graduate school

Pardon the mess

~ KJ ~ 5 Comments

I am at a functioning level right now.

When I say functioning, I mean I am able to get out of bed and go about my life in the most minimal ways.

I’m back in graduate school. It’s been a little hectic. With a professor missing in action for two weeks (due to a death in the family), it’s now a rush to get three weeks of work done in the next week. I was a little overwhelmed at first, having never used SPSS analytical software at all before, but I am getting the hang of it.

I’ve also been co-authoring a book on DID. The rough draft will be finished in just a couple of weeks, so it’s crunch time to make sure everything I want to say is included. Some of the chapters are intense. While writing about my abuse and struggles is tolerable in small doses, writing with deadlines on specific topics that I can’t avoid has sucked some of the energy right out of me. I’m well passed the halfway point now, so I’m not giving up.

I am going through some physical health issues. I should be used to it by now, but I am not. It’s anxiety-provoking. I have been fortunate enough to find a primary doctor that understands my PTSD and anxieties. Even though it takes me hours in travel just to get back and forth to her, no other doctor was willing to work with me, so I endure the trouble. I’ve got a lot of specialist appointments in my near future, and that scares me. We are taking it one step at a time, but even that one step seems like a leap across two mountains.

My mental health is shit. I’ve been managing to stay out of the hospital, but it’s been difficult. The only thing keeping me in check is all of the other shit I have going on that I won’t be able to complete if I’m in the hospital. That’s probably not the best motivator, but it’s working for the moment.

I have a lot to write about, a lot that’s on my mind. I just wish I had the energy right now to do it.

Fall down, get up. Drop out, get in.

~ KJ ~ 11 Comments

I still remember the day I got the call that I was accepted into grad school. It was such a happy day. I had such high hopes for my future. I was so excited to finally interact with people who were understanding and shared the same interests as me.

And then six months later, I dropped out of grad school because someone (or multiple someones) reported my DID and my blog and all of a sudden, my abilities came into question.

I didn’t just lose my place in grad school that day, I lost my dream. My wish of becoming  a counselor was ripped away from me, trampled on, shit on, and set on fire. All because I struggle with a mental illness.

From talking with others, I knew that going into the counseling field would be difficult for me. I could not be open about my DID, but that is impossible, considering my name is forever tied to DID through my professional writing. I didn’t feel like I should have to hide who I am, and unfortunately, many in the mental health field are not accepting of people with mental health issues themselves.

So instead of putting myself out there to be hurt again, I took a different route. I applied to different programs, still connected to psychology, but not focused on the counseling aspect. Quantitative psychology, neuropsychology, and experimental psychology – all programs that got my interest, and all programs that so many in the counseling field would never, ever consider because they find the science of psychology too difficult.

I have been stressing out for the last couple of months, worrying that I would not get into a program, and if I did, that I would not be able to start until next year. I found an experimental psychology program I really liked, contacted the head of the department and asked if he would still consider me for the fall semester (the deadline was already up months before). I scurried to get everything I needed in, rushed to take the GRE as soon as I could, wrote a different essay for each program I applied to, and waited the last few weeks with a tremendous amount of anxiety.

I got my acceptance letter just a few days ago, my first choice school and program. I’m starting in the Fall semester. I will even be working with my first choice mentor, conducting research in the area of affective neuroscience and environmental impact on emotional development. Basically, I will be focusing on the biological and environmental bases of emotion, and what causes emotions to “go wrong”.

Hopefully, no one will feel the need to use my diagnosis against me this time around.

 

Freedom, Part 2

~ KJ ~ 10 Comments

It has been one year now that I have been free.

In the beginning, I didn’t think I was going to make it this far. I had limited finances, no job, no family, and no friends. I sat in my room the first few days and just got lost in my thoughts. I told myself I would enjoy freedom as long as I could, and then kill myself once I ran out of money. I had very low expectations, a lot of fear of the unknown, and a lot of anxiety about the world.

Many people don’t understand it when I say I ran away from home, that I escaped. Regular people just move out when they change locations. But I never had that ability. I ran away and ran towards freedom.

