Writing Under Pressure

Another day, another blog. Another perhaps unfinished string of thought to tease and make you wonder just what happened to me when I was 18 that it takes several posts to spit it our. Trust me, the reports of my youthful indiscretions are greatly exaggerated. It was nothing that would cause a sensation. In fact, this monumental shift in thinking came quietly in the night, for only one simple reason:

There was no other alternative.

We've all heard of the phrase "Fight or flight". Every creature in nature has this option when faced with danger. Some of us flee, running fiercely through the deep snows, the cold ripping down our throats to burn our lungs as the sounds of the world are replace by three things: your own breathing, your feet tearing through the snowy landscape, and your predator's eminent arrival.

Overall, I've never been faced with much real danger. Not physically. I avoid confrontation at all costs. Diplomatic is one word for it. But that doesn't mean that I don't fight. I just choose my battles carefully and mine tend to be wars of words or emotions, engagements of the mind rather than the body.

But ten years ago, I think I was a fleeing rabbit. And my predator? Pressure, life, school... and the crowning king? Expectations.

That night was cold. It was the end of finals week and many people on campus had already left for home. So to add to the cold, it was quiet. The kind of quiet that allows to actually hear those thoughts in your head you'd rather not entertain. Nothing sordid, but they were hard to hear nonetheless.

They were thoughts of failure.

Heading into Christmas break of my Freshman year, I walked around campus, then through my dorm. I thought of the past 16 weeks and the adventures I'd had, the friends I made, and the opportunities laid out before me. And then the world dropped out from under me.

For all the great things I'd done that semester: earned a spot marching with the Band of the Fighting Irish; been published in the student magazine; created friendships that have lasted a decade... I didn't do the one thing I should have. Respect my education.

Sitting there on the third floor of my dorm, I knew I'd frakked up. And it hit me. All at once. I'd spent so much time living my life and focusing on the wrong things that I had risked everything. And I was sure I was about to lost it all.

So naturally, there was stress. There was worry. And that lasted a good couple of hours.

And that's about when I got it. Well, that's about when I got HALF of it. I understood then that worry and stress don't solve problems. It's the equivalent of mentally retreating. And the bitch about running is that you're already weak by this point and your problems will catch you. And they'll just beat you down more harshly than before.

So I decided to stay and fight. I went to the Dean, the one person that up until that night had terrified me, because I had let myself believe that she controlled what happened to me. But she didn't. I could have given up, gone home, and probably would have not been invited back for second semester.

Instead I stood up. I faced my predator. I fought. And the Dean seemed to respect my determination to make amends and granted me that opportunity. One that I wouldn't squander. I figured out from then on how to keep up with my extra-curriculars without screwing up the curriculars. Not only did I fight for what I wanted, I respected the challenges before me. But at the same time, I wasn't worried.

That worry and stress had only gone to create a scared little boy who ignored his problems. I wish it hadn't taken me the realization that there was actually nothing left to lose before I saw that. Of course, perhaps that's the kick in the ass we all need sometimes. When you finally see that you're at the bottom, you have to start looking up. Otherwise you'll probably never crawl out of whatever hole you've dug for yourself.

I made it through. Now a proud alumnus and grateful to the Dean for letting me step back into the fray all those years ago.

So now it's December of 2007. The boy I was back then has been keeping tabs on the man I am today and I think he's wondering if I'm about to figure out the second half of the equation.

The snow is melting outside. And my stomach growls from lack of sustenance this morning. The noon-day sun has absconded behind a blanket of dust-gray clouds and errands I have to run are waiting for me to finish this post.

Things I have to do because I agreed to do them. Things which are vital to something, but not overly vital to me. And I'll do these things. So many vital things to so many people... these daily distractions will continue for a while and I won't stress or worry about how I'm going to keep juggling everything and keep it all in the air.

But the second half of the equation, for me, is coming into focus. It was something that Keaton ruminated on. In his post this week, Focus The Mind, Focus The Body, my friend spoke of getting his house in order and finding his focus. And it's something I've been pondering this year as I realize the thing which I ought to be doing aren't the things I'm doing.

And what decided where I should and should not focus my efforts? Me. And I've let myself fall into other happy distractions. Some of them are productive distractions and have led to better things in my life. But overall, I've gotten off course. It felt like I was making progress... and to be fair, I was... but perhaps just heading in the wrong direction. Like ending up at Magnetic North instead of the North Pole. Yeah, I think it's like that.

Not only do I need to fight. I need to focus. For lack of focus is pretty much retreating. Letting distraction take control is just running from what needs to happen. Every distraction is another step away from my goal and I'm tired of running.

Remember when I said the answers are coming. I think this is what I was talking about. The next eight weeks will seem to continue on as if nothing has changed. Wrapping up the first set of major obligations and prepping to finish out a few more by midsummer. But underneath the seemingly calm surface, a resistance is brewing.

A resistance? you say. Yes. To distractions. To blindly following temptation and false goals when the real one is right in front of me. If I'm going to become a writer, which has been the single constant passion in my life since before I knew what passion was, I need to take steps in the right direction.

I need to focus.

I've done it before. More than once. I've looked around at my life, and while apparently satisfied with the day to day, I realized in those moments that I needed a mid-course correctional burn. So I do something. I stand up. I fight. I rally. I make things happen.

And then it's five years later. Or ten years later. And I'm closer to the goal, but not as close I should be and definitely on the wrong track.

Speeding along through December and into January, I don't just need to change tracks. I need to change trains.

December's like that. It makes you question things. It makes me question things. And this time, the answers are here. It's a change that's now on the horizon.

Gotta run and take care of a distraction. And then mark it down for destruction. The first of many that will be excised from my life to help me focus on reaching my goal. The next six months are going to be fun.