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thaoeatworld · 1 year

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On Leaving & Loneliness

While there are many reasons for people to daydream, I am (and continue to be) someone who uses it as an escape from my present reality. For me, it was a lot easier to fantasise about unlikely scenarios based on a series of loosely-tied-together-happenstance than it was to be bound to my present conditions. A true “jumper” of sorts.

For some people, this was a very beautiful trait I posses. To them, I was a person capable of foreseeing impossible connections. I overlapped completely separate entities into new trajectories. To them, I was a creative. I was innovative.

To others, this was an obvious weakness. I would become reliant on these unlikely dreams, so much so that it impacted me emotionally and physically. I would be stressed over something that was 98% unlikely to happen and when they didn’t happen I would agonise about them relentlessly. Naturally, this was a very unhelpful if not toxic way to live my life. Some people would say that I fetishise (my) suffering, others would say I enjoy “suffering twice”. And to some extent, maybe I do...I’m an academic after all.

This post is a tribute to the numerous ongoing transformations I’m experiencing at the moment. I will reflect on the following (1) deciding not to return to the United States after graduation (2) leaving Italy when I absolutely didn’t want to and (3) pursuing an academic career despite not wanting to at all.

These are just a small part of my textual reflections that I choose to share into the digital void. It’s weird to think that I first joined tumblr at age 12/13 -- when Tumblr was just in beta and tumblarity was all the rage -- sharing my thoughts into said void were common. Nowadays, I’m feeling more hesitant and I’m not sure why. Is it the illusion of privacy? Is it the fear of being performative? Is the fear of judgment and unprofessionalism? I’m not sure. I’m not sure where this new-found concern manifested. I’ve always been an “open book” type of person. To me, my emotional transparency is a key part of what I do as an anthropologist.

By writing out my feelings, my process, and my analysis, I continue to build my over-growing toolkit for ethnography. It’s never complete, it’ll never be perfect, but it is me and my method. I do not glamourise myself as the research tool, if anything, I’m probably overly critical on all fronts. Some have accused me of being “too emotional” and you know, they’re right. I am very emotional. At times it inhibits me from truly appreciating or just experiencing what is going on around me. I become disoriented and overwhelmed. My own personal limbo, truly.

Grief is not linear. If anything, it’s like a connection of overlapping strands pulling you in different directions at different times and intensities. A meshwork composed of destructive memories, heavy sentiments, and occasional moments of clarity at best. For me, grief is a place. And that place was the United States. After almost 5 years abroad, spread across Japan, the U.K., and Italy, I was very much not looking forward to returning after I concluded my studies.

There’s a trope I always share with people about myself when they find out I grew up in the United States. I always tell them that I don’t really like my country, but I love my home-state with a passion. I love being from Maryland, but specifically the D.C. metropolitan area. I loved waking up to “Good morning Washington” -- I loved hopping on a short train to the centre and eating nice brunches with friends in undergrad. I loved going to random punk shows in basements, restaurant backrooms, and old churches. I love Old Bay seasoning on my boxed macaroni and cheese and mumbo sauce with my box of Chinese takeout fried chicken and fried rice. I love my friends, more than they will ever know. And yet...all of these things weren’t enough individually, or in combination, to convince me to return after graduation.

In my eyes if I were to return to my hometown, or anywhere NEAR it, I would be a failure. In my eyes, I had a lot of unfinished explorations around the world and going back to the U.S. after having a taste of that would be devastating. In my travels and studies, I met a lot of people who felt similar. To some extent, I think we were all running from something and hid it behind the joy and aesthetic of travel. However, I think for me, that’s changed a bit. Nowadays, I feel like the reason why I don’t want to go back permanently is because I learned to carry “home” with me and share it with others in different places. My “home” is in my connections, my friends who are around the world in various places-- my personal constellations of care.

The grief about choosing to not return comes from the moments I have missed or will miss. I’ll miss my cousins’ kids growing up. I’ll miss the steps of my mother aging and healing from her traumatic past. I’ll miss moments of supporting my sister when she’s down and needing me. I’ll miss my friends getting married, giving birth, adopting pets, and buying houses. I grieve the possibilities that I know exist for me, but I’ve actively prevented myself from experiencing. I wish I could accept those possibilities and be happy with them, but yet, I left because I wanted something “more” but I’m unsure how that looks to begin with.

For a while, “more” was Italy. Living happily on my own, outside of studies, in Torino. While my Italian was nowhere near perfect, it was getting better after leaving an arguably toxic relationship and meeting new people. I was living in a new house with lots of sunlight and plants, I was making friends outside a university setting, and I was roller skating lots. I woke up each day mildly rattled with excitement and existential dread. Okay, university is over, what next?

