The Freedom to Panic

Because I have nothing else to share at the moment: here is an older essay I wrote for a class. Enjoy!

The Freedom to Panic

I usually like writing essays. They help me organize my own thoughts on a subject and solidify my opinions. In most courses I have taken, essay topics are assigned, or at least narrow in possible subjects. When I signed up for a course on informal writing, I thought it would be a dream to be able to write about anything that intrigued me. What freedom! I can finally take the reins and control my writing destiny. I was oh so excited and could not wait to dive in.

But then something happened. Or didn’t happen, I should say. I spent hours upon hours reading prompts and other essays, scraping my brain against the popcorn ceiling in my apartment while trying to figure out what I wanted write this essay about. Should I try to write an homage to Annie Dillard’s “Living Like Weasels”? Perhaps I could call it “Living Like Dogs” and use doggie-ness as a metaphor for choosing happiness and living in the moment. Maybe I should follow Dinty A. Moore’s prompt and write about how much I don’t remember. My memory is pretty shoddy, there are huge gaps in my past, so there is sure to be a story there! Perhaps I could just follow along with an exercise from class and continue writing about a peanut butter war in my childhood kitchen. I could discuss how peanut butter travels much faster when warmed slightly in the microwave. It would be a hoot to try and recall all the places that I found peanut butter when my mom made me clean the kitchen in the aftermath of the battle. The possibilities are endless. Yet, I still have nothing, except this nagging feeling that sometimes freedom is overrated.

The nagging feeling got me thinking. Can freedom be a burden? Or am I just panicking because, never having true writing freedom before, I simply don’t know what to do with it? Clearly, there are some freedoms in life that are precious to most everyone. Freedom of religion is undeniably for the greater good, and I doubt I could find anyone that would be willing to give it up. Freedom of speech is another freedom that is dear to American hearts. While there is some overlap, freedom of speech is not the same as freedom in your essay assignments. I already had that thought, fully argued it in my head, and settled the matter. So then, understanding that some freedoms are absolutely desirable, are any burdens?

Digging around in the back of my mind, I came across the thought that maybe I would be more successful today if my mother and our society had not told me that I could be anything I wanted to be. Perhaps if some benevolent guidance counselor had determined my true skill set and set me off in a direction, I would have made it farther in life. I mean, with all that freedom I had no idea what I wanted to be. I started out with a major in historic preservation, then switched to photography. I worked in camera stores for years, later moving on to marketing when I tired of retail hours. From marketing I decided that it was time to get serious and find a real career. I then embarked on a goal of becoming a real estate appraiser. I like my career, but if I started earlier with it, maybe I would have my own company by now. Or if I stuck with preservation, maybe I would be successful. Who knows? But then again, if said benevolent guidance counselor decided that I should work in fast food management or housekeeping, I might be less successful. On second thought, maybe freedom is an absolute good thing. This leaves the hot potato solidly in my grasp. It’s me, isn’t it?

The sheer volume of possible essay subjects and possible selves is so massive that it can trigger panic. Panic snowballs into a frozen state of indecision. My inability to handle my freedoms seems to be more a failure of my own ability to calmly focus than any failure of the concept of freedom itself. So now that I know my enemy, what?

Perhaps this course will help me to not only become a better writer, but to also become a more focused and confident individual. I believe that with practice even someone as unfocused as myself can learn to quiet the squabbling possibilities in my head and focus with laser intensity on any subject I choose. I just need to keep calm, breathe deeply, and try not to panic.

I do know death

As I watch friends and coworkers deal with death, I sometimes feel like I can’t relate to their suffering.  Both my parents and my grandparents are still alive. I’m not close to most of my family so many deaths have passed virtually unnoticed. When it comes to family, and family emotions, I always feel disconnected. Separated. I can’t identify.

But every once in a while I am reminded of my loss. The great loss of my life (so far) happened way back in 1988. I lost my great aunt. My mother’s aunt, and my grandmother’s sister: my aunt Edith. She was so much more than a great aunt to me; she was like a second mother. She radiated love. A beacon of light in my dark, troubled youth, she loved me with everything she had and I felt it, without words. Edith taught me so much more than how to make pancakes and coffee; she taught me about compassion.

I must admit, the compassion lesson did not sink in until long after her rapid demise from leukemia. But once I was older, and more mature, I could look back and remember her compassion and effortless grace. She was quiet, like me, and warm, unlike me. Where I am cool and aloof, she was engaging and charismatic, but never showy and boisterous. She had sweetness and depth, a rare duo.

Edith was always there for my mother, which is how she became such a central person in my life. She was there to watch me when my mother needed to work, or just be a young woman, unshackled from a child at such a young, and unprepared age.

It’s easy for me to wax poetic about how much better my life would have been if she were a part of it for longer, and how much I would love to sit down with her now, as an adult, and share a cup of coffee and a chat. But what still floors me to this day is how much the sight of her grave or the mention of her name can catch me unaware, and send me into tears and the depths of loss. I never seem to get over it.

So I guess as much as I try to deny it: I do know death. I can relate. And I am so sorry for all of our losses.