But even then, I could not run away from my mother’s programming. Even though I was physically free from her, I carried the same beliefs about the world that she had trained me to believe. She wanted me to believe the world was a scary place because that is how she kept her control over me. And when I moved away, I still thought the world was out to get me.

As the weeks went on, I started making small achievements. I took the bus all by myself. I crossed a busy highway. I went to the mall. I had conversations with strangers. I went to the grocery store and picked out new foods. I sat on my porch at night and looked at the sky. While these all sound like everyday things, they were not to me. They were things I was never allowed to do by myself.

Within a week, I started therapy. I already contacted my therapists before I even made my escape. They were ready and willing to help me. Therapy started out fine, and then all hell broke loose. After one month here, I dissociated so badly that it took two therapists to bring me back. That was when I got my official DID diagnosis, and I’ve continued therapy ever since. It’s been a couple hundred hours, thousands of dollars, and a whirlwind of emotions, but it has allowed me to be where I am today.

Within two weeks, I got a job. I had a couple of interviews lined up, but I decided to go with the first place that wanted me. In the long run, that ended up to be a great decision, because the people I work with are some of the most understanding, amazing people I have ever met in my life. The night before my first day at my new job, I ended up in the hospital. My PTSD was severe and I was admitted to the psych unit for a few days, without a phone and without a way to contact my job. I thought for sure that was it. I missed my first day and I was a no show. But they understood, and within 24 hours of being released, I started my new job, the job I still have today.

Within six weeks, I finished my thesis on mother-daughter sexual abuse. I received the highest grade of 99. With that, my undergraduate career was done with. I graduated with high honors and a 3.9 GPA.

Within two months, I was hired as a writer for a mental health website, writing about the disorder I was still in denial about. It was a challenge for me in many ways. Taking the position meant that I had to be public, and up until then I was completely untraceable and off social media entirely. It also meant that my name would be tied to DID forever, and that my diagnosis would be public record, so to speak. I decided to go for it, and even though there have been some trials, I am happy with my decision. I have grown a lot through my writing, and have learned so much from others as well.

Within six months, I got accepted into graduate school and started my first semester. I went on to take the CPCE and score above the national average. I ended my first semester attaining a 4.0 and a lot of praise from my professors.

Within six months, I also started PAFPAC. I knew it would take a lot of time and effort, and even though I wish I could be doing more for the organization, it’s there for those that need it. I haven’t been able to do much as far as advocacy, but our Facebook support group continues to grow and helps survivors connect with others.

It hasn’t always been good and easy. I also broke my foot (which did not heal correctly and still leaves me in pain), I was hospitalized a few times (PTSD and panic attacks), I quit a job after four days because I had an emotional breakdown (I couldn’t handle seeing so many happy families), and I had to drop out of graduate school because someone reported my mental illness, via links to my blog.

Looking back, I can’t believe all of this (and more) happened within one year. I never expected to be where I am today. I am still standing. I am healing. I am helping. I am writing. I am telling my story.

And I am free.

I celebrated the day in my own way. I baked brownies and shared them with my coworkers. My getaway driver came down and we went to the movies and went out to dinner. My roommate got me a bouquet of flowers. I ended the night by deciding, on a whim, to get a fish.

I named him Freedom.

We’re both in better places now.

Perfection

~ KJ ~ 3 Comments

Growing up, I had to choose between being hurt for being too good or being hurt for not being good enough. There was no in between; those were my only options. So I chose to be perfect. It probably helped that I was born with relatively high intelligence, which allowed me to succeed academically with very little, if any, effort.

But it still ended up hurting me. Being perfect was viewed as an insult in my family. Being perfect meant that I thought that I was better than them. How could I have the audacity to think I was better than anyone, especially them? It made my parents angry, and they took that anger out on me. I could never take pleasure in an achievement; it ended up resulting in more pain.

I held on to perfection like it were a life raft, saving me from drowning. It’s the only thing I had in my life that gave me any sense of worth. Other people would tell me how intelligent I was, how much potential I had, how much talent I possessed. I needed that because it gave my life meaning.