I considered the longevity of my career anxiety. My elementary school teacher Mrs. Klass did mention to me that I was always a nervous child when it came to fulfilling my dad’s wish of me being a doctor. I don’t think parents understand how much their comments and parenting impacts their children...or at least, I don’t think my parents did. I was, and continue to be, a hyper-sensitive person. I think about one of my long-standing film favourites: The Graduate (1967). Benjamin’s insistent disinterest and confusion mirrored my own. I too, was a graduate. And I too, was looking to find “purpose” post-graduation. Cue Simon and Garfunkel’s “Sound of Silence” to play in the background of my mind.

Similarly, I found myself looking for love in all the wrong places. Specifically from people who were not capable of giving me anything I wanted or needed. However, like Benjamin, I lent myself to the fantasy and dove in -- not paying attention to the consequences. And in my own ways, I paid for (and continue to pay for) these decisions. Even with these complexities, I didn’t want to leave. I love(d) Torino. I love(d) Italy.

For me, from February to the end of August this year, Torino was the centre of the universe. While my experiences were hectic and intense, I don’t think I’ve ever been happier in my entire life thus far. The relationships I forged during this period were intensely wonderful. The relationships I ended were decisively healing -- something I can only say in hindsight. I will not downplay the pain I felt when they were crumbling, but am I relieved to not have to deal with them further.

My grief about Torino stems from my return to it for graduation in October after moving away when I didn’t want to. My desire was to find a beautiful role somewhere in Italy in research about plants and or food. I wanted to work in nutrition, biodiversity, cultural heritage. I wanted to conduct impactful research. I wanted to earn a reasonable wage. All of these desires were unfounded during my job search period.

When I set foot in Italy for graduation after moving away for work, I felt torn between multiple realities. Like Oxford, it wasn’t just the place, it was the people which coloured my experience. Most of my positive experiences in Torino were constructed by a small group of people, all of which didn’t exist in my life anymore. One by one, those people left my life, and I wasn’t the same anymore. That was a painful thing to realise. I’m not trying to diminish the happy connections I still have in Torino, but when you spend all your time with a select few, and they’re not there anymore, you feel that. Strongly. You feel their absence, their ghosts linger, and you try (very diligently) to stop being haunted. All you can hope is that that someday these ghosts disappear, for good.

I never believed I would leave Italy, but most especially not to move to the Netherlands. As some might know, I had a mixture of motives for moving. I did it for a bundle of intersecting reasons, some of which unraveled and disintegrated altogether upon arrival. That was devastating. I was very much destroyed. As they say, once you hit rock bottom, it’s only up from here on.

I would say that September 2022 to mid November 2022 has been one of the darkest periods of my entire life thus far. I was very open about this, to everyone. And I thank everyone in my life for their continued patience and grace with me, I will not forget it.

Happy to report that despite these outside bursts of grief and sadness, none of this stemmed from my new work position. I definitely wouldn’t say I’m the type of person who dreams of labour, but I will openly say that I am very much happy and enjoying my academic role as a lecturer. A few months ago, I was very much on the the “I’m a hardcore research person, teaching isn’t my main concern.” In retrospect, what a reductionist and naïve thing to say.

I love reading and learning new things. I love teaching students more deeply about topics I care about. I love working through complex ideas. I love being challenged. I love challenging others. I love building new relationships with people. I love watching my students grow.

I love my team. I feel very supported among my colleagues. I feel like my unusual approach to things are appreciated and that I’m being pushed in positive ways. Granted, this is just a review from my first term. As I jokingly say to my students, “You’re lucky you got me while I’m all bright and shiny. I’m sure this won’t last forever.”

So where does the grief about taking the academic role come into play? Well, it’s very sneaky. In some ways, landing this role means two “big” things: (1) I’m away from the person I cared about the most which contributed to our demise -- I effectively chose career over this person and (2) I’m a part of the system I critiqued so heavily for many years. It boils down to valuing my career over people on both fronts. Am I allowed to be critical to academia when I’m participating and perpetuating two very harmful parts of it?

Am I allowed to be upset about heartbreak when I chose to be with someone who is stuck in a similar position as me? Forced to choose between career progression and romance? Sadly romance never tends to win out in the infamous “two body problem” lest you’re married. We were no where close to being married. Heck, we couldn’t even agree on similar literature for a manuscript draft. Anyways, the grief manifests in the guilt of “wanting better” for myself while also understanding why such harm would be done towards me. I’m angry, and yet I find the choice justified because I’ve been brainwashed to accept the brokenness of the academic system instead of challenging it more outwardly. It’s embarrassing for me, my cowardice towards the situation.

