Impatience
“Keep writing and publishing your blogs. There’s not a single way to becoming a clinical psychologist. Lean into your hobbies and you will find your niche as a future psychologist,” the university’s graduate school guidance counselor said this to a high-strung, 28-year old Masters of clinical psychology student at 4:00 p.m. on a Tuesday. I’m that student. I never in my life thought that a visit to a guidance office can be rewarding nor enlightening for that matter.
I’m a Master of Arts in Clinical Psychology student. Like many others before me, I embarked on this journey after careful consideration of my career choices with a strong passion to help others and to make a positive impact on humanity. Like many others too, I realized that my passion is not enough to bend the world to my will. The past few months have humbled me. I entered grad school with a complete certainty of what I wanted as my career. Six months later, I am inundated with even more doubts not as to my purpose but as to the specifics of my dream career. Getting into grad school made me understand my options and made me face the truth that it will take awhile for me to slowly build the career I want. This frustrates me because I’m a very impatient person. You better believe that if I want something, I want to have it right away. Perhaps that’s the reason why I never accomplish anything substantial in my adult life? That’s something to ponder on in the days to come. I realized that I just need to consistently work towards my goals, in quiet and in humility. How do I do this? I don’t quite know yet. I have tried creating routines, working out, meditation, and yoga — you name it. I’ve tried numerous mindfulness exercises. I admire other people who seem to have everything together. Yes, I’m not stupid. I know their lives are not as put together as they seem on social media but somewhere at the back of my head, I know they don’t struggle against themselves as much as people like myself do and that saddens me. I’m diagnosed with Bipolar 2 disorder and I’m pretty certain I have PTSD and GAD as well. I’m already at a disadvantage but somehow the idealist in me is telling me that what I perceive to be my weaknesses are actually my north star. These weaknesses are my keys towards growth and in my deepest core, I know that writing can help me towards this journey.
So here I am at 4:00 pm, 4 weeks later trying to commit to writing more consistently. Who would have thought that committing to doing your passion can be tough? There are times when I have plenty to say but I don’t have the time to pen them down. Then there are times like today when I have the time but I have nothing to write about.
In classic Enya fashion, my mind wanders to the conversations I’ve had in the past and the argument I wish I won. I feel like everyone does this but just not enough people write about it. Writing. There’s the word I need to analyze. Why do I write?
I write to understand myself better. That’s every writer’s answer, is it not? I’m not every writer. I write to give names to my demons. Writing is the mental equivalent of lifting weights and breaking glasses to stifle anger. Heaven knows I have so much anger inside me. I wish I were a gentle soul spewing words of love and wisdom to the world but I’m not.
The sounds of my keyboard clicking while I write my frenzied thoughts down is like music to my ears. It heralds a new perspective coming or a promise of an oasis where my scorched heart can lay its head to rest another night to wake up tomorrow and fight my demons another day.
