The Letter

On Friday i received letters from both the schools i applied too. Two very small letters, in very small envelopes, in my very small mailbox, with my name on it.

I must admit, when i saw the letters in the pile of misc. mail, my heart dropped. Literally.

I wasn't expecting that reaction, because ever since i turned in my sucktastic story i have been feeling good about taking a year off, moving to New Haven (or some place else), and having to the time to write freely for a while. The year is suppose to be my mental, physical, and creative restoration. I'm not expecting some Hollywood-isque journey(though that would be interesting material), just a rest from this.

I'm not the kind of girl who gets complacent. I would never get so stuck in my physical routine that returning to grad school would fall to the wayside. Unless i miraculously got the job i always wanted in my year off, grad school is where i see myself going. The problem with me is that i am always on the move, from one thing to another. I have an abundance of energy that comes from who knows where, and i like doing a million things at once. Trust me it isn't ADHD, it's just my love of sort of moving from one thing to another. This "break", this new haven for me, is suppose to be the detour from my usually rushed self, just so i can reclaim the things that i love. Which is writing.

But when i stared at both those letters. Emerson College in one hand . And the New School in the other, my ideas of new haven and a break went in the background of my mind. I was just crushed because i knew somewhere in my heart that they were letters telling me "we are sorry to inform you that you have not been accepted, thanks for considering our school and we look forward to you reapplying next year".

I just held the letters for a while, staring at them the whole walk to work. I was trying to prepare myself for rejection. I was trying to prepare my heart for the tears that were sure to follow. I had no idea where this emotion came from. In therapy I’ve nonchalantly tossed around the idea of being rejected. Toby, the therapist, has a way of staring at me as if he knows my smiles and laughs are covering up something else. He does this hand near his mouth thing, followed by the look that perhaps says "she is breaking inside, but masking it nicely with a cool demeanor"

I struggled so much the whole month of December and part of January typing out that story. It was as if every sentence, period, and piece of dialogue was a break or make it sort of thing. I must admit that it's easier to be absolutely no one, content in your unhappiness, settling for mediocre than to be someone. Than to be the someone you've always wanted to be.

I fucked up. Freaked out with the thought of following what i am good at, because a part of me has this fear that it may not work out. It was easier with medicine, only because i knew that my poor grades and general disinterest would be my downfall (which it was). But writing is so much more to me than anything else, and the idea of that not working out, borders on being a painful thing. I wonder how many people are out there, whose dreams never worked out, and they had no other choice but to settle, in order to give their heart a rest from breaking.

It wasn't even that i didn't have a good story. With a lot of work, there was and is something beautiful there. I know it. When i was working on it, i was like "a few more revisions and i have something". But i just couldn't finish it, and not in that "i never see perfection way" but in the " i don't have the time, or energy to do so"

And when i was holding those letters, i realized right then how much i fucked up. That my damn fears which get in the way, caused me burn out. Caused me a years break in new haven.

So...when i got the library, everyone was talking about the new guy, and after a while i just kind of got bored of hearing about his hottness. I took a seat while Amanda and Julie were talking, and decided to open the letter up right there. I just sort of wanted to know. Even though i knew it was going to be bad, i just wanted to see it on paper, so i could plan the next phase of my life for a year.

....

However, it was not a rejection or acceptance letter. It was a "we have received all your materials for your application and are in the process of reviewing your portfolio". Geez. I don't know if I can take 4 more weeks of this.

I didn't know i wanted it so bad, until i was faced with not getting it. And i think my bout of "writers anxiety" had nothing to do with grad school. I am a person who bails at the most important times, the time when it matters the most to put all of myself into something. Whether it be in relationships or writing. I think that is the vulnerable part of me. I mean it's in everything i do, when i get real close to gaining something that i want, i shrink back and get self conscious because i know that what has to follow is me.

I have to put my heart into, I have to offer the parts of my self that i keep guarded, i, i have to be vulnerable because that is where the truth of who i am lies.

And maybe the truth is masked with insecurities, but there must something beautiful there.

If i can get past that apprehension i think i could be something. Something spectacular. But getting to the part is proving harder than i thought, and it threatens to hold me back in my everything i do.