Judith in Transit

Playing Hardball

A while ago in nice conversations on Sytske and Jan's couch, I was diagnosed an INFP. And suddenly all became clear: It is quite normal that I hate conflicts, prefer one-on-one conversations and avoid parties. It is all in my personality. My personality does not like harsh voices nor slamming doors. It likes cosy daydreaming while drinking hot cocoa.

Still even sweet benevolent personalities like mine need to earn a living. With my PhD contract ending soon, and my dissertation dangling somewhere in the void, I had to shatter my dreams of doing a three month yoga course at Yasodhara ashram in Canada, and play the grown-up. Fortunately I am quite tall already, so I quickly found a new job as a teacher at my psychology department. Though I love to teach, and I love staying in Groningen, there was only one problem: negotiating my wages.

Different people gave me all sorts of advice:
'They will try to rip you off, be ware!'
'If they want you that bad, make them pay...'
'Set a shamelessly high goal yourself, you deserve more.'
'If their offer sucks, just get up and leave.'
'They will act as if there is no space to negotiate, they lie.'

My head filled with muscletalk, but my muscles filled with jelly, I went to the appointment. I remained friendly and calm, inspired yet firm. I simply explained why I was worth more than they offered. I did not yell, I did not cry, I did not flinch. Because I was worth it.

Today I learned I am worth it. The university will pay me what I aimed for. It turns out even soft-hearted INFPs can negotiate. No need to bitch up my personality.

I like that.
I like being me.

Happy chunks

It wasn't the confession over uncooked beans,
The wonderful parcel on my doorstep,
The phone conversations with friends.
The tea with my sister,
The beach with the dog,
The parc in the sun.
It was all of these in the past in the now.
Walking to the supermarket today,
I had a smile on my face and a breeze in my mind.
And I knew: All is well.
All
Is
Well.

The End of Me

Oh my, I think I am cursed. Today at least I am under a spell. The day starts normally: waking up, checking the alarmclock, seeing the stack of books next to my bed. One book especially grabs my attention. I decide to read one more chapter, as I still have plenty of time before work.

I read and read, one chapter, two chapter, three chapters...
- I can start later, I will work longer -
...Words, letters, paragraphs...
- I am ill, I need to stay in bed, I will work over the weekend -
...Plots, subplots, twists...
- I might develop a fever, I have a fever-
...I must read, must read, must read, read, read...

So I stay in bed the whole day, only getting up to get a bowl of cereal and later a bag of raisins. Lying in bed, at four in the afternoon I fall asleep again. It is hard to seperate dream from reality. When the phone rings I expect the main character to be calling.

At six I finish the book, and instantly regret it. I am so bad at postponing gratification. I just have to eat the whole chocolate bar at once instead of just one square at a time.

So I envy you.
You can still read this cursed book square by square.
But it will have you aching for more.

See you in the Troposphere.

Autumn Sugar Acorns

When I walk out of the psychology building, it hits me.
That smell.
The smell of childhood fantasy sugarcoated candy.
I inhale deeply, only to realise my mistake:
Too much candy causes nausea.
Sugarfactory sickness.
On my way to the library there are more signs.
While my rainpuddledrenched skirtbottom bruches cold against my bare legs,
acorns crash under my tires
and I smell wooden fires.
Autumn!
And I have the best way to celebrate:
The end of Mr. Y (Scarlett Thomas)
No better book than a cursed book.

It is happening again

It starts with some little jitters. Less sleep, brainwaves in the middle of the night, little bursts of energy. Not annoying, but something to keep in mind. Still, while at it, ride the wave when it is high, write your dissertation on it. I reach my peak after a talk to Diederik. Shouldn’t you write a book? he suggests. A book? Nah, I don’t think so. Let’s focus on this dissertation first. But back in Groningen, in my bed, my wheels start turning. A book? A book! What a splendid idea! A book on emotion regulation! With topics concerning writing! thought regulation! how versus why! facial expressions! rumination! exercise! personality differences! meditation! on and on and on and on. Who could finance me? Who wouldn’t finance a book the field has been waiting for?

I try. I really try to stop my mind. But it is hard. It moves on and on. I decide to write my thoughts down. Slow down, slow down. I start writing: “Maybe I am a bit (hypo)manic now. Do I want it to stop?” After a long writing session, I fall asleep. A bit guilty I look at my notebook the morning after. The waters are calm now. But experience tells me that what goes up, usually comes crashing down. Like, at a wedding party.

