No one who reads here wakes up before 9 anyway, right?
Right.
I am constantly behind the ball. Or–not “behind” the ball so much as “right at” the ball. I’ve taken on more classes than I’ve ever had before, while writing my thesis and applying for jobs. I probably spend as much of my time applying for jobs as I do preparing for and teaching classes. I still show up on time, by God, and if I say I’ll have something done, it gets done.
What this means is that I don’t really get much sleep, what sleep I get is fitful, and when I’m not literally in the middle of some other task, I am worrying. I worry about where I’ll be next year (worst-case scenario? right here, chum), whether I’ll be happy, whether my interviews will be OK, whether I sent off material with typos in it, whether I should be trying harder to get laid, whether I should be making dinner more often, whether I am too grumpy. Et cetera.
Because of all this worry, and my desire to continue functioning, I’m learning to repress it. I choke it all down nice and tight and put on a happy face. It reminds me of when I was a little bullied child whose mom told her that she’d get beat up at school less if she smiled more. LOOK I’M HAVING A GOOD TIME, EVERYONE. I AM VERY FRIENDLY.
The super-cool thing about repression (all the kids are doing it yay!) is that at any moment, someone asks me even a mildly personal question and I dissolve in tears. Why, I do have a sibling! Sniff! Sob! or No, actually, I don’t think *choke* that having kids is really for me, you know? I’m usually perfectly capable of talking about the most intimate things without batting an eye, but living in a state of constant (and necessary!) repression makes everything feel pretty heavy, man.
The worst is when I’m teaching poetry and halfway through a lecture I give ALL THE TIME about Emily Dickinson, it becomes exceedingly clear to me that everyone in the room is 100% aware that I am one inch away from bawling. And when the inevitable question comes—“Why didn’t she, like, try to make more friends, or get out more?”—my eyes roll so hard. “It’s OK to have feelings!” I say, unconvincingly. “At least that’s what my therapist says.”
Waiting to hear about possible new jobs is torturous. I’m waiting to hear about a project now, and although I’m not bursting into tears at everything, I’m lying around with no energy. I … hate… waiting.
Applying for academic positions at the same time as teaching is mind-bogglingly stressful. The attention to detail and level of professionalism (or at least appearance) needed for the former and rigor of the latter are utterly draining. Repression under these circumstances is simply necessary, I would say, in order to make it through each day, week, and month. Emotional leakage at odd and surprising moments is also par for the course, though nonetheless disturbing.
Good luck with it all!