I returned to the college on Monday with Roommate #1. I planned to sit in the comfortable lobby chairs to some more work on “Becoming a Master Student” and to read a few chapters of my library book on compulsive hoarding.
When we got to school the lobby was full. A group of students had pulled all of the chairs together to use their laptops and play a card game. I saw familiar faces. The sleeping student with the thick, black glasses was now sitting in the corner near the staircase. He was awake this time, engrossed in a book and paying no attention to anything else. On the small loveseat an elderly Asian woman, possibly the same one I saw on Thursday, was sleeping with a coat over her head. After I sat down and got situated, she sat up to go to her classes and smiled at me again. She looked somewhat sheepish about sleeping on the couch, but not embarrassed. The handsome young man in red returned; this time he was wearing white.
Though I tried to focus most of my attention on “Becoming a Master Student” and my library book (“Stuff: Compulsive Hoarding and the Meaning of Things” by Randy O. Frost & Gail Steketee) I found it hard not to watch my surroundings. Aside from the now-familiar faces of the students I saw on Thursday; there was a tidal wave of people moving in and out of the lobby area. When I first entered, there was a woman talking on her cell phone about a trip her grandmother had paid for. An hour or two after I sat down, I spotted a tall man with a cropped haircut sitting down on the same bench as the woman with the cell phone. She was long gone though, and he took up the entire bench as he fiddled with his own phone. He was very tall, I recall wondering if he played basketball. Moments later, a tiny woman, easily no taller than four feet, ran into the room and hugged him. They were the same height while he was sitting, and when he stood she only reached his elbow. I wonder if she was his sister, his girlfriend, or maybe just a friend.
Throughout all of this, I felt a sense of calm and belonging.
Feeling as though I belong is something that I have struggled with since I was a child. Even before I was diagnosed with bipolar and began experiencing anxiety attacks I never felt as though I fit in anywhere. In groups of people I felt like the odd girl out. There was an unexplainable anxiety in my chest when I was at school, at my father’s house, and even at my friend’s houses. Usually it would go away when I was at home, but sometimes even then I just didn’t feel as though I belonged there.
That feeling basically disappeared when I moved to California, but I didn’t expect it to go beyond an absence of anxiety. It’s difficult to explain. After all, it took me many years to place the feeling of anxiety that was always just on the cusp of my understanding. I used to call it the “I want to go home” feeling. Being able to articulate that I felt panicked and uncomfortable came later, and I assume a more accurate description for the feeling of belonging will come in time as well.
But what matters is that I feel it. What matters is, despite the fact that returning to school after ten years can be a scary thing, I don’t feel scared.
I suppose I’ll have to see how I feel the day before my first class; August 18th still feels like a long time from now.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
A Good Day.
I was in school today.
I sat in a lobby with comfortable chairs and worked on "Becoming a Master Student". I wrote until my hand gave out and read when I could no longer fill out the quizzes and essays include in the book.
Students funneled past me by the dozens; some young, some old, some tall, some short, some Black, some White, some Asian, some Latino and Latina all passed by me in a swiftly flowing human wave. An elderly woman with short black hair and tiny almond eyes sat two chairs to my right. She wore glasses with square-shaped lenses and passed an individually-wrapped candy to the young woman next to her. She smiled when I noticed.
A man sat across from me. He was handsome and young, with caramel skin and coffee colored eyes. He was dressed fashionably: red shirt, white tennis shoes emblazoned with an unfamiliar name brand, accessories and a hat. He had short black hair and a scruffy beard. He ate a strong smelling sandwich of some kind then pulled out his laptop. He noticed me just as the candy-sharing woman did. He smiled as well.
Two seats to my left was a young Asian teen. He wore blue, and had glasses with thick black rims. He slept while I noticed the woman to my left, while I worked on my essay, and as the students came and went. For a while I pondered waking him up, just to make sure he wasn’t going to be late for his class. Before that urge became too strong to resist he woke and checked his watch. Then he was gone just like the rest of them.