Unfortunately, my need for perfection has hindered me in the long run. If I am not perfect, I feel worthless. I cannot bask in many of my achievements if I know I could have done better. I hold myself to (at times) impossibly high standards.

This was exemplified recently when I took the GRE. I told my therapist the unofficial raw scores I received, completely lacking any enthusiasm about them. I was such a mess when I took the exam that I knew, in my belief, that I had done poorly. My tremendous headache (self-induced) and lack of sleep just ruined everything for me.

“I know students that would be thrilled to have GRE scores anywhere close to yours.”

“But they’re not good enough.”

“You can get in to any school with scores like those.”

“But they’re not perfect.”

On some level, I knew my therapist was right. But I was so mad at myself because I didn’t get that perfect score. I could have slept longer. I could have not gone crazy and banged my head the day before. I could have eaten breakfast. I could have done better than I did. I need to be perfect or I’m not good enough.

So when any other person would be ecstatic with those scores, I could not take any kind of pleasure in what was, in reality, a considerable achievement. I talked about it as if I were talking about cloudy weather.

I also think my previous graduate school experience has hampered my academic outlook in general. I can no longer get excited about anything because no matter what I did before, I ended up not being good enough for the program. If I don’t get excited, I won’t be as hurt in the end when it doesn’t work out. It’s a twisted form of self-protection.

As a child, I held on to hope that perfection would save me. It never did. So why do I still need it in order to feel like I’m worth something?

The return home, Part 1

~ KJ ~ 1 Comment

Last Friday, I took a train back to the  city I fled 11 months ago.

I didn’t have much of a choice. The graduate schools I am applying to require the GRE for admission – I had never taken it before because it wasn’t required for my first graduate school. The application deadlines are fast approaching (and in one case, very much past) and I needed to take the exam as soon as possible. I tried registering online, only to find out that almost every test location was either closed down, or did not have any available test dates for the next three months. The only option left just happened to be the farthest from my current location, and the closest to my home of origin.

Scrambling, I tried to figure out a way I could even get there. I asked an old friend, out of desperation, if he could take me. He agreed. Because of timing (the test appointment was at 8:00 AM Saturday morning) and distance (an additional 30+ minutes of travel), I had to take the train the day before and stay overnight. It definitely caused some panic.

I was worried about my arrival, because I would be stopping in the center of the city, where all of the buses pass through. Many of my former coworkers travel by bus, and a few of them live in the area. I was worried about someone seeing me and alerting  my mother. But during my therapy session last Monday, my therapist reassured me that the likelihood that someone would recognize me was low. My hair was completely different, and I had lost a significant amount of weight. She encouraged me to work out a plan so I would be out in the open as little as possible. I felt a little better, and less panicked.

And then my week went to shit. Tuesday, I withdrew from graduate school and essentially lost my dream of being a counselor. I was denied for a personal loan, one that I needed in order to get through the summer until I started a new graduate school in the Fall. I had a realization that the people I thought I could depend on were not dependable at all; actually, they ended up hurting me more. I wanted just to go to sleep to avoid the pain, but even that ended up impossible because I was startled awake by nonsense going on close by.

So I spent Tuesday night into Wednesday morning crying. I felt my life crumbling around me. At that point, I decided I should just go home for good. I’m losing everything in the life I was building here, so what else could I do? I decided. Friday, we were going home, and we weren’t coming back.

I walked to work early and sat outside, crying. I felt lost. I was also exhausted, and crying only magnified that exhaustion. I couldn’t deal with the emotional pain combined with the physical pain I am still in, and I ended up leaving work early. Then, cue my emotional break and dissociative chaos I wrote about here.

Somehow I managed to get myself to therapy on Thursday, though I will admit I am not even sure if it was all me. I was a mess. I tried (and failed) to hold it together.

My therapist and I went over what happened in the days leading up to session. I told her how I ended up the closet, which is something that has happened quite a few times before. I reluctantly told her about my plan to return home. I knew it could go one of two ways. My mother would take me in and help me, and I’d have a home and family again. Or she would kill me. That’s what I really wanted. I wanted to go home so my mother would kill me, and I wouldn’t have to worry about doing it myself.

