Hello blank page of my dissertation, it would seem we meet again... is it your turn or mine to buy the coffee? I’m feeling more than a little anxious and preoccupied today, so you’d better make mine a camomile tea – no sugar or anything no. Yuck, why would you suggest such a thing? Yes I know the handful of mars bar celebrations I’ve just scoffed won’t help my anxiety... I know I should avoid caffeine and sugar, that’s why I asked for camomile ... of for crying out loud just get me a camomile tea.
What have I to preoccupy me? Oh the usual – my awful written and still not finished dissertation, my turbulent see-sawing emotions, my lack of libido, the future, my past, my present... if you think of something that I’ve missed feel free to add it to the list.
Here is a question for you – how many of you are doing what you thought you would be doing for a job? How many of you are in your dream job, or are working towards achieving it? How many of you even know what that might be?
My hand can stay firmly at my side for that one. The ironic thing is at no point when I was playing with my cabbage patch dolls in my garden, make believing about being grown up, was getting to thirty-two, screwing up a Masters degree, struggling with my relationships and compromising my sanity a part of that game. Yes, it is true that in playing with my dolls I was doing just that – playing with them – and not envisioning my life as wife and mother. Thank god I am not the second, no offence to those with children, it’s just that if you knew me you would know why me as a mother is an unnatural thought (I haven’t yet grown out of arguing over the red crayon when colouring in... I’ll leave you with that thought) I was never the little girl that had her children’s names picked out, knew they type of wedding dress she was going to wear, and how her day was going to go. I couldn’t even decide out of the two boys I fancied which one I was going to pretend was my husband and which one was going to be my boyfriend – my lover. How thoroughly modern of me. The frustrating and more than a little soul destroying thing is I while I didn’t envision the 2.4 children, 2 cars and nice house future for myself, I always assumed that by my age I would be settled, for want of a better phrase and I am pretty sure that there is one. By settled I mean in a career in which I was enjoying and making a reasonable about of money to keep me in the stupid little things I obsess about for about a month only to change it to something else just as useful the next (as an after note such obsessions have included shoes, boots, duvet sets, nail varnishes, books – which I still have and will never get rid of – brown items of clothing, jeans, perfume, handbags, you get the picture) And the simple fact is I am so clearly not settled. Not even a little bit. I still have no idea what I want to be when I grow up, trusting that I do grow up that is.
My significant other, my husband, is the exact reverse; he has always known what he wanted to do as a career and is happily in it. Bully for him, I suppose he’ll want another medal for that achievement. He is just as alien to me as I am to him. I can’t for one moment believe that he has never ever thought of jumping ship (well jumping helicopter I suppose since he’s aircrew in the army) and of being something else. I of course have changed jobs loads of times, what can I say I’m not fickle I just have a short attention span and need to be challenged in a role. The point is I feel more than a little like when Mother Nature was giving out careers or ideas for careers I decided to stay at the Lego table and thought I’d make it up by queuing up twice for sarcasm instead. I feel a great deal like a disappointment, like people are looking at me with wonder and asking themselves what I’m going to do next. Call me paranoid if you want but I really am beginning to think some of them have brought sandwiches along and a comfy blanket so that they get dinner and a show when watching me for my next move. That’s hardly fair so you’ll forgive me my pained and disappointed expression.
The depressing and stressful thing is I know time is ticking, that’s not my biological clock by the way because I insist there are no eggs in my basket – I won’t say never, because I’m more than a little afraid of tempting fate, I did say that about getting married and we can all see how that worked out for me. I want to be in my dream job, I want to happy to get up in the morning and saunter off to wherever that might be and I want to be doing that NOW. I want to have to look in my diary to see if I’m free when people invite me places rather than just being able to say off the top of my head without consulting a single thing (not even the tumble weed in the corner) ‘the 15th? Yeah sure that works for me’ It’s not much to want you’ll agree and I’d even give up all the little obsessive things – not the books that’s a deal breaker - I like to purchase if it meant having my dream job. Well, okay I’ll compromise, I’d settle for knowing what job would suit me and make me happy if it meant being on the way to it rather than holding out for my dream job.
