Just went digging for some books I have on Tibetan Dream Yoga.
This involves me going into the closet where I store what remains of my library from grad school.
I did not end grad school on a happy note.
The ex was in the middle of doing everything she could to destroy my identity and my work. I still somehow managed to write a 300 (or so) page thesis, but the the emotional and psychological tolls were too much. Time that I’d hoped would start me on a career in academia was spent trying to reconstruct the very basic foundations of Self, and re-learning how to be a functional human.
Yet for some reason, I still hold on to this stuff, even though every time I think I’m ready to revisit it or do something with it, I get punched in the face with sorrow and regret and feelings of utter failure.
Me 2.0 (the current me) is happy working in the wine industry. Very happy, actually. I wouldn’t trade it for anything (especially seeing the ridiculous BS and low pay that plagues academia).
I remember being enthusiastic and optimistic and excited about what I was studying and researching and writing about, once upon a time. Then it was all methodically and systematically dismantled, until I became a cicada shell.
I know I bitch about all of this periodically.
It’ll pass. I barely remember details of 3 days ago.
I’m sure all of this will fade back into the mists until I decide to go looking for something else in the closet.
And then I’ll probably bitch about it all then, too.