On Paralysis

And moving through shame

“You could still submit the paper, you know,” my professor said. He sat behind a wide oak desk, the large window overlooking the beech trees on our Bronxville campus at his back. “I could revert the incomplete.” His bright blue eyes were soft, kinder than I thought I deserved.

His offer hung in the air.   

I swatted my hand. “It’s not necessary,” I said, and looked down at my lap, trying to seem casual. “It’s been so long, I really should have written you.” 

Truth was, I was embarrassed. It had been almost a year since I’d flunked his class and every other course I’d taken that fall. Like every seminar at Sarah Lawrence, a core requirement had been to submit a major conference paper, usually 15-20 pages, at the close of the course. A semester-long capstone, so to speak. 

At first, I was excited about the project. The course was on the early emergence of Christianity, and I’d planned a fantastically ambitious research paper on the Egyptian Coptic Church (in what some academics lovingly refer to as “me-search”). I’d put in the work throughout the semester: submitting shorter papers, traveling to Jersey City, where one of the largest communities of Egyptian Copts reside, attending sermons in old, wood-smelling cathedrals where the ancient hymns were sung in Coptic, Arabic, and English. I’d interviewed Coptic Priests and amassed dozens of pages of notes. When the time came to write, I spread the pages across my twin bed, determined to turn them into a cohesive paper.

And then I froze. 

I sat at my computer for days, spinning literal and figurative circles in my desk chair, trying to cram-write through my panic. I wrote and rewrote my introduction. My ideas swirled in panicked, concentric circles, overloaded and unsure of my central thesis, if I even had one. As soon as I sat down to write, my brain cracked in half, and words stopped making sense.

As the deadline loomed, I got progressively more anxious, and then depressed. I distracted myself, running mile after mile in the campus basement gym. Then I rebelled. On weekends I planned to write, I rode the train into the city, met men at karaoke bars off of St. Marks, and went on dates. I smoked pot in the attic of a stereo salesman’s dad’s house, hoping to quiet the anxious gnawing at my belly. But I only got sadder. The deadline to submit my project came and went, and I didn’t say a word to my professor. I left campus for the summer and stopped checking my school email. Whenever I thought about cracking open my notes or reaching out to him, I froze.

After that summer, I took a medical leave of absence to focus on my mental health, and when I eventually returned to campus in the Spring, I avoided the pathway surrounding his building like it was hot lava.

Every time I neared it, my chest twisted.  

And then one afternoon, I bumped into him at the campus cafe. That’s when he invited me to his office and proposed the extension. 

I was too humiliated to accept his kindness. What’s more, I was convinced there was no way I’d ever be able to finish that paper—or finish any of my writing projects. I left his office that day filled with shame, kicking myself for not taking up his offer, but sure I was so far behind, I wouldn’t even know where to begin. 

Shame is a liar and warped storyteller. I had so many stories then: I was lazy, undisciplined—a bad student. I couldn’t write. It hadn’t occurred then that there might be a simple, practical solution. Eventually, I dropped out of school believing they were all true.

Ten years later, I sat across the table from a different professor. This time, no storybook trees, just a laminate desk and a 4th-floor window overlooking the dumpsters on 69th Street.

“Of course you could go back to school,” she said. “You’d be a great student.” 

And, to my shock (probably hers), I broke down sobbing. 

You see, I’d signed up for two classes at Hunter that summer, both in creative writing. By then I was four years sober, and just beginning to believe that I was capable of showing up for myself. And because there are no coincidences, the second week of class, I discovered that both of my professors were also sober. And so I asked for their help.

The paralysis hadn’t disappeared—not completely. All that summer, and when I eventually enrolled at The New School, the old stories came back; the voices telling me what I couldn’t do, clouding my ability to focus. With every damn paper. Even as I went on to work as an editor. Even as I published my stories at Narratively and The Times. 

Me in 2017, back in class for the first time in 10 years

This time, there was one major difference: I told people I was afraid, and then I sought out help.

I made appointments at the writing center. I emailed my professor. I spoke up, and spoke loud enough to drown out the sound of my sweet, little neurotic 18-year-old’s panic. Over the course of three years, I must have visited the campus writing center 20 times. And eventually, the story started to change.

Two weeks ago, while I was in Texas visiting family, I sat down to work on my latest story for this newsletter, and once again, I froze. Like I did when I was 18, I did everything but write, and then I careened into a shame spiral. And now, as I get ready to teach my first College Writing course, those old stories have resurfaced with a vengeance. 

The difference is, I now know how to move through that paralysis. To be gentle with it, but also, be rational, and practical. That avoidance only compounds the issue, and if I wait until I feel ready, I will never begin. Yesterday, I put my phone in airplane mode and set a ten-minute timer. That put one crack in the story. I emailed a friend for guidance on building my lesson plan—another crack. Today, I blocked out my morning to write this. Because I know if I wait until I feel motivated, or until the fear subsides, I will never begin.

Next week, I kick off the last year of my graduate program, while also teaching and working full-time. I’ve been worried about my ability to write my thesis and continue crafting narratives for you, here.

I’ve realized that by necessity, the bend and shape of these stories are going to shift. They’ll continue to be about transformation, recovery and growth, and all the times I’ve been proven wonderfully wrong—but they will be reflections on living through that experience, in real-time.

Maybe some of the stories I’m crafting for my thesis will make it here, or maybe they’ll make it to you a bit later. I’m not sure quite yet, but I’m excited to find out.

And I’m grateful to have written today, and put another little crack in the story.

I wonder—what is your version of that old story? And if you gave yourself just ten minutes to disprove it, right now, what might that be?

With care,
Aly