13 before 30: another partial bucket list  

It’s been nearly a month since I turned 25, and every day I still try on my new age in front of the mirror of self-regard to see how it fits. How it fits: tight and uncomfortable, like a tailored silk dress that zips up all the way from the small of my back to the base of my neck only if I hold my breath and tuck my tummy in, the kind of dress that makes me want to ransack my closet for an old cotton tee, with tiny holes and loose thread, that ends two inches short of my knees. But, of course, I don’t wear that, at least not outside, where somebody might see me and think, What a shabby getup, has she nothing going for her? So instead, I hang the silk dress back in the closet, wear dark jeans and a button-up shirt, and tell myself, maybe if I work really hard today, tomorrow the dress will feel like a second skin.

That’s the thing about growing up, you have to look the part, act the part, become the part.

I wish I could say I’m not so far from there. But when I reviewed the bucket list I wrote when I was 22, I thought, wow, how… fresh, how fun, how seemingly unburdened by any sense of professional ambition, much less duty (this, of course, is my conscience speaking, as I am a very selfish person). I mean, most of my goals then involved going on some kind of adventure. Nothing wrong with that, of course, especially if it’s what lights up one’s life, but is an adventurous spirit and lifestyle the be-all and end-all? Or must it be cultivated to achieve some other end, to Make A Difference, in one’s field or in other people’s lives (but then, as Mark Strand points out in “Black Maps”: “… how would you know? // The present is always dark”).

I don’t know, man, to be honest I just want to live a quiet, peaceful life, own a few things, make just enough to be able to keep doing what I like to do and support the people I love, die young. But my (super)ego pushes me to push—to seek purpose, to be ambitious, to be brilliant, to empower others, to be able to say, The time I spent here was not wasted. I don’t seek wealth or fame or a million followers on Twitter. But I do want my life to matter, to me, and if not to me, then to those I inevitably touch (I’m looking at ya students, I don’t want to be the kind of teacher you simply wish to get over with). I’m not sure if that’s too much or too little to ask of life, but (if life is suffering then) I think it’s work enough.

I know, I know, these concerns belie just how young I am. Like, what about marriage, children, mortgage, that sort of thing, well I DON’T KNOW, as my little brother often gleefully points out, I seem to be on the road to spinsterhood (or single blessedness). So before I wax any more existential or insecure on you, my goals (baby steps!) for the next five years:

  1. Get my MA degree in Literature and Philosophy
  2. Present a paper at an international conference with someone I’ve cited in bibliographies
  3. Publish scholarly articles in at least one local and one international journal
  4. Teach a higher-level literature course
  5. Become vegetarian
  6. Establish a daily pranayama/Zen meditation practice lasting for at least 20 minutes (lengthening the duration as I advance)
  7. Accomplish the handstand, scorpion, and lotus poses
  8. Learn how to bike and swim (for goodness’ sake! Then bike up a cliff and dive into the sea)
  9. Go back to Chiang Mai and spend at least a month in Pinnan’s farm. Then take a two-week Vipassana meditation course in Wat Doi Suthep.
  10. Go to the UK and visit J., see a play at the Globe Theater, attend a concert at the Royal Albert Hall, research in the British Library, and go hiking in the Lake District National Park (among other things!)
  11. Spend six months to a year in Europe on an Erasmus Mundus scholarship
  12. Climb Mt. Halcon, Mt. Kanlaon, or Mt. Apo
  13. Help Brother Bear graduate

For now: finish checking these papers and submit grades by June 4.

like a breath caught between the chest and the throat

I can’t seem to stay awake these days. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. But lately I find myself sleeping for up to twelve hours at a time (and then some, by way of naps: midday naps, I-need-to-rest-my-eyes-for-a-moment naps, this-is-so-fucking-boring-I-cannot-not-nap naps)–a far cry from my usual six or seven hours of sleep. It’s terrible. I get headaches from too much sleep, and because I feel ill, I get impatient and cranky, and I don’t accomplish as much as I should. I wake up at 6AM, fix myself a cup of coffee, list everything I have to do that day, lie down for a bit, and fall right back into sleep (it doesn’t matter where–on my mat, on a bed, on a bench, on the floor, on a chair–I’ve always had a knack for falling asleep wherever). I wake about three hours later and read a bit, have lunch, check papers, go to yoga class in the evening, check some more, and go home. To sleep. And that’s about it, that’s how my day goes when I don’t have to attend a meeting or teach a class: check papers, practice yoga, sleep.