I reached the point of dire hopelessness. There was nothing else left to lose.

Withdraw

~ KJ ~ 17 Comments

At 6 o’clock this morning, I submitted my official withdrawal from university.

I knew it was the right thing to do, but I still cried. And I cried again when I got the e-mail at 8 AM that my withdrawal was accepted.

It has been over a month and I still haven’t received an answer, and I just can’t wait around for a committee of people who don’t even know me to judge me based on a diagnosis and a few sentences out of my blog.

You know what? I’m hurt. I’m angry. I feel betrayed. I feel judged.

This wasn’t done out of concern for me. With the exception of one person (who I know did not write any anonymous reports), no one approached me about any concerns. Shit, no one even asked me if I was okay. A person who is genuinely concerned about someone will ASK that person, or at least make some attempt to talk to her. Genuinely concerned people don’t create fake e-mail addresses and send anonymous reports to the school, with links to my blog posts. That is not genuine concern. That, in simplest terms, is being an asshole.

You write extensively about your diagnosis of Dissociative Identity Disorder. Your blog documents serious struggles with mental health issues that have raised significant concerns…

Yes. I have DID. And? I don’t have it written on my forehead. You wouldn’t know I had it from looking at me. I have chosen to be open about it because of the shame and stigma attached to the diagnosis, shame and stigma that I have been trying to fight against. And yes, I  struggle with mental health issues. Any person who has been through similar experiences has them, too. But I manage them as best I can. I work just to pay for therapy.

In the blog you write that you are “consistently suicidal”, and that you are “in school for something that I’m not even sure I can handle.”

Gosh, a person with DID who struggles with suicidal thoughts. Considering that more than 70% of people with DID have attempted suicide, this should not be a huge surprise. As I have explained in this post, there is a difference between feeling suicidal and being suicidal. No matter how I was feeling, I continued to go to work, I went to class, and I did what needed to be done because I knew they were just feelings.

And what student hasn’t had doubts? My whole life, I’ve excelled academically. I’ve never really failed at anything. But I would be lying if I said I never doubted my abilities. I am sure some level of self-doubt is completely normal. I would be more concerned about someone who had absolutely no self-doubt.

Due to the severity of this situation and the perceived threat to yourself and others, I am making a referral…to evaluate whether or not your circumstances impair your ability to safely continue in the program…

Perceived threat to yourself and others.  Wow. Okay. I am not a threat to myself. If I wanted to kill myself, I would have either stayed in home prison or I would have jumped in front of a train by now. I wouldn’t have gotten a job, enrolled in graduate school, started an organization, and I wouldn’t be going to therapy a few times a week to make myself better.

A threat to others? In what way? Because I have DID? A diagnosis does not make me a violent lunatic. What have I ever done to show that I have ever been a threat to others? I don’t hurt other people. I didn’t even hurt my abusers. I avoided all conflict and confrontation and ran away. I let them get away with everything, when other people would have hurt them for what they did. If I didn’t hurt the very people who caused me so much pain, who the hell would I hurt? Who am I a threat to? No one. The answer is no one.

So, despite getting As, having a 4.0 GPA, scoring higher than average on the CPCE before I even started the program, giving an outstanding presentation on the psychological effects of continued child abuse, and handing in consistently professional, high-quality work, I have had to drop out of graduate school.

I’d like to think this wasn’t because of fear, viciousness, or misunderstanding, but my heart tells me that it was.

To whoever reported me, I hope you are never put in a situation where your life is scrutinized.

I haven’t done anything wrong. I will continue to write. I will continue to fight. I should not have to prove my worth any more than I already do.

Problem solver

~ KJ ~ 5 Comments

“You’re a problem solver.”

That’s what my therapist told me last session. I’ll get things figured out, because I’m a problem solver.

I do like solving problems. I have always liked solving problems.

I like solving mathematical problems. I was a bit of a math genius growing up. In elementary school, someone could give me a multiplication problem of any difficulty, and I could give an answer without even working it out on paper. I sat in the corner at school every day engrossed in learning and solving mathematical equations, and by the 3rd grade, I was already working on high school level math. I love math.