What do I like doing? Lots of things really but creative things mostly. I like hand painting flower pots for my garden, I like making cards to send to people, I like baking – I basically like anything that involves making a bit of a mess. I like getting into heated discussions in which people challenge my opinions (constructively) and make me to justify them, usually about books I’m reading and my interpretation. I like entertaining people with stories of the stupid things I’ve said and done. I like writing, although I’ve been told my style or voice is an acquired taste (I wouldn’t want to be anything different because that means I’m unique, special) What I’ve learnt through attempting to complete my Masters though is that just because you enjoy something doesn’t mean you are any good at it, or that it will be easy – surprise! – and I’ve learnt that I’m no good at academia. Well, that is to say that it is a monumental struggle for me to articulate myself in an acceptable academic fashion. Communicating orally isn’t a problem for me – a nice person once told me I talk in pictures which I decided was a compliment, feel free to agree with me here – I’m blunt and to the point but articulate my opinion in way that doesn’t fail to be understood. When it comes to writing though it’s a different story, a horrible, plodding, dark tale of struggle and obstacles to be overcome and hardship and failure. Oh alright that might be on the melodramatic side, but it really isn’t that far from the truth, really. There is no hiding from the fact I am not in any way, shape or form, good at it.
So, academia is off the table for me, there really is only so much humiliation I can put myself through when handing in essays etc that my fragile pride can take. Once again I find myself back on the path of self discovery, searching for a career and something that I might be good enough at to make me happy and earn me some money. Any ideas? I’m open to suggestion.
Tuesday, 27 October 2009
Monday, 19 October 2009
Trash Time
I’ve been in a dark place for quite a while now, struggling to come to terms with a number of personal issues – in fact if I had to pick one word to sum up the last 18 months of my life that didn’t involve profaning it would be just that STRUGGLING – and I haven’t for a long time laughed from the heart. I’m ashamed to admit I’ve done a great deal of hiding within myself and only pretending to be present with others, laughing, nodding, uttering the seemingly right responses in the right place, but I haven’t really been present. It’s all been an act. I hadn’t realised what a consummate actress I was.
Last Friday I was in a relatively good mood; I could in my mind see light at the end of the tunnel with my dissertation. I had spent all of the week working incredibly hard on writing my last chapter on Henry James to my dissertation. I had gone to bed in the wee hours getting up again before it was light to continue working on it. Finally when I thought I had said all I could say I sent it to my supervisor already turning my attention to editing the previous chapters. You see the idea was to refresh myself of the key points of the arguments in them to help me structure my conclusion and drew them together. I was feeling a great deal lighter, eagerly looking forward to and anticipating handing it in today, if not tomorrow... I guess the horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach I experienced upon seeing my supervisor’s name in my inbox should have forewarned me. Hum jury is still out on that one.
He didn’t directly say it was a pile of crap but I read in between the lines and the tone... and well... I spent the rest of the afternoon sobbing my heart out. I was totally crushed. It wasn’t what he said – to be honest I agree perfectly and without a doubt with what he did say – it was that my goal post had been moved. I felt like a complete failure. I wanted to throw the towel in and just give in; I took it as yet another sign that quite clearly I don’t possess the intelligence for a Masters. I was totally and utterly distraught, turning over and over in my mind all the hours I had put in and how hard I’d worked to articulate my ideas – badly it would seem if it needed (and still does need) to be re-written. I felt like yet again the rug had been pulled out from underneath me and I had landed unceremoniously on my backside. I kept asking myself why I was bothering to do the academic equivalent of banging my head up against the brick wall. Oh yeah that will be my stubbornness rearing it’s oh so attractive head again (well it would be attractive if it had kept ramming itself against a wall wouldn’t it?) I felt humiliated to think of what my supervisor must have been thinking reading what I had sent him, imagining him to be asking the heavens what he had done in his life time to deserve drawing the short straw of having to supervise me.
I did what any emotional woman does – reached for the phone and called a friend. I’m not sure she managed to understand the first 10 or so minutes of our conversation through me sobbing incoherently down the phone at her. I had full crying dramatics going on; the snotty nose, the high pitched wailing, the starting in the middle rather than explaining from the beginning, you name it I had it. She was fantastic, calmed me down, reasoned with me and talked me into still going to visit like we had planned.
Friday night turned into the craziest night I’ve had in 5 years. I haven’t had that much fun, let off that much steam or been as light hearted and free from my dark place in...Well, let it suffice to say in too long. And strangely enough I can remember it all without cringing. Just thinking about it now still makes me smile and my friend, my best friend did that for me. She picked me off the ground, let me cry on her shoulder, hugged me until my sobbing and wailing had subsided to muffled and dripping snuffling, helped me fix my make up and took me out for the evening. When I say she took me out for the evening I don’t just mean to drink and dance – she took me out of me for the evening – for those 9 hours she helped me be another person.
