This & That

This past weekend, I attended my cousin Jessica's wedding in Charleston, S.C. The weekend coincided with an event I knew nothing about (and still know next to nothing about) called the South Eastern Wildlife Expo. It's a huge influx of tourism money into the Charleston area which makes the average room rate increase exponentially.

With that in mind, I reached out to family hoping to stay in their guest room but unfortunately, their guest room had already been claimed by other relatives. I ended up staying with my friends, Mark and Susanne at their home on James Island. I had visited their home one time before, in December of 2015, for a dinner to celebrate my 27th birthday. This was my first time spending more than a casual evening at their home. I was struck by a few things during my stay, most of which reflects upon the fact that I am 27 years old and still struggling to live a smooth, well-organized, fully functional adult life.

For one, Mark and Susanne have lived in their home for upwards of 15 years. These years and their effective habits have created a series of patterns and repetitions that rather than feeling trite or exhausted feels authentic, loving, and efficient. Despite being gainfully employed as well as married, I feel like I'm floundering throughout the day to day. A lack of organization lends itself to me rarely feeling like I'm spending my time wisely. Why is it that I am younger and with much more free time than the majority of my coworkers or even Mark and Susanne, yet I am unable to get as much done?

A day for my friends begins with an early yet welcome wake up for Mark. He leaves his spacious and comfortable bedroom, pushes a button on his top-of-the-line coffee maker and enjoys a fresh black coffee...or three. Next he goes upstairs to his personal office and sits down at his desk where he writes a journal entry. I never asked what the entries are about, what their purpose is, or even if they are hand written or typed. I felt so inspired by Mark saying that he journals daily.

A personal aside, when I was a preteen, I used to journal somewhat regularly. In occasional spare moments, I would look back on what I had written and was typically always embarrassed by the written words. How silly, self centered and unimportant were my day-to-day chronicles. And how focused on other people...typically parents or boys. I was rarely looking at myself or discussing my likes or my aspirations.

There is nothing like shame or embarrassment to stop me right in my tracks. Despite loving the reflective and creative process of writing, it is something that I have avoided doing, or I have done and then months down the road, decided to delete based upon the impression that it is ridiculous and potentially embarrassing...especially in the public forum. Rather than journaling about my life, I've opted to write reviews of movies, foods, experiences or even cosmetics. For years, I've continued to avoid writing about my life. By doing this, I feel its possible that I've neglected the process of deeply reflecting upon where I am in life, what I want and how I am evolving as a person.

A notable distinction I see in Mark's morning routine is its complete lack of consulting social media. I find this to be interesting because of the stark contrast with my own heavy consumption of Facebook, G-mail and Instagram. Facebook to see what silly headlines are being posted, or what person I lost touch with who is announcing their engagement or pregnancy. G-mail to see what entry-level luxury good is on 40% off sale. Instagram to simultaneously inspire and depress me with images of things I want to partake in while forcing me to notice the reality of me typically being in transit to work at the hospital.

Mark, an entrepreneur, is constantly producing rather than consuming. And there is no need to wonder about beautiful places. He lives in a beautiful place and can easily travel where he would like to go. I live in a place that is not ugly by any means, but also, fails to heavily interest me. I live where I live because of my job and the relative number of opportunities for work and success. If I were to look at the United States and pick a place to live, I doubt I would pick the "Triangle" of NC, despite it showing up on almost every list of best places to live if you're a working professional.

From around the time I was ten, I dreamed of living in Manhattan. I recall reading the Baby Sitter Club books by Ann M. Martin around this age. The stories are set in fictional Stonybrook, CT. One of the characters, Stacy, has divorced parents, one of which lives in Manhattan. She and her best friend visit and have an amazing time in the big city. This is one of the first times I recall considering Manhattan as a destination on my bucket list. New York is arguably the most ubiquitous cities in America. No matter where you live, if you regularly watch TV or read news, references and images of NYC are constant. It seemed that NYC was the buzz. It's the place to go if you want to make things happen and, as the song says, if you can make it in New York, you can make it anywhere, right? I consumed this notion wildly. NYC seemed to be constantly dangled in my face. A place that is referenced so frequently in my day to day life, yet I have never visited it and know very little about it.

I remember asking my Dad many times if it would be okay for us to plan a family trip to visit NYC. My dad vehemently spoke out against NYC condemning it as a horrible, filthy, unsafe and dangerous place that no one has any business visiting. I countered his description by bringing up a trip he and my mom had taken to NYC together in the early 1980's. Mom had kept the hotel toiletries from the Park Lane Hotel, where they stayed, and while snooping through her cosmetics, I had stumbled upon these small relics. I also recalled stories she told of attending parties in Manhattan with my father for his business trip which ended with, no joke, a snowy carriage ride through Central Park. I don't recall the specifics of what my Dad replied with other than him saying that although they had some fun, neither him nor my Mother had any interest in ever going back and that was that.