Why do I love math? I don’t know if my reasons were the same as a child as they are now, but I love math because you are solving problems that have an answer. (Most) math is finite. Math is logical. Math has rules and methods. Zero multiplied by any number will always be zero. Two plus two will always equal four. There is always an answer in some way or another. In math, little to nothing is left up to chance. It’s clean-cut problem-solving.

Problem solving in life? Not finite. Not always logical. No established set of working rules. Not always an answer. Not at all like math.

It is extremely difficult for a logical-minded person to make decisions with his or her heart. In the months (even longer, really) leading up to my escape, I was burdened with tremendous fear and anxiety. Not only about the actual escape, that’s understandable – but because my mind and my heart were never in agreement. My heart would tell me you need to get out now while my logic-driven brain would tell me no, you need more money before you can leave, this will lead to financial ruin. My heart would tell me you should tell the people you care about while my brain would tell me no, telling people increases the risk. Numbers. My brain is always about the numbers.

Obviously, I solved a huge problem when I ran away. But did I really? I solved the problem by leaving the abuse, yes, but I just set myself up for different problems. And now I have to put on my problem solver cap and solve a new set of problems that don’t have simple answers.

Finances. Blah. Most times, I’m really good at saving money. I pay all of my bills on time. I have managed to feed myself for under $25 a month. I only buy things that are on sale, even if it’s not what I particularly like. Some frugality has become a necessity.

With that being said, I’m still paying bills that aren’t all mine. I’m stuck paying off my mother’s bills because they are in my name. I don’t have any other way to solve that problem. I’m paying a bill for a friend because that bill is also in my name. I own a car that I don’t even have because I don’t drive. All problems. All problems that I’ve created by my own doing. All problems that I will need to solve.

Therapy. I could save more money by cutting down my therapy to once a week, or choosing a Medicaid-covered therapist that I wouldn’t have to pay for at all. Except I need therapy multiple times a week. It keeps me functional. To be honest, I should probably be in therapy every day sometimes. I couldn’t imagine myself existing without therapy. And when I say therapy, I mean my current therapy schedule with my current therapist. I pay out-of-pocket for a competent, professional, knowledgeable, and experienced therapist, because that is what I need after 15 years of absolutely shit therapists.

Which leads to my next issue, and why I have avoided using mental health care covered by Medicaid. It sucks. Medicaid here covers mostly social workers, mostly fresh out of college with little experience. While there is nothing wrong with that, my issues are a little complex. Many social workers don’t even know what a dissociative disorder is, let alone how to treat one.

I need my therapist just as much as I need oxygen to breathe. I can’t give that up.

School. What a conundrum. Even if I wanted to continue with this grad school, I can’t afford it. I’ve done the math. It’s not possible. I will run out of aid half way through the program. And then want? Then I’d really be fucked. Aside from finances, I have to figure out if I am even capable of being a counselor. Am I too damaged? Are people right? If I am a counselor, I would be limited in my ability to share and write about my life, because being a counselor requires a considerable amount of privacy. My writing is important to me, and so is sharing my story. Can’t I find a way to be able to do both? I need to solve this problem, too.

I am a problem solver, but I am not that good. This equation of life is too complex for me to solve.

Anonymous Reporters

~ KJ ~ 5 Comments

I am the type of person who will approach someone if I have a problem with them. Perhaps that is why I could never understand why people anonymously report other people.

I mean, I could have used some anonymous reporters throughout my ENTIRE CHILDHOOD. That is when I needed someone to report. But no, no one reported shit back then. They all pretended like they couldn’t see what was right in front of them.

Instead, I’ve had to deal with anonymous reporters throughout my adulthood. There were quite a few instances at work (which just reinforces that my original workplace was a shit show) where people wrote anonymous letters to my boss (and even to corporate) about me and others involved with me.

Really, there was no reason to. I was there to work. I never wanted a promotion, I was never trying to take over someone’s job. But some people don’t like to see others succeed, so they sabotage them.