I took my placement tests today. I did not go in expecting anything in particular from them; other than the assumption that I would do decently on the English test and do poorly on Math. I was correct in my assumptions. I did very well on the English, scoring 111/120 on Reading Comprehension and scoring 118/120 on Sentence Skills. I do wish I could have seen the correct answers so that I could figure out what I did wrong, but 118/120 is nothing to be disappointed by. The Math test was less of a success. It’s a cliché to compare Math to Greek, or some other foreign language, but that’s exactly what it looked like to me. There were letters, parentheses, fractions, decimal points and everything else that seems designed for the sole purpose of confusing linguistically-minded people.
I placed into English 100, but I was also placed into the least advanced math class in the school. So before I can take Math 120, which is a requirement for my degree, I have to work my way up the remedial math classes.
Through all of this I had no difficulty. There was no panic in my chest; no slowly growing anxiety in my belly. People looked directly at me and my only response was to smile back. I took a test and was not overwhelmed. I did poorly on a test and reacted with humor and understanding.
I’m slowly learning how to separate the preconceptions in my head from the reality of the situation. I have a long way to go, but I’m getting there. It takes time and strength to convince yourself that smiles are genuine. It takes logic and confidence to understand that if there are thoughts about you in the heads of others they are unlikely to be as bad as you imagine them to be.
In the end, I feel as though entering a classroom will be the biggest challenge, because that will be the experience that most closely mimics those that sent me into a panic. But I’m starting to believe those around me when they tell me that college will be a fundamentally different experience compared to high school. It’s either that; the fact that I’m older, wiser and more stable, or the fact that this is a completely different school that is making it easier for me.
There is still time until my classes start, but tuition has been paid and I am as ready as I feel that I can be. I plan to follow Roommate #1 to school next week so that I can sit in the lobby with the flow of students and expose myself to that which frightens me in preparation for the real thing. It’s not exactly the same as being inside of a classroom, but it is a school, I will be studying, and I will be surrounded by students.
I think I’ll be just fine.
I sat in a lobby with comfortable chairs and worked on "Becoming a Master Student". I wrote until my hand gave out and read when I could no longer fill out the quizzes and essays include in the book.
Students funneled past me by the dozens; some young, some old, some tall, some short, some Black, some White, some Asian, some Latino and Latina all passed by me in a swiftly flowing human wave. An elderly woman with short black hair and tiny almond eyes sat two chairs to my right. She wore glasses with square-shaped lenses and passed an individually-wrapped candy to the young woman next to her. She smiled when I noticed.
A man sat across from me. He was handsome and young, with caramel skin and coffee colored eyes. He was dressed fashionably: red shirt, white tennis shoes emblazoned with an unfamiliar name brand, accessories and a hat. He had short black hair and a scruffy beard. He ate a strong smelling sandwich of some kind then pulled out his laptop. He noticed me just as the candy-sharing woman did. He smiled as well.
Two seats to my left was a young Asian teen. He wore blue, and had glasses with thick black rims. He slept while I noticed the woman to my left, while I worked on my essay, and as the students came and went. For a while I pondered waking him up, just to make sure he wasn’t going to be late for his class. Before that urge became too strong to resist he woke and checked his watch. Then he was gone just like the rest of them.
I took my placement tests today. I did not go in expecting anything in particular from them; other than the assumption that I would do decently on the English test and do poorly on Math. I was correct in my assumptions. I did very well on the English, scoring 111/120 on Reading Comprehension and scoring 118/120 on Sentence Skills. I do wish I could have seen the correct answers so that I could figure out what I did wrong, but 118/120 is nothing to be disappointed by. The Math test was less of a success. It’s a cliché to compare Math to Greek, or some other foreign language, but that’s exactly what it looked like to me. There were letters, parentheses, fractions, decimal points and everything else that seems designed for the sole purpose of confusing linguistically-minded people.
I placed into English 100, but I was also placed into the least advanced math class in the school. So before I can take Math 120, which is a requirement for my degree, I have to work my way up the remedial math classes.
