It's a point of fact, for many people, that the weekend is as much a survival tool as it the conclusion to a week of work. I can't say I blame them. For years, I've looked forward to the respite, to the lack of immediately due tasks, to the promise of sleeping late (or, even better, not alone).
But this semester, I've found myself looking towards breaks with more trepidation than I do most any other time. Undoubtedly, Mondays are grueling (8 hours at school all day bookended by 8 hour work shifts). But the rest of the week has been, by comparison, practically enjoyable. This semester was the first time I've wanted to go to class, just so I could commiserate, collaborate, and co-fun-er-ate (what?) with my fellow interns. I enjoyed getting out of my apartment and being around a group of individuals that I loved and cared for, to a person, so often each week. Even the classes, for the most part, were engaging and enjoyable.
For so long, I also longed for weekends. It's when I (primarily) got to see Laura and, for me, that was the goal of each week. It probably says something important that, after she broke up with me, the week days were largely unaffected, but the weekends left a gaping hole. What was once the brightest time of my week became a wanton waste of time, a lonely and loveless period where I had only my thoughts and the occasional distraction of football to occupy myself.
And it doesn't seem so bad, from the outside in, except for the unfortunate fact (insomuch as I haven't been able to find an alternative) that I can't really enjoy myself without other people. Perhaps that's an exaggeration, I'm not sure. But I can say that, alone, my life just seems stagnant and lifeless. With others, I feel some sense of purpose and vivacity. It's a kind of vicarious satisfaction taken from the presence/joy of others, an almost parasitic feeling that leaves me wishing for constant company (or at least access to it should I desire it). In some ways it's a boon, but it also leaves me almost like an addict; I'm desperate for sociability, and the stink of that desperation seems to warn away as much as any whiskey would.
In the week, I have my students and coworkers. Until very recently, I had my fellow interns. On the weekends, I don't. I've started going to church again, which has helped, but it leaves little to look forward to. And really, that's what this is all about. That was the damning blow of my breakup and this semester. I've spent so long looking forward to the chance to actually do something, so long looking forward to each weekend, so long counting on tomorrow being better to help me get through today that, now that I'm here, I'm left thinking, "Surely this can't be it." Like a villain foiled for the thousandth time, inches away from domination or perfection or whatever, I have some sense of disbelief that this really can be it.
I was always so excited to see Laura. Even years into our relationship, I'd still get a bit giddy before I got to see her again. And I want that back. I desperately want that. The companionship, the safety net, the banter, the interests, the physicality (sometimes I just want to hug people to feel a connection again; I guess that's largely the point, but it's never seemed so visceral until now). The excitement and passion of anticipation, of desire come true.
I don't get that teaching. That passion and visceral intensity. There are many reasons for that, just as there are reasons for my pseudo-dependency and desperation, etc. And don't get me wrong; I love my students, and, bad days aside, I haven't regretted going into teaching. I just don't know if it's enough, long term. I feel, in many respects, like the chorus from "The Bends," always "waiting for something to happen." Because, now, I'm not looking forward to much. It's tolerable. It's endurable. But it's not enough. Where that goes, I don't know. It may be my youth raging against senescence. It may be a sign that another grad school calls. It is almost certainly one manifestation of my desire for a relationship that I have little immediate hope in fostering.
But these are the things of posts to come. For now, the point remains: I'm not living for the weekends, not living for myself, not living for love, not living for my profession. I'm just... coasting. And, while it's good for awhile (possibly even a few years), I don't think it's the stuff of a lifetime. "Let down and hanging around."
Damn you Thom Yorke.
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