Many years ago, the front end manager was out on leave. I covered her. I worked without a day off because there really was no one else. I didn’t want the store to fail. And you know what? My team was #1 in all of the metrics. We were on top. And I never once yelled at or threatened anybody. I used positive encouragement. I told my team that if we reached a certain goal, I would buy them all lunch. And I did. Everyone was happy.

And then someone left an anonymous letter on the store manager’s desk. The letter claimed I was mistreating the employees, that they did not want to work under me, that I was mean. It didn’t make any sense considering the great job everyone was doing, but the store manager automatically jumped to believing this anonymous letter as truth, and pulled me from managing the front end. I wasn’t hurt by the change in position, but I was hurt that someone went out of their way to knock me down when I did nothing wrong.

Then there was the anonymous reporter (again at work) who reported me for working off the clock among other things. Technically, I wasn’t working off the clock. I did not want to go home after my shift (for obvious reasons), so I would go and hide in the back warehouse office for hours. My mother thought I was working, so I was covered in that regard. But really, it was just my safety zone. I would sit back there and read a book; sometimes, I would clean if I was really bored. A few times I helped out if they were really behind. But everyone sort of knew and no one ever had a problem (I had been doing this for a long time).

The anonymous reporter also accused me of having inappropriate relationships with management. Well, the assistant manager did drive me home quite a bit. I would often stay to work late shifts and she fed me and drove me home in exchange for me staying. I wasn’t hurting anybody. There was no inappropriateness there. No one questioned why the anonymous reporter knew I was being driven home by this person. They didn’t see the creepy factor in that at all. No, it was all about me and my supposed wrongs.

When I found out about the letter, I cried. I cried for the entire day. My face was so swollen I had to hide it in my hoodie. My manager bought me a giant stuffed animal (it was Valentine’s Day), but it wasn’t enough. How could it be? I was no longer allowed to stay in the back office. My sense of safety was literally stripped away from me. And why? Because someone wanted to be an asshole. There was no other reason. This person didn’t see or understand how much he/she was really hurting me. Now I had to go home after work. Now I had to spend more time in hell.

Then there were anonymous reporters who tried to pretend they were me. They made up yahoo e-mail addresses using my name and sent e-mails to corporate about random things. Hello, why would I send anonymous reports to corporate using e-mails with my name in them? And my name wasn’t even spelled correctly. But of course, as usual, the store manager jumped to conclusions. It took him a long time to realize that it wasn’t me; everyone else saw the obvious fakery. But it didn’t matter. His mind was already programmed to hate me.

I know who some of the anonymous reporters were, but I was never certain of all of them. In reality, they may all be connected to the same people (the front end manager I covered for, her sister also worked as a night manager at the store – and the faked anonymous reports were confirmed to be from her after an investigation). Hell, some of them could have been my own mother. I would never put it past her. She’s stooped lower than that many times before.

It’s funny, when I got banished to the warehouse (which the store manager saw as punishment for me  – I saw it as a much wanted opportunity), the drama stopped. The anonymous reports stopped. I was still there, so I wasn’t the problem. Clearly someone just wanted me out of their hair. Someone wanted to be the star. That’s okay, I never wanted to be the star, anyway. It was just a job.

I thought the days of anonymous reporting were over. Recently, however, I became the target of anonymous reports once again. Not at work (thankfully, I work at a much better place now), but at school. I was a little confused when I found out, because not one person ever approached me with any concerns. Instead, they chose to go on the internet and dig up whatever they could on me (ending up at this blog), and anonymously report it.

Not a fan. Not a fan at all. I would never anonymously report someone. I would never put their education and career in jeopardy.

I’m going to turn this into a positive, though. Even though I have once again lost my faith in humanity a bit, I am making a change. I am dropping out of this school and moving on to a different program at a different school. I likely wouldn’t have done it so soon if it weren’t for the anonymous reporters. So thank you.

It’s unfortunate because I really believed I could do great things at that school. It’s going to be their loss. I just don’t like being around people who go behind others’ backs like that. But I am going to do great things no matter where I go. I have proven that by maintaining a 4.0 GPA despite my life’s circumstances. I have proven that by passing the CPCE before I even finished one semester of the program. I have proven that by the work I do every day, not only to better myself as a person, but to better society. Maybe that’s what got me into this mess in the first place. Maybe I should have just been average.