Through all of this I had no difficulty. There was no panic in my chest; no slowly growing anxiety in my belly. People looked directly at me and my only response was to smile back. I took a test and was not overwhelmed. I did poorly on a test and reacted with humor and understanding.
I’m slowly learning how to separate the preconceptions in my head from the reality of the situation. I have a long way to go, but I’m getting there. It takes time and strength to convince yourself that smiles are genuine. It takes logic and confidence to understand that if there are thoughts about you in the heads of others they are unlikely to be as bad as you imagine them to be.
In the end, I feel as though entering a classroom will be the biggest challenge, because that will be the experience that most closely mimics those that sent me into a panic. But I’m starting to believe those around me when they tell me that college will be a fundamentally different experience compared to high school. It’s either that; the fact that I’m older, wiser and more stable, or the fact that this is a completely different school that is making it easier for me.
There is still time until my classes start, but tuition has been paid and I am as ready as I feel that I can be. I plan to follow Roommate #1 to school next week so that I can sit in the lobby with the flow of students and expose myself to that which frightens me in preparation for the real thing. It’s not exactly the same as being inside of a classroom, but it is a school, I will be studying, and I will be surrounded by students.
I think I’ll be just fine.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
I disagree with Dave Ellis.
In my first post I mention that I am reading a book called “Becoming a Master Student” by Dave Ellis as preparation for returning to school. This book was recommended by a friend of Roommate #1. This friend (henceforth referred to as ML) is a PHD and a teacher, so her opinions are highly respected by both Roommate #1 and I. ML told me that the book is full of tips on studying, taking notes, and exercises to evaluation my personal style of learning.
I bought a used copy of the book on Amazon.com and have been slowly reading through it and doing the exercises. So far it seems helpful, even if there is—in my opinion— an inordinate amount of importance placed on networking and physical health.
I have a little problem with some of the metaphors used in the book. On Page 22 of the 12th edition, there is a large header that demands you should “Discover What You Want”. Here is an excerpt:
Obviously Mr. Ellis wants you to look at this absurd example and come to the conclusion that the traveler who has their trip planned out to the type of meal they’re going to eat is going to have the better time.
The problem I have with this example is that even if your trip is meticulously planned out things can still go wrong. Perhaps the indecisive traveler is sent to India and discovers a love of curry and Bollywood movies. Perhaps the traveler who arrives in Mexico gets violently ill upon exiting the plane and spends their entire trip in the hospital. There are too many factors to take into consideration. A plan will only get you so far. It’s not a magical button that will make everything work in your favor.
Roommate #1 is a creature of habit. We often go out to eat together, and more often than not she chooses a meal that she’s already eaten. Roommate #1 is the second traveler. She goes out with a firm idea of what she wants to eat, buys what she has eaten before and knows she enjoys, and misses out on discovering new things.
I never have a firm plan on what I want to eat when we go out. I have tried things that I’ve hated and never eaten again, but then I have tried things that I absolutely love.
Planning out exactly what you’re going to do when you leave the house removes the element of discovery, which is rather ironic given the title of this chapter. Mr. Ellis doesn’t want you to discover anything.
Roommate #1 has a bachelor’s degree in social sciences. She wanted to be a teacher at one point in her life. She never became a teacher. She’s now working towards her CPA. Even with her precise planning, that lead her to the bachelor’s degree, she didn’t the destination that she had wanted.
I don’t know what I want to be “when I grow up”. I don’t have a long-term plan for school. In the short term I am getting a certificate of specialization in office assistance, so that I can put it on my resume and rightfully claim that I have had some college. In the slightly less short-term, I am planning on getting an associate’s degree in business administration, so that can go on my resume instead of the certificate. But I don’t want to spend my life in an office. I don’t want to be in my 50’s, answering phones for some faceless company that doesn’t give two shits about me.
Would I be better off if I had an ultimate plan as to what I wanted to spend my life doing?
