by Sara Gilbert
when i left academia,
i was tired
overwhelmed
unnerved
floundering
falling
identity-less
i couldn’t enter a classroom
without having a panic attack
i couldn’t open a book
write a poem
or a story
or go to readings
or find inspiration in the world
every time i tried, all i felt was
overwhelming stress
my vision tunneled
my eyes stung with tears
flush filled my cheeks
my pulse raced
breaths shallow
limbs shaking
eyes darting
thoughts constant
one after another
after another
after another
after
another
who was i
if i wasn’t myself.
it wasn’t a question
but a statement
unnatural, unsettling
because i’d always been so sure
so confident in my role
but, if i wasn’t in a classroom?
if i didn’t know the answers
if i wasn’t playing my role
if i didn’t ask the questions
if i didn’t craft the sentences and stories
if i didn’t follow the rules
if i left it all behind
would it make me a failure?
a fraud, a fake
or did it make me brave?
a word i never used to describe myself
i’d called myself a lot of things
but never that
nevertheless i left
i left the stress
that tangled my mind
and wore me down
and made me someone
i didn’t recognize
not the student i used to be
or what i considered my identity
not the writer
or the scholar
or the poet
or the traveler
or the doctor
or the expert
remnants of this past self
still settle over me
sometimes when it
gets a little too quiet
or a little too still
my brain starts racing
sometimes i wonder if i should have stayed.
About the Author
Sara Gilbert recently earned her Ph.D. in Creative Writing and 19th Century Literature. After graduation, she chose to leave academia and pursue a career as part of a tech startup. She holds an MFA in long form fiction from American College Dublin in Ireland and an MA in literature from the University of Texas at San Antonio. Her writing has appeared in Fauxmoir, The Elevation Review, New Plains Review, The Santa Clara Review, and others.