I’m praying to whatever god or genie or ghost that has full command of my sleep cycle, because I sure as hell don’t. I have memorized every infographic and article about sleep hygiene.
- Make sure to stop eating, exercising, and ruminating about exes on a very regimented timeline
- Avoid blue light like a reverse vampire after sunset
- Calibrate the room temperature with the accuracy of three thermometers and your big toe
- The use of guided meditation and reading is strictly prohibited because of the risk of subconsciously connecting those vital activities to falling asleep.
And I was convinced that I had this all down to a science. The blind obedience would appease the circadian rhythm. YET HERE I AM singing half portions of Hamlet’s soliloquy in flat warbles with a made up melody. A wonderful activity that would put me in the mildly concerning category to any sensible mental health professional.
I am beyond grateful that I live in a different room and a different apartment and a different city than a year ago. This was the first time that in the swirl of frustration and haunting isolation that I was able to think that life is still a gift. Running my hands over the folds in my bed sheets in the glow of a temperamental streetlight, was feeling that in the smallest speck of the universe I exist. Which even in the most careful words is not completely devoid of gibberish or poorly attempted profoundness.
I know waking up tomorrow will be it’s own nightmare and that fitting Gaussian distributions to polymer dynamics will most likely be even worse. I still have mountains of insecurities and psychological problems to solve. I don’t feel alone for once and it’s not because I regularly share the bed with a cat that refuses to share a quilt with me (although it helps a little). I wonder if there’s something that has grown within me that will finally stay through the pain.
I can only dream.
Trying to get an intuitive feel for Gibbs free energy is like trying to dream in another language. Sure I can mimic some sounds and I understand a few words but it’s a long stretch from literature. In mechanical engineering, there’s very little reason for anyone to understand the nuances between different types of free energy- hell there’s very little reason for a majority of people to even know what free energy is.
For many reasons I was not the best student in under grad, and I had the studying finesse of a toddler matching shapes. All I would do was memorize as many situations as possible hoping that I would have memorized what the teacher asked with relative success. It wasn’t because I lacked interest; I lacked time, money, and mental energy. So many alumni and professors would joke with the casualty of dulled war wounds that can’t be covered, “You don’t end up using any theory once you start your job anyway”. Reasonably, the herd mentality of futility was palpable in every classroom. My rudimentary learning style wasn’t frowned upon as long as I passed my classes.
I always had the mental energy for dancing though, maybe because there was the possibility of no thought, but I put a lot of time and effort learning how to dance. Learning tango wasn’t easy but the progression felt inevitable- realizations could reliably be born of nothing. I had to build the skill and strength- my thighs were always burning, my ankles felt like they were going to fracture if the wind shifted too quickly, and the blisters on my feet ruined so many pairs of socks and hose with so much blood and puss that I questioned if I finally had the mental fortitude to become a doctor. And in all the pain and practice there were still moments were it would all make sense. I would piece together how to change my center of gravity and what was initially forced muscle strain became a fluid control of momentum. And there are no words for it- I sound like some horrible combination of white person who thinks they’ve discovered Korean BBQ and a person who lost 30 pounds from cross fit. All attempts to recount these moments incremental universal alignment sound overly pretentious and emotional and not an ounce as eloquent as I would hope for it to be.
Yet here I am wanting to try to feel math and science. I want to understand thermodynamic equations like mixing paint to create passable masterpieces. And statements like that make me sound like my roommate has been force feeding me pot brownies for two months, instead of a semi-competent woman who got into one of the top PhD programs in the country. So much of it hurts right now trudging through calculus and chemistry for glimmers of comprehension. I think there is a shred of insanity required to endlessly hope for something like a PhD. So I will roll with the obvious craziness; I will eat, sleep, and breathe these dense papers and textbooks until I can speak them all in my sleep.