I have no idea what I’m doing here. Never blogged before. Not sure I know how. Not sure why, except that my friend is doing it and peer pressure doesn’t stop when you’re a teenager. And I am definitely not a teenager. I’m 47, and I just quit my job as a middle school counselor and I’ve started a PhD program that is supposed to take 3 years, hence the title of this blog: I should finish the PhD when I’m 50. I’m not sure why I started this program, but I am sure why I quit the job. I’ll be sure to vent about that sometime. Right now, I just want to put this out into the ether and see what happens.
I suppose I should give some background on myself. At least I think that’s what blogs do. The only blog I’ve ever read is the aforementioned blog of my friend.
So here is me:
I grew up as “that kid” the one other kids didn’t play with. I still really don’t know what it is about me that set me apart from my peers, and I may never figure it out, but I was a lonely kid whose best [and most of the time only] friends were the characters in my books.
Mom suffered from un-diagnosed depression, and she was going through menopause while I was going through puberty, so that was fun. And because I’m the baby, my brother and sister had deserted me by this time, by going off to start their own lives. [How dare they!] Mom and I got along and finally made peace when I became a mother and had my own depression diagnosed and I realized that she really had done the best that she could. I’m glad we made up, because she died in 2008, and it really would have sucked to have lost her without ever really having gotten to know the best side of her.
I have always been my daddy’s little girl. I practically worship him. He’s 79 and still a professor part time. He’s always encouraged me in educational pursuits. He told me when I was about 13 that I needed to go to college so that I would be able to support myself and not ever be stuck in a loveless marriage because I needed a man’s support. Isn’t that great advice? So I went to college, and went again for a masters, and now here I am going to college again. Dad’s got those three little letters behind his name, and I guess I’ve always wanted that, too.
I have been married for 25 years to a man who loves me way more than I love him. Which is not to say that I don’t love him. I do, very much. And I always have. But he is a person who has a greater capacity for love than I do. It just sort of oozes out of him all the time. He loves me; he loves our two sons. He loves little children and animals. I love sparingly. I give love to others when I have it to spare. See, my cup is dry a lot of the time. And I tend to be selfish with my emotions. That is something that I need to work on, I suppose. But this man is amazing. He has put up with my selfishness, my depression, my anxiety, my days, and weeks, and months where I wanted nothing but to live in a hole in the ground, or maybe not live at all. I think that I’m probably only alive today because of this man. This amazing husband who told me 25 years ago that if I killed myself he would spit on my grave. I couldn’t bear to hurt him that way.
Our silver anniversary is next week. He’s gotten my gift, and he wants nothing in return. I’ve asked and asked. He says, “All I need is for you to be happy.” So I refill my Prozac and my Xanax and my Adderall. And I keep the appointments with my psychiatrist. And I do my best to give him the gift of my happiness.
Our two sons are both great people. Son1 is about to finish his bachelor’s degree in December, which he was scheduled to finish in May. He’s a low-key kind of guy, mellow and easy to be around. He is engaged to a wonderful young woman who has just started her masters. Son2 is a junior in high school and doing pretty good. He loves being in the band and debate, but he doesn’t practice either. He is exuberant and has a sense of humor that I simply do not understand. They came from me and my husband, raised in the same home. But they are oh-so-different from each other. And they don’t really like each other very much. When they argue, I always feel there should have been something I could have done to help them be closer.
So, back to the PhD thing: I am taking 3 classes, which is a full load, and I have a position as a graduate research assistant. It is a lot of work. Way more than I ever expected. And more difficult than I thought it would be. Right now I should be reading. It’s about the middle of my first semester. I’m several chapters behind in my reading for statistics class. And methods class. I have 2 homework assignments due this week, which I haven’t even started yet. And I’m starting a blog instead. So what does that tell us? I love the coursework. The content is fascinating. The prospects for what I can do when I complete the degree are infinitely intriguing. But I got tired [exhausted really from the long hours required]. And I needed to take some time to rest. So I’m behind again. Which is sort of where I’ve lived all my life. I get off on the rush of finishing a thing at the last minute. But that really doesn’t work anymore.
See, I’m 47 now. I can’t pull all-nighters the way I did as an under-grad. It just isn’t physically possible. I have to stop and take my son to band practice. I have responsibilities. And I have Netflix. So this time around, college is going to have to be different. I am going to have to be different this time around, or this isn’t going to work. But no matter where I go, there I am. Time now to wake up the family. We have things that have to be done today. Things that have nothing to do with the homework I’m supposed to be doing. I’ve successfully farted around until there is no time left to do what I should have done when I sat down to the computer.
But I am determined to make this work. I have people who love me. People I love. And I want this. I really want this.
How I Haven't Killed Myself 