This NYC conversation would happen regularly over the course of my pre-teen to teen life at home. At 18 my parents moved to a new town and I stayed behind in my home town to attend college. After high school graduation, I never lived at home again. During my teen years, my goal was to move to NYC. I was drawn to it for the same reasons most people are. The culture, excitement, energy, and opportunity. I also craved new experiences, especially since I had lived in the same (in my opinion) boring and stagnant culture of Greensboro for most of my life. My father never encouraged this goal. He always presented the inherent challenges to it such as practical ones like affording the cost of rent or less practical ones like the inevitability of me being attacked or murdered. The pattern of my dad countering most of my hopes or even my pipe dreams is a huge theme in my life.

My junior year of high school, my dad, a graduate from The University of South Carolina, and a huge Gamecocks fan proposed a plan for my higher education. He encouraged me to apply to USC, despite it being an out of state school, thus posing the issue of out of state tuition. He said that Columbia was a place he would love to retire, and he could purchase a small condo or apartment down there that I could use while in school but would eventually become where him and my Mom would retire. This would also help us to establish in state residency for me. It seemed like a win-win for everyone involved. As the time came for me to apply to college, my dad's plan seemed to evaporate. Eventually, my end of the deal was complete with an offer from USC sitting on the kitchen table. My Dad looked at me with bitter incredulity as if the mere act of me asking for support regarding out of state tuition was outlandish. Of course he wasn't going to buy a condo for me. Who do I think I am? Some princess? Make other plans. As this plan fell apart, I felt the anxiety of needing to create back up plans that I had never considered. I had been raised to love USC and always thought my attending the school would shine favor on me in my father's eyes...possibly even allowing the possibility for us to be close. I would have never chosen to attend USC for any other reason than my father. And like he giveth, he also taketh away. As a scrambled to assemble other last-minute options for college, I panicked thinking, what if I can't find a plan and end up going no where? I began applying at art schools. Namely UNC Asheville (where my cousin Matt was planning on attending) and more competitively, the Rhode Island School of Design. I was rejected by UNCA (a letter my dad would read to me over the phone while I was working my hostess job at the local mom-and-pop version of PF Changs.) Expecting rejection from RISD, I applied to UNC Greensboro, located in my home town. It was my last resort. I received my UNCG acceptance letter within five days of applying. My RISD acceptance came roughly two weeks later. I presented the options to my dad. He sat me down and told me, art is a hobby. For people like you Elizabeth, you have to earn a living. You can't just take a shot at something because if you miss, you end up with nothing but debt. You will spend your life trying to climb out of it. I argued that I believed I could make it as an artist, even presented the options of pursuing art in Charleston SC or Asheville NC where the scene is smaller and less saturated, at least, at the time. My dad ultimately said he refused to support me financially if I chose to pursue art. This ultimatum was a huge barrier for me. For the past 18 years, my dad had conditioned me to be fearful. Fearful of taking risks, of accruing debt, of ever disrupting the status quo. He told the same anecdotes about his years suffering through poverty, almost dying from starvation while in college , and of the seven years it took him to pay his way through school. I was terrified of living a comparable existence and opted to abandon art. It wasn't easy to walk away from. It made me become a more cynical and colder person.

From the ages of 18 to 24 I floundered significantly. I earned a BS in Sports Medicine from UNCG. My parents cheered for me at my graduation. I sat waiting to cross the stage knowing that I lacked any real plan or idea of what I would do for myself. I ended up pursuing Microbiological research as an option for a short period of time before losing interest and wanting to be more involved with patient care. I worked a part time job as a home health aide and worked a full time hospital job as an Endoscopic Tech. I was part of my first patient death scenario. I remember it clearly to this day. Eventually, I ended up at UNC earning a BSN from their accelerated nursing program. I now work as a Bone Marrow Transplant Nurse at UNC. In terms of bed side nursing, its a great job. But was it my dream? No. It is something that allows me to independently support myself. It's something that gives my life meaning and makes me feel like my life is valuable because I am able to help others and make a difference. These feelings are great and fulfilling and I'm proud of myself for accomplishing them. But I'm hungry for something different, the things that I reluctantly walked away from almost ten years ago.

My mom and dad, although meaning well, have been major barriers for me in my life. I've made major life decisions based upon them pressuring me to do or not do certain things. I have forfeited my own happiness in the name of my parents who, to this day, continue to let me down and hurt me. This simple trip to Charleston, where I was able to see how one couple lives to support themselves and their passions inspired me to stop sitting around and moping about what might have been. No, I am not an artist. Yet. By producing something, be it a sketch, an essay, a blog post, a photograph--whatever, I am shifting myself away from the habits of mindless consumption, and reengaging with my passion for creating and creativity.

Yes, much of what I write might come off as poor quality, grammatically incorrect, or upon retrospect, embarrassingly out of focus, but I cannot become better at something if I never allow myself to do it. I need to write, if only just for my eyes and my knowledge that I'm releasing stress via the creation of honest and real sentiments  within sentences. I may write about whatever I want, personal or pop culture. But I need to let that voice in my head, the one conditioned to beat myself down by years worth of my father's tough love, be silenced. Enough already. I took my dad's advice and it wasn't enough to leave me full.  I'm tired of almost every choice in my life being one that has been made for me or with someone other than myself in the drivers seat. I want to take ownership of my life and make the most of the choices that have been made for me. But also, I wish to begin taking an active role in saying that yes, I will do this or no, I will not do that.

So I, Elizabeth Bullard, will begin creating again. For me.