Would Roommate #1 be better off as a teacher instead of a budding accountant? After all,
she never planned on taking the CPA exam.
There’s no way of knowing because there are far too many variables for Dave Ellis’ example to be effective in real life.
I realize that I’m blowing this out of proportion. It’s one small metaphor in a very large book that is proving to be very useful. But it bothers me because I’m not the type of person who always has a plan.
This isn’t going to stop me from using the book. Becoming a Master Student does have a wealth of information that will help ease the anxieties I have about returning to school and help me in areas that I find myself lacking. But I’m going to allow myself to change my mind if necessary. I’m not going to finish a degree in Business Administration if I hate it, simply because that’s what I had planned. Because I understand that human beings are malleable and don’t always like to stay in the same old shape into which they’ve been molded.
I bought a used copy of the book on Amazon.com and have been slowly reading through it and doing the exercises. So far it seems helpful, even if there is—in my opinion— an inordinate amount of importance placed on networking and physical health.
I have a little problem with some of the metaphors used in the book. On Page 22 of the 12th edition, there is a large header that demands you should “Discover What You Want”. Here is an excerpt:
Imagine a person who walks up to a counter at the airport to buy a plane ticket for his next vacation. "Just give me a ticket," he says to the reservation agent. "Anywhere will do."
The agent stares at him in disbelief. "I’m sorry sir," he replies. "I need some more details. Just minor things—such as the name of your destination city and your arrival and departure dates."
"Oh, I’m not fussy,” says the would be vacationer. "I just want to get away. You choose for me."
Compare this with another traveler who walks up to the counter and says, "I'd like a ticket to Ixtapa, Mexico, departing on Saturday, March 23 and returning Sunday, April 7.Please give me a window seat, first class, with vegetarian meals."
Now, ask yourself which traveler is more likely to end up with a vacation that he'll enjoy.
Obviously Mr. Ellis wants you to look at this absurd example and come to the conclusion that the traveler who has their trip planned out to the type of meal they’re going to eat is going to have the better time.
The problem I have with this example is that even if your trip is meticulously planned out things can still go wrong. Perhaps the indecisive traveler is sent to India and discovers a love of curry and Bollywood movies. Perhaps the traveler who arrives in Mexico gets violently ill upon exiting the plane and spends their entire trip in the hospital. There are too many factors to take into consideration. A plan will only get you so far. It’s not a magical button that will make everything work in your favor.
Roommate #1 is a creature of habit. We often go out to eat together, and more often than not she chooses a meal that she’s already eaten. Roommate #1 is the second traveler. She goes out with a firm idea of what she wants to eat, buys what she has eaten before and knows she enjoys, and misses out on discovering new things.
I never have a firm plan on what I want to eat when we go out. I have tried things that I’ve hated and never eaten again, but then I have tried things that I absolutely love.
Planning out exactly what you’re going to do when you leave the house removes the element of discovery, which is rather ironic given the title of this chapter. Mr. Ellis doesn’t want you to discover anything.
Roommate #1 has a bachelor’s degree in social sciences. She wanted to be a teacher at one point in her life. She never became a teacher. She’s now working towards her CPA. Even with her precise planning, that lead her to the bachelor’s degree, she didn’t the destination that she had wanted.
I don’t know what I want to be “when I grow up”. I don’t have a long-term plan for school. In the short term I am getting a certificate of specialization in office assistance, so that I can put it on my resume and rightfully claim that I have had some college. In the slightly less short-term, I am planning on getting an associate’s degree in business administration, so that can go on my resume instead of the certificate. But I don’t want to spend my life in an office. I don’t want to be in my 50’s, answering phones for some faceless company that doesn’t give two shits about me.
Would I be better off if I had an ultimate plan as to what I wanted to spend my life doing?
Would Roommate #1 be better off as a teacher instead of a budding accountant? After all,
she never planned on taking the CPA exam.
There’s no way of knowing because there are far too many variables for Dave Ellis’ example to be effective in real life.
