Another Sleepless Night

Last night was another sleepless night. I drank a cup of herbal tea and even forced myself through twenty pages of Mill on the Floss, genuinely one of the slowest paced books I’ve come across. And yet, I still managed to toss and turn for several hours before grabbing my Ipad and searching, for what I’m sure must have been the 50^th time since I’ve arrived at Oxford: How to relieve insomnia. I reviewed the list of 20, 25, 40 “helpful  tips to never have trouble sleeping.” And then flicked on the light to warm a cup of milk, mostly out of curiosity to see if the tip: “A cup of warm milk and Oreos calms the nervous system,” actually had any merit. It didn’t.

As I laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling, frustrated at how often this process repeats itself, this strange feeling of familiarity swept over me. Not past-few-days familiar, or even past-few-months familiar, but very familiar. I remembered lying awake just like this at the age of six, noticing the ways my toes created two mountain peaks in my turquoise blanket. And then, at the age of ten. And then all throughout the ages of eleven to seventeen. I resolved all my sleepless nights by dragging myself out of bed at 4:30am, making my way to my sister or parents’ rooms, and pushing them over to make room for myself by their side.

In the few weeks before my wedding, my mother said, “I’m glad you’re getting married. You won’t have trouble sleeping anymore.”

“Why?,” I asked. “What does that have anything to do with it?”

“You always sleep better with someone at your side.”

I shrugged it off, and never even noticed a connection.

But last night, I put it all together. I don’t remember a single sleepless night from the past two years of my married life. There was not a single night in the five days that Mehdi visited me last month that I had trouble falling asleep. 

It’s not fear. I used to think it was stress, but I’m relaxed at this point. Considering how draining writing a dissertation is, it’s not an excess of energy.

It’s almost as if part of me has just never gotten over leaving my mother’s womb.  

My Graduate School Companion

an email from my sister, finalizing her decision on our summer travels

Thank you for your application of admission. We, at the University of Indecisive Travels have gone through your application and have made a decision. We apologize that it took some time, quite a bit of time, we had an influx of very high qualified applicants and the decision making was very difficult. To give you an idea of what we took into consideration: grades, GPA, how cute you are in the photo you attached, and how much fun our committee had in trying to decipher your name! Wow! What were your parents thinking?! I would be SO curious to meet them. 

Furthermore, one member of our admissions Committee by the name of Rey Zing, was very very indecisive (more so then the rest) However, after much thinking, crying, banging her head to the wall, and just straight up staring into space she decided that she no longer wants to be a part of the committee and needs to take a break and go to Great Britain instead. This threw us all off, as we were one man (woman!) down! When we asked Rey Zing why she is doing this, she said that she needs to detach from this tough decision making and that she doesn't want peoples futures to be stuck in her hands. She said she is not God...I was surprised. Instead, she said she wanted to go trek through Great Brittain.... on foot... (that crazy b*$#%!) with her sister. We were all wondering who this mysterious sister was that suddenly attracted her to the Googer Booger (as we call Great Britan here in the office) so we asked her about it. She said that she and her sister have never explored a foreign land together, and that it was in her utmost desire and interest to hold a travel book, and explore foreign lands with her, discover, discover, and learn. She had this odd excitement in her, when she said she really wanted to munch on a 'very welsh breakfast' and discover the history of random ruins along the hills and coast, and listen to her sister tell stories of medieval times and things she has learned and discovered throughout her studies. Rey Zing also kept drawing picture of her and her sister sitting on green hills with their feet dangling off a brick ruin wall, singing Irish melodies and nibbling on biscuits...yes nibbling. In these photos, oddly, she had a smile drawn on her face, her sister had a smile drawn on her face too but for some reason she was also holding a vacuum on the hills! Odd! Regardless, Rey Zing was out the door in about 2 minutes after making this decision. Mind you, all this was said by her in a very fake and desperate English Accent. All of us here in the office, felt so BAD for this mysterious sister! We were worried she did not know what she was truly in for.


.......that was until....until....we took a closer look at the drawing she made of her sister, and felt sudden Deja Vu....that sister...was

.....you, Choosefeer....................

Choosefeer, we are at a loss for words, here at the admissions office. Confused. Struck. Confuddled. Regardless we would like to say that you have been admitted to the University of Indecisive Travels. Please be safe and stay alive when Rey Zing visits you (do you even know about this?) We really want you here at our university.



Admissions Head

Yesterday, I saw my best friend sitting next to the love of her life. I've heard of their relationship in one form or another for nearly ten years, and yet have never seen them together. Unfortunately, it wasn't in person, but electronically through Skype. But even then, I felt this calmness, this content for several hours after hanging up. It felt so right, to see her smiling at his side, playing with her hair in the middle of a conversation at his side, looking over at him. She's a confident woman. At times, annoyingly confident. It almost feels like I've known her all this time, but have only just seen her, in all her vulnerability, overcome by love. I wonder if she realizes how much more this suits her. I never imagined that I wouldn't be able to be a part of her wedding. I feel like I've written this line a hundred times, because I've thought it over so many times. There are a handful of people who you always imagine seeing on their wedding day. She's one of them.

I just coined a word for my dissertation--giantism. To mean the 'identity' of a community of giants. Yes, that is JUST how cool my major is.

Spin

Spin me
     so my colors blur
     and you mistake my legs for my arms
     my face for my brown hair died blonde
Tighten me into a ball of yarn
     somewhere rural, and foreign and unknown
     where one man's roof is the other's front yard
     leave me at the doorsteps of an old lady’s home
Where she can knit me in a jumper, a pair of tiny socks, a hat, a cover
     she can drape over her worn out legs
     or over a teapot for tea faster brewed.
Don’t let me unravel
            this time
            and form only borders
            empty spaces.

To put it lightly, graduate school takes your confidence and blows it out of its nose. I’ve realized just how thick-skinned you have to become to make it out of graduate school unscathed. I had a bit of an emotional breakdown this term, because I just realized that my work was no longer just ‘work’, and was beginning to define me too much. Life is strange, because in the week following my emotional breakdown, I was faced with so many strange situations. It was as if the universe took a week off to give me perspective. One of those odd occurrences from this week was that my friend randomly gave me a canvas, a paintbrush and four bottles of acrylic paint. We’ve never spoken of painting before. In fact, I don’t paint. I’ve never painted. I’ve never even held a paintbrush in my adult life. But I’ve started painting, and I love it, not because I feel like I can paint, but because it puts my head and body in a different place. I like the feel of paintbrush on canvas. It’s gentle. It’s quiet. And its reminded me, more than anything, of why I love writing. Writing in graduate school has been so loud and so fierce—the constant tap-tap on the keys in this laptop have begun to sound like a teacher thrashing a ruler against a desk, reminding me of how far behind I am, and where I need to be. But I’ve begun to see (again) the soul of writing in painting. Writing is gentle. It’s a whisper. Every letter a detail in a landscape. I don’t think there’s anything quite as beautiful.