The second layer of guilt comes from giving academia a singular chance, and loving it once I stepped in. I applied for one academic position after graduating and got it. Who does that? I felt so bad after hearing I had gotten the job. I kept thinking “I know so many awesome scholars who try again and again to get a job so why am I more special than them in any way?”

I spent so many years of my doctorate being jaded by the emotional damage inflicted on me by others in positions higher to me. In some ways, I felt like a punching bag -- an easy target. I kept my head down and suffered “alone” for a lot of it. I found solstice in the venting void that was #academictwitter. I made friends online, and persisted. I see the same cycle in job applications beginning again among my peers. I wanted to tell them it’ll be okay, but I’m not sure I can in good faith. Herein, once again, is where that grief arises.

I wonder where this loneliness will lead me. The decision to uproot and briefly settle every few years is truly a marathon. Consider this as a brief dip into the realities of that journey, many of us early-career-academics, collectively rationalise and undertake.

I have no answers to resolving some of the emotional tensions I’ve pointed out here beyond looking to and leaning on my constellations of care. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I also believe in the power of community. I trust and deeply love my chosen communities.

By sharing my thoughts and reflections, I hope that others in a similar position to me (or not) can benefit from the solidarity in emotional transparency. I know I open myself up for criticism in such vulnerability, but criticism is just a part of the process isn’t it? I would like to think I’m an ongoing “work in process” human. It’s only up from here.

To end, I’ll be silly and listen to a song that used to soothe me in my middle school years. A common misconception about people who like pop punk is that we’re all hyperactive and overly happy. I guess I’m one of those weird pop punk kids who only listens to *sad* pop punk. The sadder and whinier, the better. “Leaving” by The Starting Line (2003) seems most appropriate for the occasion.

#blog #anthropology #academia #academic #ecr #postdoc #moving abroad #graduate school

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thaoeatworld · 5 months

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Everything I've Learned About Burning Out

I've spent a lot of time thinking about how I would word this piece. The difficulty with burnout is when you are indeed burnt out, you can't even process merely existing very well. Sleeping is hard. Eating is hard. Coping is exceptionally harder. Grief is not only debilitating, it's destabilising to the point of you're wondering why you're even alive in the first place.

I fathomed making jokes throughout this, simply to mirror my slow "return" to the world of the living, thinking, and mildly-fuctioning. I joke as a coping mechanism. It's been my "thing" my whole life. Entire generations of comedians make their careers off their trauma. And well, I don't plan to dedicate too many jokes to this written wallow about capitalism, academic careers, and common milestones of being a person in today's society. I just wanted to say, that when I was, very thoroughly burning out, I had no clue it was happening...and I think that's very funny.

It was like a true separation from reality. People were concerned for me, had entire conversations and very direct interventions with me. And I simply refused to acknowledge it in actuality. I would say "No I'm fine" and ignore a lot of the distressful nights of crying myself to sleep if I was lucky to sleep at all. I simply refused to do anything about my burnout aside from complain, and that wasn't even helping either.

I would vent to friends, family, colleagues. I had tea with a fellow colleague who was also suffering from the effects of burnout, and I simply just did not connect the dots. I would cry to Pedro, my partner, who is honestly always too kind and wonderful about everything, and lament about being "broken" to which he would reply "I know, it's not you. There's nothing wrong with you" almost every time.

I only realised I was burning out when I had an in-person meeting with a colleague to discuss how I was feeling about work, and I cried. I UGLY cried. It starts how most ugly crying starts -- suddenly and with exceptional surprise. In responding to a string of standard questioning, I just started to cry...and I didn't stop.

I cried about how little progress I felt I made as an academic. How little progress I made on writing all the things I wanted to write, because I was too busy and mentally exhausted from teaching. How I felt that this was my life now. A series of deadlines that would never be met and unfulfilled writing and grant obligations, despite all the intense efforts I felt like I was making daily. I was done. I was BEYOND depressed -- I was decimated. I wasn't me anymore.

This had a radical, but much needed reaction on my colleague’s end. We worked together to formulate a plan for me to get better, which involved a "break" from teaching. Honestly, I was very embarrassed. Not only did I sob in their office, here I was causing so much "trouble" for the planned teaching side of things. This was not the perspective of my colleague, but my own negative internal monologue.