I realize that I’m blowing this out of proportion. It’s one small metaphor in a very large book that is proving to be very useful. But it bothers me because I’m not the type of person who always has a plan.
This isn’t going to stop me from using the book. Becoming a Master Student does have a wealth of information that will help ease the anxieties I have about returning to school and help me in areas that I find myself lacking. But I’m going to allow myself to change my mind if necessary. I’m not going to finish a degree in Business Administration if I hate it, simply because that’s what I had planned. Because I understand that human beings are malleable and don’t always like to stay in the same old shape into which they’ve been molded.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Mourning a loss.
I don’t form a lot of attachments. The number of people I consider my friends can easily be counted on both hands. The number of people I consider my best, most important, most trustworthy, and lifelong friends is significantly smaller.
My insecurities, formed by the bullying I experienced in school, limit my abilities to fully open up and trust. Unlike the 400 million people who are active on facebook, I find myself terrified of the idea of putting my real name on the internet. It strikes me as wrong, foolhardy, and idiotic. I place an excessive value on my privacy which is why, incidentally, that this blog is anonymous.
It really shouldn’t be a surprise that I form attachments with people who are safe, unattainable, and in some cases don’t even speak the same language that I do. I’m not a fool; I realize that feelings of affection for a person who I’ve never met are not reciprocated. I realize that it’s a happy little fantasy, free of the realities of real, human friendships. I am intelligent enough to know that a crush on a celebrity or an infatuation with a fictional character is just a non-threatening, harmless diversion. I also understand that I’m hardly the only person to think that, for example, Johnny Depp is a particularly attractive man, and have a few naughty fantasies about him.
And yet…
Somebody I loved yet did not know has died.
I’ve been claiming to be distraught, but that’s not a strong enough word. I’m not distraught, sad, or upset. I’m heartbroken.
This is when it hurts. This is when I wish I could have known him in more than just his music. I could sit at his wake and hug our mutual friends. We could talk about the times we had together and all the little idiosyncrasies that only friends know. We could be strong for one another; be strong for him, because maybe that’s what he would have wanted.
Instead I’m pondering what fans mean to artists who spend their lives making music. Instead I’m feeling kind of stupid for caring so much. Instead I’m wondering why the hole somebody leaves behind is always larger than the place they inhabited before they died. Instead I’m wondering why I never sent him fan mail. Instead I’m wondering how I’m going to handle when one of those few, precious, real friends that I have pass away.
There’s a lesson in this, I’m sure of it.
In a few days it won’t hurt as much.
In a few days I’ll have begun to remember him, in my own way.
In a few weeks my preoccupation with my own life will have pushed him to the back of my mind.
In a few months I’ll sigh gently at hearing one of his songs, and wish he was still part of the
world.
The nagging ache will disappear. Maybe I’ll light a candle on his birthday and the anniversary of his death, as I do for others.
I want to say goodbye, but as an agnostic I’ve never been much for prayer. It seems as appropriate as anything else to do it here.
To D---, From Fluff.
I love you.
I miss you.
I wish you peace.
You will always be remembered.
You will always have a home in my heart.
My insecurities, formed by the bullying I experienced in school, limit my abilities to fully open up and trust. Unlike the 400 million people who are active on facebook, I find myself terrified of the idea of putting my real name on the internet. It strikes me as wrong, foolhardy, and idiotic. I place an excessive value on my privacy which is why, incidentally, that this blog is anonymous.
It really shouldn’t be a surprise that I form attachments with people who are safe, unattainable, and in some cases don’t even speak the same language that I do. I’m not a fool; I realize that feelings of affection for a person who I’ve never met are not reciprocated. I realize that it’s a happy little fantasy, free of the realities of real, human friendships. I am intelligent enough to know that a crush on a celebrity or an infatuation with a fictional character is just a non-threatening, harmless diversion. I also understand that I’m hardly the only person to think that, for example, Johnny Depp is a particularly attractive man, and have a few naughty fantasies about him.
And yet…
Somebody I loved yet did not know has died.
