Command, constrain, compose, etc.

Once again I have been stricken with the feeling of being a caged animal. This is a most uncomfortable feeling that fills me alternately with panic and then rage. And then panic again. Racing heart? Check. Throbbing head? Check. Clenched fists? Check. People, we are on our way to a meltdown. I repeat: a meltdown is in our sights. You may ask, what makes a seemingly well-adjusted individual approach the edge of reason and then teeter there precariously? It is really quite simple, and in the case of this particular individual (i.e., moi), it is a lack of control.

Control, oh my beloved Control. Control, you are my sweet little pet. I love you with all my heart. I am begging you to stay with me and be with me and be mine for all time. Please, please, please don’t leave me alone. I am nothing without you, my precious Control. I promise to be nice and shiny and reasonable if you will just cuddle up in my pocket forevermore. But alas, Control is fickle. Some days I feel like our bond is unbreakable, while at other times it feels downright flimsy. This is one of those wobbly times, and I would go so far as to say that we are on a break. In fact, I suspect that Control is taking liberties and shacking up with other people...

When I refer to [my undying love for] Control, I certainly do mean in everyday situations that I like to orchestrate. But even more so, I mean in the overarching sense of my destiny in general. Destiny in this instance is a grandiose and melodramatic code word for my career, which has a tendency to eclipse almost every other aspect of my life. For instance, how is it that in the past two years I have written 6 manuscripts detailing my research findings, yet only ONE is in press? Not even published per se, but in press. ONE. That is because ultimately they are not in my…yes, wait for it…control. This in turn is frustrating, because one cannot be promoted to assistant professor if one has not published a sufficient number of papers. Of course, papers cannot be published if they are merely languishing in someone else’s inbox. This becomes a circle of pain rather quickly. And frankly, it’s gotten quite old. And frankly, I am all too familiar with the way it plays itself out. Let me skip ahead to the bottom line: there is little I can do to speed things up. That’s right. This situation is not in my control. I have already done everything I have the power to do in order to make things move forward, believe you me.

So I have established a routine that begins with a stricture in my chest and proceeds directly to a suffocating feeling of screaming in a dream without any sound. This leads to a feeling of helplessness (accompanied by sniffling and whimpering) that alternates with rapid, blustery denouncement of “the system” (accompanied by fists raised and shaking at the gods of all that could be just and right in the world), and then back to helplessness again. After this repeats several times, I move on to the proactive phase of the routine. This is the part where I immerse myself into some other project in an effort to experience a modicum of achievement-just a pinch. While this side project usually does not contribute at all to the overarching goal at hand, it does provide, at least temporarily, a sense of satisfaction.

As a result we have had some great home-cooked meals, I have run a half-marathon, and you have this little nook of nonsense to tuck into when you are out and about in the worldwide web.