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Notes on Process
Every year I make New Year’s Resolutions. I’d suggest it comes from a place of Pollyanna-ish confidence that THIS. YEAR. will be the year I run the marathon/finish the book/learn a language fluently/develop the physique of a professional track star, but the truth is, if I don’t pick a day–and it could be arbitrary; it doesn’t have to be New Year’s–to sit down and think about these things and what I’d like to be doing, I won’t do it at all.
I had to learn to plan things. I am not a naturally organized person. I mostly despise routine and like novelty, change, risk. I also have an anxiety disorder–it runs in my family–which seems like a cruel joke because I’m also predisposed to seeking out naturally anxiety-producing situations. If something explodes, I tend to run toward it instead of away from it. Curiosity gets the best of me.
When I had a bout of panic attacks in my twenties, I saw a therapist who specialized in biofeedback and she asked if I could remove myself from some of these anxiety-producing situations. “Which one?” I said. “Living in New York, working as a journalist on stories that antagonize powerful people, working in an industry notorious for its financial instability while carrying five figures in student loans, or living a thousand miles away from my closest relative?” The truth was, I wasn’t willing to give up any of those things–and still am not.
