Project 35

I haven’t slept well in, well, a very long time. And I’m ashamed to admit it. You see, having worked specifically on emotions for the last eight years, I put …

I haven’t slept well in, well, a very long time. And I’m ashamed to admit it. You see, having worked specifically on emotions for the last eight years, I put a lot of pressure on myself to be the role model, the example of a emotionally healthy person. And yet, 1) I sometimes don’t know what that means, and 2) I still, for whatever reason, don’t sleep well.

Like this morning, for example. I woke up, ignored two alarms, hit snooze two or three times, came downstairs to grab my computer to head to the basement, my dad said good morning and I grumbled back to him as I proceeded to setup for this writing. I grumble a lot in the morning—I’m not a “morning person” as they’d say—and I think it’s because I don’t sleep well. If I slept soundly—“slept like a rock,” or my favorite, lala fofofo, which I think is Swahili for sleep like a log, or something that means deep deep sleep—then I think I would feel a lot more relaxed, excited, and energized in the mornings. Instead, I often wake up feeling groggy, frustrated, and annoyed, and for any poor soul who encounters my path, they often receive the brunt of my projection.

So why don’t I sleep well? Perhaps it’s the lack of routine. As I travel a lot amongst time zones, I often have to switch my circadian rhythm. Also, some nights I’ll work on something late until the evening and then not be forced to wake up early.

Maybe it’s that I use my phone too late. That before I’m going to bed, I get caught up in a discussion with a friend who’s in a different timezone and is wide awake, and my heart starts pumping and I get too excited.

Perhaps it’s that I feel ashamed for not having “done enough” throughout the day, not having helped save the world enough.

Perhaps I get too excited for an idea and what I will do the next day–like a kid waiting for Santa to arrive the next day.

I don’t know.

I think one of the things we can do to help our loved ones the most is to sleep well. One of the most common questions we ask people is, “How did you sleep?” If I ask that to someone and they reply, “Poorly,” then I feel horrible. It makes me question what’s going on in their life, what undue stress they have, if I have somehow contributed to that stress, and may increase insecurity on my part.

However, if I ask them and they say, “I slept like a dream,” then I may feel a deep sense of relief, gratitude, and joy for them.

I think we often forget how much our emotions blend into others. Maybe I should focus on sleep more.

What does it take to convince me that this is real? What does it take to convince you? It has been maybe a month since many of us in the …

What does it take to convince me that this is real? What does it take to convince you?

It has been maybe a month since many of us in the US have been sheltered at home, quarantined away from our daily lives, in an effort to flatten the curve, as they say. For some, this was an obvious decision to make—it seemed to be the fastest and most effective way to reduce the load on the hospitals. For others, it seems like a waste of time, shutting down business and hurting people through economic loss and the other side effects of that—depression, alcoholism, drug abuse, physical abuse, etc.

So what convinces us that this is real?

What convinced me was two-fold: 1) my mom started chemo at about the same time as this was unfolding in Michigan and 2) the NBA and other sports leagues shut down quickly. The former showed me that someone I see every day and for whom I care may be very vulnerable to this. The latter showed me that some people much closer to this and who I think are much smarter than me deemed this to be an important issue.

But is that enough?

It remained real for me because in the first week or two, I already knew at least 3 people who lost close ones to the virus; one of whom was a very close friend to an ex-girlfriend of mine.

But is THAT enough?

While watching the news tonight, I saw a video of a man who was on the frontlines in the hospitals of New York talk about how much death he is seeing on a daily basis and it got me wondering: why aren’t we, the viewers of media, seeing more of the death? Not hearing the numbers about the death, but actually seeing the horror that this virus is causing to people?

I understand the family’s desire to keep a death private. I understand the hospital’s worry over lawsuits and such. I understand the fear of the news station to show such horror on TV. And yet. And yet I wish they would take us through the emotional experience. It may traumatize us, but sometimes that pain serves the purpose of showing us the emotional toll is taking. When I read the numbers, I don’t feel the pain. If I feel the pain, perhaps I will feel the urgency.

I asked my parents about this and they mentioned that back in Vietnam they used to show dead bodies on the news. I wonder what emotional impact that had on viewers. Whether it added more pain, which stayed unresolved. Whether it contributed to the anti-war protests, as viewers saw bloodied heads and missing limbs of people who could be their neighbors. Whether it had any effect at all.