Friends who will do that for you without thought to what is going on in their lives, physically or emotionally, don’t come along too often. I have to admit I have some weird commitment issues so I tend to be a bit of a drifter – you never know how long I’m going to be around or if I’m going to be back any time soon – at least I used to be like that until I met this friend. She has picked me up and dusted me off more times in the last couple of years than I can say, and for that I’m grateful because without her I seriously doubt I would have been able to retain my stubborn streak and carried on.
I guess what I’m trying to say – I feel like my way of articulating myself of late is the equivalent of a caveman clubbing people over the head, yes that unsophisticated – is friends without a doubt or a moment’s hesitation the most undervalued precious item you can ever hope to possess. My friend, my best friend is one of these precious items and I only hope I can be as good to her as she has been to me. My last thing to say is simply thank you from the bottom of my heart for always being there for me – you know who you are – thank you again.
Last Friday I was in a relatively good mood; I could in my mind see light at the end of the tunnel with my dissertation. I had spent all of the week working incredibly hard on writing my last chapter on Henry James to my dissertation. I had gone to bed in the wee hours getting up again before it was light to continue working on it. Finally when I thought I had said all I could say I sent it to my supervisor already turning my attention to editing the previous chapters. You see the idea was to refresh myself of the key points of the arguments in them to help me structure my conclusion and drew them together. I was feeling a great deal lighter, eagerly looking forward to and anticipating handing it in today, if not tomorrow... I guess the horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach I experienced upon seeing my supervisor’s name in my inbox should have forewarned me. Hum jury is still out on that one.
He didn’t directly say it was a pile of crap but I read in between the lines and the tone... and well... I spent the rest of the afternoon sobbing my heart out. I was totally crushed. It wasn’t what he said – to be honest I agree perfectly and without a doubt with what he did say – it was that my goal post had been moved. I felt like a complete failure. I wanted to throw the towel in and just give in; I took it as yet another sign that quite clearly I don’t possess the intelligence for a Masters. I was totally and utterly distraught, turning over and over in my mind all the hours I had put in and how hard I’d worked to articulate my ideas – badly it would seem if it needed (and still does need) to be re-written. I felt like yet again the rug had been pulled out from underneath me and I had landed unceremoniously on my backside. I kept asking myself why I was bothering to do the academic equivalent of banging my head up against the brick wall. Oh yeah that will be my stubbornness rearing it’s oh so attractive head again (well it would be attractive if it had kept ramming itself against a wall wouldn’t it?) I felt humiliated to think of what my supervisor must have been thinking reading what I had sent him, imagining him to be asking the heavens what he had done in his life time to deserve drawing the short straw of having to supervise me.
I did what any emotional woman does – reached for the phone and called a friend. I’m not sure she managed to understand the first 10 or so minutes of our conversation through me sobbing incoherently down the phone at her. I had full crying dramatics going on; the snotty nose, the high pitched wailing, the starting in the middle rather than explaining from the beginning, you name it I had it. She was fantastic, calmed me down, reasoned with me and talked me into still going to visit like we had planned.
Friday night turned into the craziest night I’ve had in 5 years. I haven’t had that much fun, let off that much steam or been as light hearted and free from my dark place in...Well, let it suffice to say in too long. And strangely enough I can remember it all without cringing. Just thinking about it now still makes me smile and my friend, my best friend did that for me. She picked me off the ground, let me cry on her shoulder, hugged me until my sobbing and wailing had subsided to muffled and dripping snuffling, helped me fix my make up and took me out for the evening. When I say she took me out for the evening I don’t just mean to drink and dance – she took me out of me for the evening – for those 9 hours she helped me be another person.
Friends who will do that for you without thought to what is going on in their lives, physically or emotionally, don’t come along too often. I have to admit I have some weird commitment issues so I tend to be a bit of a drifter – you never know how long I’m going to be around or if I’m going to be back any time soon – at least I used to be like that until I met this friend. She has picked me up and dusted me off more times in the last couple of years than I can say, and for that I’m grateful because without her I seriously doubt I would have been able to retain my stubborn streak and carried on.
I guess what I’m trying to say – I feel like my way of articulating myself of late is the equivalent of a caveman clubbing people over the head, yes that unsophisticated – is friends without a doubt or a moment’s hesitation the most undervalued precious item you can ever hope to possess. My friend, my best friend is one of these precious items and I only hope I can be as good to her as she has been to me. My last thing to say is simply thank you from the bottom of my heart for always being there for me – you know who you are – thank you again.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)