, dating back to 1988 and saw I had potential once.  I missed the best pieces that I had given away, and wished that I had better documented that work and those periods of my youth, since I clearly didn’t know myself well then and now only a partial box of photos remains. 

I started writing and doing other things that were simple and made me happy.  While my son spent the summer in Portland, I took a short vacation, where I was able to relax and have purely sensory experiences.  With unbroken time to myself, I started writing everyday, reviewed old journals and noted certain personal goals had been met.  Towards the end of the summer, I got a surprise visit from my (ex) step dad.  He disclosed several long-held family secrets (which he thought I was already aware of) that resulted in the tumultuous conditions of my youth and the divorce between him and my mother.

Knowing the truth about one of the most bitter and shameful secrets I, that had been kept from me all these years, I finally had the missing piece of the puzzle.  My initial reaction was of sadness about my own naivete, and then later relief at such a simple explanation.   I experienced understanding, compassion and forgiveness, for those whom I’d held bitter feelings for years.  My long-held anger melted away as when spring follows a long winter.  Now, after all my searching, I realized that my rich, painful experiences, my inner life and innate nature meant that I am and can only be the thing that I’d been afraid of calling myself all along.  I had been wishing myself to change for so long.  Finally, that change was upon me.  One can not deny one’s true nature indefinitely.  Once I stopped denying the truth, I felt something like happiness.  I want to write, to rewrite my own story; to change it from one of continual, existential despair and loss to one of simple existential awakening.