I ask these questions because it seems as if for some of us, this situation is very real, for others it’s kinda real, and for some it’s not real at all. I wonder if there’s anything we can do to show the severity of the challenge we’re facing.

Sometimes we force ourselves to say things. We don’t want to say them, but something in us said that we told ourselves we would say them, so we do. It’s …

Sometimes we force ourselves to say things. We don’t want to say them, but something in us said that we told ourselves we would say them, so we do. It’s not just limited to saying things, but really for any type of action. We tell ourselves we will do something in the future and then when the future arrives, we just don’t feel like it anymore. And yet we do it anyways.

I was telling myself that I would write about “levels”—how people see the world from different perspectives and that one is not better than the other, just different—and how they help us work together to solve problems. However, when I sat down, I just didn’t feel it anymore. I paused for a few seconds at the beginning of this, almost feeling myself try to pull it out, like a magician struggling to pull a magic scarf out of thin air.

So I went with my gut. I fought the guilt I had for committing to doing one thing and doing another. I felt my body relax and open, a smile may have even spread across my face. To be free, to speak our minds, our hearts, without punishing ourselves for not aligning with our past self. Without blaming ourselves for being different in the present than we had thought we would be. Without ignoring our internal drives, letting them guide us as they currently see fit.

I wonder how this impacts so many aspects of our lives. How often do we say yes to something because we promised we would, and yet in the moment, our whole body screams no? How often do we continue to do something even though we no longer have the urge? How often do we shame ourselves for being a living breathing animal and changing over time?

People have said I struggle with commitment. Maybe I do. For me, I see commitment as sometimes doing something that we no longer want to do; feeling trapped, forced, manipulated by our past projections of the future. Sometimes I just wish to be in the present, taking in the smells, sounds, touches, and overall beating heart of the moment. Sometimes I just want to say, “Yes, I know I promised that, AND, I no longer want to do that. I hope you understand.”

We only get one shot at this world (or so I hear) and I want to be more honest with myself about what I want to do and what I don’t want to do—and have the courage to abide.

How does one begin? Perhaps one begins by removing “one” and replacing it with “I.” How do I begin? Yes, that feels more aligned with what I wanted to do. …

How does one begin? Perhaps one begins by removing “one” and replacing it with “I.” How do I begin? Yes, that feels more aligned with what I wanted to do.

I want this to be a space of experimentation, a space of play, a space of expression. I didn’t sleep well last night, as I stayed up late trying to prepare every last detail of this, and I also felt so nervous about how to begin. You see, I trust my ability to continue and to maintain things. Sometimes I worry about how I will begin and how I will end. Will I say just the right thing? What will people think? How will they feel? How will I feel?

As I type this, I’m quite aware that I’m not just typing for the moment; in a way, I’m typing for the future. I’m here, with the cold basement floor, the whirring of the furnace, the sun slipping in through the tiny windows. And yet I’m there, thinking whether this is how a book should start, whether this is what someone will find compelling, whether this will leave an indelible mark on history.

Perhaps that’s a struggle many of us are feeling these days. Right now, many of us around the world are on quarantine or lockdown, sheltered in our homes to help prevent the spread of the novel coronavirus, COVID-19, or whatever you want to call it. We are in a moment of time that will be history. We are living history. Our moves, our decisions, our non-decisions, are likely to be recorded and remembered for years into the future. In a way, I feel paralyzed to think about such eternal consequences of my actions. In another way, I feel somewhat empowered; we have the ability to write history with our actions.

I don’t know what this book will entail. I imagine it will include many gaffes, many poorly thought out arguments, and many oops-I-can’t-believe-I-said thats. I hope it will dive deeper into not only my soul and my heart, but as a result, deeper into the souls and hearts of humanity. I imagine I will say many things in here that will be taboo in the future, and for that, I was going to say I apologize but I don’t feel guilty for that. I’m writing in a particular moment in time.

And speaking of time, I have 30 seconds left to write. It seems that time is the most limited resource we have. It comes and mostly it goes, and I guess it’s up to us to feel it.