Unassigned
The last nine months of my life have been pretty dark.
And no, I’m not referring to some secret pregnancy.
Nine months ago marks the moment where my dreams said “Tag, you’re it” and I raced blindly into one of the most challenging journeys of my life.
When I take a look at this period in my young life, I see a few constants: late nights, CSI: Miami, coffee, an absurdly messy bedroom and hope.
Yes, hope.
I discovered that when all was darkness around me, when I couldn’t see but a step in front of me, when all I wanted to do was give up, the thing that got me through was hope.
Hope in my faith, hope in my future, hope in the mere fact that no matter what happens next, I am a forever changed person because of what I’ve been through. This is what pierces the darkness.
Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t always walk in that hope. There have been moments when I refused to get out of bed. Moments when I don’t have any words to say. And plain old moments of feeling absolutely sorry for myself.
I remember one of the first times I felt on the brink of losing hope. It was probably two months after quitting my job and I hadn’t found any steady work yet. There I was, lying on my couch in sweatpants, around 1 pm (I had just woken up, by the way) eating Garden Salsa Sun Chips. I mean, I was the portrait of an unemployed dirtball. Then, like a scene from a movie, a man appeared in front of our living room windows, which happen to be extremely large and facing the couch I was reclining on. At first I thought maybe it was a snack-induced hallucination, but then I realized it was someone on a ladder, working on the front siding of our house. In addition to the sudden invasion of privacy, I recognized, in horror, that the man on the ladder was our landlord. Not only was I horrified to look like a landlord’s worst nightmare (out of work and doing nothing to change that), but I was double horrified because this landlord happens to be extremely good looking and I couldn’t have looked any nastier.
I immediately ran into my bedroom, ditched the chips and took a long hard look at myself; reprimanding myself for not having it all together. And then, in spite of the fact that it was depressingly enlightening and embarrassing, I had a really good laugh about it.
A more recent example would be what I like to call my “CTA sobs.” I can recall four times in the last month when I have cried on public transportation. Usually it is on my way home from one of the many odd jobs I have acquired in order to fuel my writing career and pay the bills. The best part is, it doesn’t really matter what song comes on, if it is somewhat slow, and somewhat meaningful, I can find some lyric in it that gives me the excuse to wallow in self pity.
I even think I might have cried last week to a Miley Cyrus song.
After a few minutes, though, I always find a way to pull myself together, realize that I’m getting some really concerned looks and gain back my perspective on life. But that’s the thing about hope. You have to cling to it. You have to fight for it and refuse to let it go. It’s a battle every day and every minute not to give into your natural bend towards hopelessness.
And so for me, as I meander through this stage of my life that so easily feels directionless, frightening and uncertain, I truly believe that in order to move forward I must hang onto hope, remain joyful despite the circumstances and fight for a faith that allows me to trust in something bigger than myself.
