Pan

Pan, she said. Pan, indeed.

Whenever possible, take those classes whose titles make you uncomfortable. Last semester it was Breaking Down Common Sense; this semester it is The Sociology of Violence. I have been waiting for the lecture that would make me squirm and it came today in the discussion of trauma born of abuse. As my professor lectured, I reached an epiphany: my need for control, my lack of Pan, is a direct response to the trauma I endured.

It makes sense, clinically. Power was taken from me, my agency seized, by the very person who was supposed to protect it most fiercely. Thus, I over-compensate. 

Ironically and wonderfully I received some fantastic advice only a few weeks ago: "Invoke the god, Pan;" Pan, the god of mirth, mischief, panic, and, most of all, fun. In all of my control, I was missing out on the fun and frustratingly, not achieving much either. With Pan in mind, I've been having fun like I've never allowed myself to before, choosing my emotional well-being over my academic responsibility. I'm fucking tired of being responsible. It's time to let loose.

Tonight, with two rather large assignments sitting on my desk and begging to be attended, I walked out my door wearing witch boots and dreadlocks to play with energy, stare at auras, and grow my horns.

Pan, eat your heart out.