I’ve been claiming to be distraught, but that’s not a strong enough word. I’m not distraught, sad, or upset. I’m heartbroken.
This is when it hurts. This is when I wish I could have known him in more than just his music. I could sit at his wake and hug our mutual friends. We could talk about the times we had together and all the little idiosyncrasies that only friends know. We could be strong for one another; be strong for him, because maybe that’s what he would have wanted.
Instead I’m pondering what fans mean to artists who spend their lives making music. Instead I’m feeling kind of stupid for caring so much. Instead I’m wondering why the hole somebody leaves behind is always larger than the place they inhabited before they died. Instead I’m wondering why I never sent him fan mail. Instead I’m wondering how I’m going to handle when one of those few, precious, real friends that I have pass away.
There’s a lesson in this, I’m sure of it.
In a few days it won’t hurt as much.
In a few days I’ll have begun to remember him, in my own way.
In a few weeks my preoccupation with my own life will have pushed him to the back of my mind.
In a few months I’ll sigh gently at hearing one of his songs, and wish he was still part of the
world.
The nagging ache will disappear. Maybe I’ll light a candle on his birthday and the anniversary of his death, as I do for others.
I want to say goodbye, but as an agnostic I’ve never been much for prayer. It seems as appropriate as anything else to do it here.
To D---, From Fluff.
I love you.
I miss you.
I wish you peace.
You will always be remembered.
You will always have a home in my heart.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Ten Years and 31 Days
Nine years ago on a February night I sat in a small classroom with twenty people I didn’t know and took the G.E.D. exam. I hadn’t studied; I never studied for tests. I didn’t find it difficult and within few hours I had completed the exam. A few weeks later I came back for my scores and was told that I passed with fifty points to spare. It felt like a miracle; the scores on this piece of paper meant that I never had to step foot in my high school again.
Nine years ago, I was finished with high school; finished with the daily anxiety attacks that turned my fellow students into hateful, terrifying specters. I was finished with carrying the backpack that was causing crippling pain in my back and I was finished with falling asleep in first period due because I hadn’t slept all night.
Before it was decided that I needed to drop out I was consistently told that I would look back at high school as the best years of my life. Work would be so much harder, I was told. School was simple, a place to make friends and take advantage of the fact that I was actually a very bright, intellectually curious person.
That’s now how it went. Instead, I was bullied starting when I entered first grade and continuing until my anxiety had a complete hold over me. By that point it wouldn’t even matter if I was bullied, because my mind had convinced me that everyone was against me and wanted me dead.
It’s hard not to feel like a failure. Deep down I understand that I’m an intelligent person and I feel like I should have known better when I started believing that everyone was talking about me behind my back. It’s hard not to feel like my bipolar disorder stole something precious from me. I could have easily finished high school were in not for the anxiety and depression; knowing that is painful.
I did my best with my tenth grade education. I worked, on and off, while the illness allowed me to. Three years ago when I moved to California I dove into part-time temp work when it became necessary for me to bring in money. All the while I was job searching; feeling inadequate by all the requirements I didn’t meet. “Bachelor’s Degree”, “Associates Degree”, even “some college” were all terms that filled me with disappointment and made me feel as though I was too stupid to work.
Despite feeling as though I wasn’t intelligent enough to answer phones for a living I got a job as an administrative assistant. The company that hired me was small, and as indicated by their craigslist ad—which was in all capital letters—they desperately needed an office assistant of some sort. So I began to feel comfortable. I was convinced that my job as safe as long as the company was afloat. I didn’t think about school. I didn’t think about my tenth grade education. I didn’t think about job searching or all of the requirements that I didn’t meet.
Of course I was laid off, because the fates had apparently decided it was time for me to learn a lesson in hubris.
So that brings me to now, nine months after being laid off. I’m still unemployed because of all of those requirements that frustrated me so much when I was first looking for a job. Because of how many people are out of work, employers are looking for candidates with large amounts of experience and some sort of college education.