Parties aren’t really my thing. Especially parties with a lot of strangers. So though I have spent a lot of time making Barteld and Stefanie a special “Magic the Wedding” game, I am quite reluctant to go. Arriving, the party is in full swing. Fortunately, Wouter and Lotte are there as well, and I even speak to some other people. After a while the crowd gets to me and I flee outside, catching my breath overlooking the lake. Crying. Again. Tears dried, I go back inside to grab my coat, but am persuaded to stay. Strange how you can cry one moment and dance like mad the next. It is a good party. But I feel my party face is painted on veneer.

Lotte is in a happy, slightly tipsy, my child is taken care off and we take a cab back home-mood. She points out cute guys and luscious bums, asking me about my preferences. I haven’t been paying that much attention. Quirky alone though I am, I wouldn’t mind some magic spark, someone to make it all okay. Live happily ever after, like Barteld and his radiant bride. But I know being with someone doesn’t make it better. Doesn’t make Me better. I know all this, but still feel weird, and jealous of other people’s happiness, the ease with which they seem to lead their lives.

Then it is time for the bridal bouquet. Lotte is all excited, and drags me to the other single women. “Judith will catch, Judith will catch!” She yells. I glue my hands against my legs. Lotte almost catches the bouquet in my name, but the second time it is caught by a ten year old girl. Some of the other singles moan: “Oh great, now I have to wait at least ten years to get married!” I feel so stupid and horrible. Why didn’t I just play along with the silly tradition?! I start crying again, and Lotte takes me outside. We talk and she is very sweet and I feel less stupid, but still something keeps on nagging me. Is it happening again?! Sobbing my way home, I remember what a friend said to me this week. Healing is three steps forward, two steps back. I know I should celebrate that one step, but somehow I am not in a party-mood.

Left-handed



My handwriting is a disaster. In elementary school I was always awarded a "good" or "very good" in each subject but handwriting, which earned me a mere "pass". My mother used to scold me for my sloppy handwriting, which is funny, for the older I get, the more my handwriting is turning into hers. Inspecting my handwriting, specialists would probably predict a short and miserable life. To prevent me from knowing the horrible truth, it might have been fate itself that removed the wonderful book that Margie and I once owned from our home. It was filled with interesting knowledge including the art of handwriting analysis. We still wonder what happened to that book. It went missing about 20 years ago.

At the start of the last three months of my dissertation, I find myself waking up at the strangest hours to scribble away in my notebook. My mornings are turning into puzzles. Why didn't I pay more attention when I was six?! I guess I have chosen the wrong career. While students give me quizzical looks when inspecting my comments in their margins, I would have made an excellent doctor. But maybe it is not too late yet. I can always become left-handed.

 

Inky Fuel

While I wasn’t updating my blog, I wasn’t just feeling sorry for myself. In fact I wrote a really nice article, which is currently on the brink of being rejected (just keeping my expectations low, so the reviews don’t shatter me). I came to the conclusion that writing a dissertation cannot coexist with writing a blog. Words in my dissertation leave fewer words for my blog and vice versa. But do they? Of course not… As long as I refuel, I will be fine. Words galore in library and bookstore! So let’s just list the latest quality brainfood I fed myself with:

The City of Dreaming Books – Walter Moers. When you like books and fantastic stories (and puzzles: the names of all writers are anagrams of real writers) then join your host Hildegunst von Mythenmetz on his quest into the beautiful but dangerous city of Buchheim. An epic tale.
People I know who have known my Mother – Arjen Lubach. I am afraid this book hasn’t been translated yet, but it should be. Arjen writes with wit and ease. Funny and sometimes sad. A debut to make you jealous.
The Kite Runner – Khaled Hosseini. Amazon kept on recommending this book to me. Now I know why: A beautiful, heart shattering tale of a boy and his friend, in Afghanistan. Not for the faint hearted!
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows – J.K. Rowling. Jaap once introduced me to the wonderful world of Hogwarts and muggles, and I have been a fan ever since. This final book is the best one of all, and once you have finished, you just have to start all over again.
Just in case – Meg Rosoff. Can you change your name to avoid destiny? Or do you need to invent a dog for that? A strange pleasure to read. Eagerly awaiting the next one.
The Memory Keeper’s Daughter – Kim Edwards. A doctor gives away his daughter, who has the syndrome of Down, while telling his wife the child died at birth. Atmospheric tale of secrets and love.
The Schopenhauer Cure – Irvin D. Yalom. Carina lent me this great book on a psychiatrist at the end of his life, who runs a weekly therapy group. Entertaining and engaging. Filled with details about Schopenhauer without getting annoying. Well done.

There is only one problem with reading. When I read, I cannot write… Maybe I should clone myself.