So I concluded the rest of my summer and much of my autumn months with this teaching "break". During this break, I realised how much physical and emotional anguish I was in as the result of my work and career induced stress. Whenever I would look at my deadlines, I would develop actual acute chest pains for several days. I had problems eating, sleeping, and relaxing. The smallest noise or even too much sunlight would overwhelm me. No amount of my favourite activities would bring me joy. No amount of rollerskating, reading, or crafting could save me.

It's weird to reflect on this because here I was, given the space to "heal" and I was just feeling all the pains I've been ignoring for several years. The only comparison I can make right now is the pain one feels when adrenaline wears off. The damage from over-working for several years was extensive, and I felt every tear and cavernous wound.

I went to several doctors, all of which agreed I was burnt out and needed help. They gave me medications, they suggested therapies, they suggested less work. So I took the work reductions, all while feeling defeated about it. I stayed home, I avoided people, I tried to "get better". I took weird mixtures of plant extracts that my GP prescribed be because she didn't feel confident enough to prescribe me "something stronger" without the input of a psychiatrist which I wasn't allowed to see because of a 8+ month waiting list. I tried to get more extensive therapy, but then the actual treatment centre rejected me as patient because I "worked too much." Ironic, isn't it?

I was horrendously horizontal the entire time and had been for days, devastated with how horrible this whole experience was. I spent so much of my life thinking that if I had money, time, and support for "getting help" I would get it. I was wrong. I don't know why this suprised me so much, considering I work and teach about health access and inequities quite often.

I remember writing Stanley an email, shaking, laptop in my bed. He trained me, he has been deeply involved in my growth over the years. I would argue he "made me" who I am today, but knowing him, he wouldn't take that much credit. I told him that I was burnt out and I didn't know what to do. He responded that we should call and have a virtual tea together "just to talk, not work." He told me that everything would be okay, and that I needed to take care of myself. He told me that whatever gift I thought I had lost with burning out is still there inside me, and that I needed to nuture the "Thao things". I needed to make space for what made me, me.

So in efforts to love writing, researching, and crafting again, I shut my brain off. I distanced myself from everything that didn't matter to me at the time. I stopped talking to people, I didn't start anything new, I just focused on things that I needed to complete that mattered to me. I partially let go of my shame about "being late" for deadlines, because I had really spent months on what I feel, in hindsight, was being a member of the walking dead. I wasn't Thao anymore, so how could I do Thao-things?

I wrote and completed things that were mine. Mine as in that people had given me space to share my research, ideas, and work. I felt very horrible for being late, but it was "over". I realised that nothing could be perfect, but they could be "just enough" and someone else would make it better and I trusted them to do so.

I started collaging and drawing things again, being sure to keep all the shit drafts and lines attached in efforts to remind myself of the phrase and practice I hate a lot: "Respect the process."

I skated even though I didn't want to. I had no expectations about my progress or comparing myself to my skate team mates. I spent a few days in Barcelona with them so grateful to be alive and still skating, and I remembered so wholeheartedly why I do it in the first place...because it's fun! Same happened with Roller Derby, I just let myself be hit, coached, and focused on having fun. My anxiety drastically went down as a result.

I cooked complicated things when I felt like it, all from scratch. I tried new recipes and weird combinations. I also ordered takeout just because, a practice I never got used to post-Italy. I ate shitty food, because why not? I can't be bothered to cook or clean tonight, and that's fine.

I jumped back into teaching in early November, and I remember being terrified. As the weeks went on, I realised that I knew more than I recalled knowing...then again, it was the second year of me teaching this course. In that rest period, my brain had begun to slowly crawl up from that labrythine pit it was in. It wasn't much, but it was something.

Now as the term ends, I still think I'm burnt out. The truth is, I don't think I've learned much about it nor how to prevent it. All I got was a very strong reminder that even when you're burned out, and everyone is telling you that you need help, that the best case scenario is a short teaching break, you probably won't feel better.

I don't mean to be bleak, but that's the truth. I think I did everything "right" and yet, I was not healed. I'm still feeling bad, just less bad. Pedro's words have become more apparent. If the problem isn't me, it must be where I am. This inevitably leads to larger questionings of my institution, but also the grander scheme of academia.

It's no secret that academia runs on exploited labour, precarity, and questionable donations. Though I cannot pinpoint any one incident during my experience of working thus far as being a trigger to my spiral of burnout I will acknowledge one thing: the world does not end by moving a work deadline.

#blog #burnout #academia #ecr #researcher #teaching

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