D. says I am probably depressed and he is probably right. I’ve been in this situation many times since that summer when I was twelve or thirteen and spent a month or so sleeping all day and waking at night to read while everyone else tucked in. I’d wait until morning to have breakfast with my family, wash the dishes, and go back to sleep. When my mother asked me why I slept so much, I said I wanted to die.

I’m no longer so blunt or dramatic, outside my writing, at least.

A few times a year, and always during the summer, I fall into what I think of as an emotional trough, which lasts for several weeks or months. I have a naturally melancholy and withdrawn disposition (this has always been so, even when I was a kid), but when I’m in these emotional troughs, I feel… not just sad but in pain. Not a piercing, red-hot pain, but a soft, enveloping pain, sort of like being swathed by a thick blanket, but feeling cold. Pain like a breath caught between the chest and the throat, pain like stepping out the door at 1PM, clad all in black in 40-degree weather. I think that’s why I sleep so much, despite the headaches and the nightmares–it takes so much effort just to get through the day, to seem perfectly fine and chipper for a few hours, to be functional. That’s something I’m proud of, you know, even during my worst days, those months of restless nights and daily sobbing and self-harm, I remain functional. I take baths, I go to work, I turn stuff in. I feel like a zombie going through the motions of being a breathing, heartbeating human, but what matters is that I get shit done.

That’s how I deal, I just keep going through the motions, stay away from most everyone, until one day I wake up and feel like my life’s really worth getting out of bed for, feel like being in the world again.

Retropost: On Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl

The initial draft of this essay was first posted as a Facebook status update on October 20, 2014.

The other day, I finished reading Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl (Phoenix, 2012), which I couldn’t help but pick up after watching the film version directed by David Fincher. Halfway through the novel, as Diary Amy detailed her losses as she went from New York Writer-Sophisticate to Midwest Small-Town Housewife, I thought, this work could be on my list of books-anyone-who-wants-to-be-with-me-for-the-long-haul-has-to-read—for Gone Girl exemplifies my fear of what New Yorker writer Elif Batuman calls the narrative of marriage as “abduction”: the creeping loss of autonomy and identity in the name of wifely and motherly duty, the essence of which is (as it is commonly conceived) sacrifice—of career, personal aspirations, time, money, body. In marriage, of course, both parties make sacrifices and compromise for a partnership to work, but it seems that the woman is still socially expected to give up more for her family, to put her family’s needs first, and always, before her own (space, me-time, ambitions, etc.). But then, I got to the horrifying end of the book and had to agree with Nick: Amy is one psycho bitch, and if I put this book on my list, guys would be running in the opposite direction from me, post-haste. As they often do to bitches.

“We’re all bitches in the end, aren’t we, Nick? Dumb bitch, psycho bitch,” Amy remarks. And I thought, sure. It’s the label most often given to any woman who doesn’t make others feel good about themselves, who doesn’t let men have their way.

A married friend who saw me reading the book said that she felt reluctant to read it because of its ambivalence toward misogyny—here we have a woman lying about having suffered the ordeals of stalking, verbal abuse, battery, rape, miscarriage, and even homicide by the men in her life to get what she wants. But more than Manichean judgments of the #TeamNick vs. #TeamAmy sort, what’s interesting to me is what pushes women like Amy to such extremes, what causes madness to bloom in women characters from Medea to Ophelia and Lady Macbeth to Bertha and Ms. Havisham to the Lisbon girls of Eugenides’ The Virgin Suicides, to Amy Elliott Dunne (and real-life examples like Woolf, Plath, and Sexton). Their madness is often attributed to devastating heartbreak—getting jilted, betrayed, thrown off for a prettier, younger woman by some man, or being romantically or sexually repressed. But madness is not just a matter of individual psychology, a moral failing, or some biological glitch—it blooms in a person who is so at odds with the society in which he or she lives.

Take Amy, for instance. She’s a young(ish), beautiful, intelligent, independent, charming, talented, and wealthy WASP lady. She is privileged in every way. She is the kind of woman who can make the most of feminism’s gains, because she is not oppressed for her race, class, sexuality, looks, ability… as her husband points out, men want her, women want to be her. The downside to having it all, though, is that she feels like she has to dazzle all the time, prove that all that privilege dripping off of her is not wasted, prove that she is worthy of admiration, not because she’s hot (though that’s part of it), but because she has advanced degrees in psychology from Ivy League schools, cooks French cuisine, speaks fluent Spanish, and can quote from classical literature and screwball comedies in the same breath.

