I have been launching, recently, into fits of High , Staple-hand-to-Forehead, Sisters of Mercy Drama. I have tried my best to keep these in my own head because really, that shit ain’t pretty (and I do mean not pretty in that 4 am-the club lights just came up-and you can see the wannabe vampyre you’ve been eyeing all night. Ewwwwwww.)
The thing is, I have a strong tendency toward making things into huge catastrophes in my own mind. And the past week has had its’ share of actual stressful things, between finding about the death and the hard drive deciding that six years and six months (six minutes?) was exactly the amount of working it had in it, and the start of my classes wherein I was reminded that it has indeed been close to seventeen years since I unceremoniously failed my ass out of college.
Three things converged in the aforementioned happenings: I lost a whole ton of essays, I think, when the hard drive crashed. And I wasn’t nearly as upset as I probably should be, in part because I have paper copies but in part because what the hell, I haven’t looked at ’em since before the baby was born. The second was a realization that I don’t even know if I want to write anymore. I’m going back to school for two things I really enjoy and while they may involve writing I’m not sure I’ll ever do anything with another essay (or the short story I’ve half-heartedly been writing also in my head or heaven forbid I ever try to write the book that I don’t want to talk about and don’t know if I’ll ever have the balls to write.) Which brings us to three–while I don’t have to figure this stuff out right now, I do sort of wonder what it’s all about, Alfie.
I mean, ever since I can remember, I’ve written or wanted to write. But am I serious about writing? I don’t know. I have been serious about it. I do love it. But see, even with the blog here, I don’t feel like I’ve been writing anything. I mean, let’s be honest. I haven’t exactly been busting out much in the way of insightful or even much more than glorified to-do lists for some time now. Am I serious about it? And if so, why don’t I actually do it?
(You run for cover in the temple of love…………)
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The truth is I can’t write because I’m taking four freaking classes but don’t tell my brain that; it won’t listen. I vacillate between being totally confident I’m on top of shit and completely freaking out that I am taking about four classes too many. I lovelovelove my history class which is good since it’s one of my concentrations. I am enjoying the bio and lab because it involves one of my other favorite things, learning new words especially latin-based ones. My writing class is causing me some consternation,though, as I feel both over-qualified and under-prepared. This week is talking about voice in short stories, two of which I have read either recently or multiple times, and I am hella nervous since some of my classmates have already posted their responses and I am doing my work for the other three courses first since I need the most time for them. This is killing me because I want to be the overachiever and I’m just really not one. Hate the competitive sometimes. Most of the time, actually.
So yeah, there you have it. It feels like all writing is lost but this isn’t the first time I’ve gone through this. My history class will actually likely help me out with the short story I’m writing if it hasn’t been lost forever in the Great Hard Drive Debacle ’09. Also, I am suddenly and totally fascinated by the Crusades. I’m about to read Hemingway for the first time and sort of excited to do so. And plants are super-cool. I wish I had not decided so young that I hated science because I actually really like it.
No. You are not dramatic. You are in school full time, a mother full time to TWO, a maid, a wife, a shopper, a runner of the houser, the “supposed to have it all together” person who loves to be in control.
Now that you have more on your plate, maybe you should be taking a look at what you can put over “there” for a few months, and try and get things into priority.
I only had ONE kid during my last year of university, with the husband home full time taking care of the kid and I almost lost my mind. Me. The freaking perfectionist. I realized that something had to give.
I found that making/having lists helped a great deal. I literally had each day structured (read chapter __, work on outline for__ paper, spend 1 hour researching __ for ___ study for midterm ___ etc). I meal planned, Glen would grocery shop, do laundry and do some cleaning (hes the perfect fucking becky home ecky. He made BREAD. Who the frack makes bread??). Anywho…I survived. So will you. The structure may help with some of those feelings of inadequacy. Seriously. When I felt it was falling apart, I made a list of what to do. LOL!
But, this is a great place to vent!
LOL, after years of therapy for perfectionism you’d think I’d have learned, right?
I hear you on the lists–I have a detailed one for my classes and it’s saving my ass. I need to do one for the rest though because clearly I’m not letting it go the way I say I can let it go 😉
I’m feeling much better about it today though. Or at least now, with my back turned on the huge pile of baby toys chucked all over the floor.