Well, folks, life happens, and it’s been a while. Hello! I do hope each one of you is doing okay as we head into the dead of winter here in this northern hemisphere.
Sofia has been covered in snow. And drizzling rain. And its infamous winter fog. (Because of that fog, the neighborhood near our airport is called “Hostile” – “Vrazhdebna”). It’s been miserable, and I’m ready for silver linings.
Seriously, this pandemic is getting me existential. What’s the point of any of this? What should I be doing with my time here in the Mladost district, with its gray concrete and leaden gray skies? What should any of us be doing?
I’ve been holding on to some things that keep me sane, foremost of which has been exercise. It’s a source of stability and power. I’m trying to mediate, too – and, I mean, it’s nice, but it’s far from the thrill of doing enough pushups, jumps, etc., to get yourself sore and tired and elated.
Inshallah, I will live to go clubbing again and, sometime in the not too distant future, I’ll be dancing all night in a crowd of strangers, high on near-exhaustion as my body discovers new patterns and expresses its creativity and strength.
For now, I go to the schoolyard behind our giant plattenbau building. My trainer compiles for me a set of movements – repetitive, rhythmic, slightly different each time. They evolve from simple to intense as we go along. It’s not like dancing to a bumping, beautiful set as the sun rises over the Spree. But it does the trick for now. It’s a reason to get out of the apartment and into the foggy, deserted spaces between the tower blocks. It gives me hope. I’m surprised each time at my body’s capacity to outdo itself and feel joy. Over the past couple years, training has been an essential aspect of my life, more consistent than nearly all else – especially now, as we get into the bleak pandemic winter.
But, to be clear, this letter is not about consistency or willpower or anything of the sort. It’s about quitting.
I didn’t find myself pumping iron along with the brodudes at the gym thanks to willpower and consistency. In case we haven’t met in person – I’m a small kid who likes libraries, The Arcade Fire, and The Smiths… a socially awkward nerd and, generally, the last person you’d imagine doing deadlifts. This strange turn of events came about because I quit something first. As you know from the previous letter, I left a PhD program in New York City. Along with that, I tried to quit whatever else I was pushing myself to do that was not good for me and was nearly getting me sick.
Back then, I was trying to jog as my knee hurt more and more. The knee became a metaphor – metonymy? – for how I was keeping on even though I was not well. In New York, I started looking for help. I went to doctors and a physical therapist. I learned that, in addition to pushing yourself to go further, you gotta build up your strength. This is what led to my man Valentin, the trainer, and to doing pushups and pull ups between the tower blocks here in the Mladost district. I started exercising in a way that is balanced and good for me. Leaving aside what wasn’t working, looking for help, trying something new – all good things.
Quitting has often been excellent for me. I recommend it. When I think about it, my happiest times so far have been when I up and left something that seemed great, prestigious, or secure – when I went out looking for something new to happen to me. And, boy, did it happen. I found some cool shit. Like clubbing. And deadlifts. Falling in love, even. Whenever I’ve gotten stuck, once I had the courage to quit, the world opened up and let me avail myself of its wonders. My two stints in Berlin – where I went simply because of having little to lose – taught me more about who I was, who I could be, and how I wanted to live than going to three universities and getting four fucking degrees. The scariness and the thrill of having nothing, and of everything being possible – those have been the best of times. “In the days when you were hopeless and poor…” Yeah.
Even just the thought of quitting something has been empowering. Recently, as things at work haven’t been going so well, I’ve been thinking: I’m free to quit. This made it seem possible to change things for the better. To demand that things be better. A month ago, a colleague and I started a petition asking that all employees be allowed to work from home as Covid was surging. We got half of all workers to sign up, and our request was honored – a lovely instance of putting in practice what I learned at Columbia University, namely, that organizing works. That’s the power of quitting. Even if you don’t go through with it, it reminds you you have a choice. It reminds you that you can consent to something, then withdraw your consent. And, of course, continuous enthusiastic consent is important!
I was raised to work hard and “not be a quitter,” and I’ve tried real hard to do that – for example, by completing four fucking university degrees. But I’ve ended up quitting a number of things in my life. Like meat. Or my parents. These have been formative experiences. While it has been trying to do something ad odds with cultural norms, it has helped me feel more assured, more myself. It’s been a way to establish boundaries. Quitting has allowed me to restore my sense of self amid dysfunctional relationships and to grow.
So why the hell, then, am I still so afraid of quitting?
For a little over a year since leaving the Columbia PhD program, I’ve been keeping down an okay job as a professional writer in a marketing department. On the upside, I’ve been earning a living by typing out words, which is what I like best. On the downside… typing out words you don’t personally care about so much is still a bit like academia (only, in this case, with a contract, set working hours, weekends, and general labor rights). The job is really not bad. But now the reality of doing the same thing day in and day out, year after year, is dawning on me. “I was looking for a job and then I found a job, and…” you know.
I’m selling my time and creativity for someone else’s profit, and when that’s not clouded in the lofty aspirations of academia – the human spirit and all that – you see it more starkly for what it is. I was eager to have a “real” job. Now that I’ve had that privilege… the idea of quitting is once again popping up. I’m falling into the same pattern – I’ve worked hard to get to a certain position and privilege, to feel assured that I could have it, so I would then feel entitled to consider what I want. What I really, really want.
What I want is to be a real writer. That’s my crazy dream. Maybe I’ve always wanted it. Along with complex workouts (and dancing), it’s what makes me content, fully myself. Finding patterns in words, matching them to my experiences, and using that to connect with someone – it’s beautiful to me. I wish I could use my time to hone that craft. To read more, to explore my feelings and to be an artist – there, I said it. I could quit my job, give myself a few months, and give in to desire. I could create for the joy of it, and in order to get to know myself and others better. First world problems, right? Or not… Who deserves to dream? Why not me? Why not anyone? Why is being an artist out of reach for many, if not most people?
These kinds of thoughts have often stopped me from quitting – that I don’t deserve better, that I’m not special, that I should be so grateful for the privilege I already have.
So, this is where I’m at – unsure if I’m on a path to greater empowerment, or to completely screwing myself. Am I a brave nonconformist? Or a quitter who goes in circles, unable to commit and build something up… I don’t know.
I’m thinking of Sabina, the character from The Unbearable Lightness of Being, who, obsessed with her autonomy, is serially quitting relationships. She keeps escaping from one thing or another, reinventing herself in yet another elsewhere. I’m afraid of being like that. Sabina has freedom, sure. But little else. Is that how I end up? Is that crazy?
But also, come on… What’s crazy anymore in a plague year? Historically, epidemics have reshuffled the social order. The Bubonic plague led, for some of those who survived, to emancipation from feudal norms. This plague has strengthened movements for racial and climate justice.
So, in some small way… what if I go with what I want, rather than sticking with what’s reasonable? Much crazier idealists have come out of the woodwork in unstable times like these. The 1920s in Berlin… The 1960s in the US… Imagine… Why not? I’ll think about it some more while the trainer encourages me to concentrate and try one more pull up.
I don’t know yet what will happen to the artist dream. But mark my words… if we see a bit of relief next summer and I’m lucky enough to get a vaccine, you’ll find me dancing it out at a club somewhere. If we don’t go with what gives us joy and brings us closer, then what? If we don’t dream of something better now, then when? What’s your crazy dream? How about we make it happen?
Love always,
xo Ani
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