I think a lot of women feel similar pressure, be it to a lesser degree. Feminism maintains that men and women are equal, that gender is a construct, sexuality fluid, the indicators of biological sex alterable—thus, there is no essential difference between men and women. If men can, women can, too—lift Olympic weights, run a company, drive a truck, build bridges, and so on—but for many self-proclaimed feminists, this creates a pressure to constantly maintain the persona of Strong Woman, because the failure to do so—to ask a guy’s help in changing a lightbulb or carrying groceries, to not fight for that deserved promotion at work, to stay with a philandering husband—is to invite criticisms of feminism itself (several times I’ve heard guys say that feminists shouldn’t be asking for their help in, like, fixing things or carrying stuff, because they [the women] say they’re strong, right? Can’t have it both ways). At the same time, Strong Woman has to deal with social pressure to find a nice man, get married, and raise a family, because if she fails to get a guy interested and committed, then there must be something wrong with her.

Unfortunately, not all men find Strong Woman desirable, because being with Strong Woman poses a challenge to their masculinity, which largely remains predicated on their ability to provide for, protect, and outdo women at providing and protecting. So what does a Strong Woman who wants romance do? Often, she pretends to be somebody she’s not, to make men feel that she needs them, to make men feel like men. Consider Mean Girls’ Cady Heron, a math nerd, deliberately flunking her math tests to get the hunky boy’s “help” and attention, or Amy Dunne, despite her disciplined and exacting nature, pretending to be Nick’s Cool Girl—a persona she characterizes as brilliant and laidback, who likes what her man likes and doesn’t ever complain or nag him to be anything other than what he is or do anything other than what he pleases, even when he’s already messing things up. The result? Snowballing disappointment and resentment for both (and high-octane madness fuel for Amy).

The irony is that the gains of feminism have created new quandaries for women who desire independence, self-actualization, and professional success alongside romance, partnership, and family, which are social institutions that, by and large, have yet to catch on to the idea that persons need not be boxed into femininity vs. masculinity and all the opposing/hierarchical characteristics and values attached to each, that marriage and motherhood need not be a woman’s ultimate achievement and sacrifice, that men also don’t have to be the stronger party all the time, and that just because you can theoretically have it all doesn’t mean you should.

At the heart of Gone Girl isn’t a man vs. woman issue, but a social-constructs(gender, the media, the capitalist-driven economy)-are-fucking-with-us issue. And resolving that issue, at least within oneself, is not a matter of simply taking Nick’s or Amy’s side, but of trying to understand how their heady romance turned murderous, how two people who make their living out of words could so disastrously fail to communicate, why Amy—smart, attractive, rich, accomplished, adored—staged her own murder, and afterwards “let herself go,” dyeing her blonde locks a mousy brown, living off soda pop and hotdogs in a crummy cabin at the edge of some woods in Nowheresville, playing mini-golf with trailer trash.

Autumn Whitefield-Madrano writes in The New Inquiry about Laurie Penny’s Unspeakable Things:

… forms of dangerous self-harm are to riots in the streets what a white strike is to a factory occupation: women, precarious workers, young people and others for whom the lassitudes of modern life routinely produce acute distress and for whom the stakes of social non-conformity are high, lash out by doing only what is required of them, to the point of extremity. Work hard, eat less, consume frantically; be thin and perfect and good, conform and comply, push yourself to the point of collapse. … We all followed the rules, sufferers seem to be saying—now look what you made us do.

… You want me to be a good girl? Fine, I’ll be a goddamn perfect girl. Fuck you, I’ll disappear, how’s that? …

What Laurie Penny calls for in this book is mutiny. Mutiny against the mythology of “falling apart elegantly,” … mutiny against the careful persona curation of social media, which so many women have mastered because we’re so used to being thought of as commodities. Mutiny for sex workers and men who are tired of the patriarchy too and for women who question the institutionalization of “love.”

Today’s “postfeminist” men and women need more empowering narratives about romance, relationships, marriage, and parenthood. As these institutions stand, as our notions of what it means to be a Good Husband and Father and a Good Wife and Mother are constructed and maintained, the fear that both institutions may lead to the “abduction” and effacement of the self remains potent.