I still feel like school might just kill me. I haven’t had an anxiety attack in over three years, but who is to say that the minute I sit down at a desk it won’t all start rushing back?
Despite that, I’ll be starting college on August eighteenth. Because I’m never content to do things half-way, I’m going to be taking ten classes. I keep telling myself that it’s been ten years since I’ve been in a classroom. So much changes in ten years.
I’m prepared. I’m working my way through “Becoming a Master Student” by Dave Ellis (more on that later), my classes are paid for and I am patiently awaiting the announcements regarding which textbooks I need. I have a backpack, a netbook for notes, pencils, pens, folders, notebooks and everything else I could possibly need.
I have everything except for self-confidence.
But that’s what this is for, sort of; a space to shout in to the ether and try to work things out with words. This is what I consider an introduction. Anyone reading this now has a better idea of who I am, where I am, and where I was, despite the anonymous nature of this blog.
I’m Fluff, and these are my issues (and volumes).
Nine years ago, I was finished with high school; finished with the daily anxiety attacks that turned my fellow students into hateful, terrifying specters. I was finished with carrying the backpack that was causing crippling pain in my back and I was finished with falling asleep in first period due because I hadn’t slept all night.
Before it was decided that I needed to drop out I was consistently told that I would look back at high school as the best years of my life. Work would be so much harder, I was told. School was simple, a place to make friends and take advantage of the fact that I was actually a very bright, intellectually curious person.
That’s now how it went. Instead, I was bullied starting when I entered first grade and continuing until my anxiety had a complete hold over me. By that point it wouldn’t even matter if I was bullied, because my mind had convinced me that everyone was against me and wanted me dead.
It’s hard not to feel like a failure. Deep down I understand that I’m an intelligent person and I feel like I should have known better when I started believing that everyone was talking about me behind my back. It’s hard not to feel like my bipolar disorder stole something precious from me. I could have easily finished high school were in not for the anxiety and depression; knowing that is painful.
I did my best with my tenth grade education. I worked, on and off, while the illness allowed me to. Three years ago when I moved to California I dove into part-time temp work when it became necessary for me to bring in money. All the while I was job searching; feeling inadequate by all the requirements I didn’t meet. “Bachelor’s Degree”, “Associates Degree”, even “some college” were all terms that filled me with disappointment and made me feel as though I was too stupid to work.
Despite feeling as though I wasn’t intelligent enough to answer phones for a living I got a job as an administrative assistant. The company that hired me was small, and as indicated by their craigslist ad—which was in all capital letters—they desperately needed an office assistant of some sort. So I began to feel comfortable. I was convinced that my job as safe as long as the company was afloat. I didn’t think about school. I didn’t think about my tenth grade education. I didn’t think about job searching or all of the requirements that I didn’t meet.
Of course I was laid off, because the fates had apparently decided it was time for me to learn a lesson in hubris.
So that brings me to now, nine months after being laid off. I’m still unemployed because of all of those requirements that frustrated me so much when I was first looking for a job. Because of how many people are out of work, employers are looking for candidates with large amounts of experience and some sort of college education.
I still feel like school might just kill me. I haven’t had an anxiety attack in over three years, but who is to say that the minute I sit down at a desk it won’t all start rushing back?
Despite that, I’ll be starting college on August eighteenth. Because I’m never content to do things half-way, I’m going to be taking ten classes. I keep telling myself that it’s been ten years since I’ve been in a classroom. So much changes in ten years.
I’m prepared. I’m working my way through “Becoming a Master Student” by Dave Ellis (more on that later), my classes are paid for and I am patiently awaiting the announcements regarding which textbooks I need. I have a backpack, a netbook for notes, pencils, pens, folders, notebooks and everything else I could possibly need.
I have everything except for self-confidence.
But that’s what this is for, sort of; a space to shout in to the ether and try to work things out with words. This is what I consider an introduction. Anyone reading this now has a better idea of who I am, where I am, and where I was, despite the anonymous nature of this blog.
I’m Fluff, and these are my issues (and volumes).
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