But I’m not average. I refuse to be average. I refuse to shut up and hide who I am. I refuse to conform in order to make other people comfortable. I am who I am and I have gone through what I have gone through for a reason. I am here, today, for a reason.

I don’t need anyone’s concerns now. I needed concerns before when I was a helpless child. I needed concerns when I was crying out for help and receiving denial after denial.

But I am free from that now. I have a support system. I have real, non-anonymous people who care and don’t turn away from the truth or hide from it.

Worry about someone who needs it. Worry about that child that’s being hurt right now, wishing someone would help her find her way. I’m finding my way. I don’t need anyone fucking that up for me.

Dropout

~ KJ ~ 5 Comments

I went to college right out of high school. It wasn’t the college I wanted to go to. I had scholarships to colleges and universities all over the eastern half of the United States. But it was the only college my parents would allow me to go to, because it was right next to home, and they could remain in control of my every move.

I went for 3 full semesters. I changed my major several times. Every semester, there was always a problem with my classes, some technical error messing shit up. It just added to my overall dislike of the college experience.

Then they put me in classes with students who were chronic failures. By that I mean, as a Freshman, they put me in classes full of upper-level undergrads who failed the same course multiple times, in some weird thinking that I, as a student around the same age, would be able to influence them and teach them in a way the professor couldn’t. I did not sign up to be a teacher. I wanted to learn.

Instead, I found myself dreading the days, semester after semester. I sat in my classes bored to tears. I saw the looks of frustration on my professors’ faces semester after semester. I shared in their loss of hope. A brilliant student with a bright future, wanted by all different schools, stuck at a college full of students who had little potential for success. And it wasn’t because they weren’t intelligent; so many of them were just lazy and didn’t put forth any effort. They were the athletes who came to class because they had to. They were the scholarship students who made it in based on factors outside of merit.

Despite my lack of effort and my loss of hope, I managed to achieve high rankings in my first year. I received an award medal. I was featured in local papers. And I didn’t understand why, because I didn’t even try. I felt so undeserving, because I was. I shouldn’t be awarded for something I didn’t even try to do.

So when my father got sick in 2006, it didn’t make me sad to drop out of college to take care of him. Even though I had to, it didn’t feel like a loss. I dropped out with a 4.0 GPA. I forfeited a $60,000+ scholarship. And it didn’t faze me one bit. I don’t think I would have lasted there four years. I lost my motivation to go there before I even started my first semester.

(When I wanted to go back to school, I couldn’t. Even though I financially supported myself, I was still considered a dependent and  my parents were not allowing me to go back.)

Why am I bring this up? Because I feel the same thing happening again. I feel myself leaning towards dropping out of grad school. I have a 4.0 GPA. I have a scholarship. And yet, here I am, seriously considering dropping out of the University I thought for sure I would have earned my degree at.

I’ve lost my motivation to go. My experience there has been ruined for reasons I still don’t understand (and for reasons I can’t write about). I feel a sense of dread about starting classes again. I am no longer a proud student. I am angry and hurt. I am disheartened. I feel let down. I feel attacked. I don’t think I can continue for three years at a place where I no longer feel comfortable to be myself, to be honest, to be me.

I’ve spent the last week exploring other options. Other options exist. Much more affordable options. At places where I can start over, and hopefully not be judged for who I am.

I need to be motivated. Once I start to lose that, even a little, it ruins the experience for me. And this has happened again, as it has happened so many times before in my life.

Twice a dropout. Twice a 4.0 GPA dropout. Twice a scholarship-forfeiting, 4.0 GPA dropout.

It’s time to reassess

~ KJ ~ 5 Comments

It’s been a hectic two weeks. I have a lot of decision-making to do in a short amount of time.

I’m not feeling well. I’ve been working all week, which is good for distraction, but bad for leaving me any extra energy to apply to my life outside of work. Pain is also draining me, and I cannot get an appointment to get cortisone injections earlier than the middle of June. By then, I may just amputate my own feet (I’m kidding – I don’t have the energy for self-amputation).

Recently, my abilities were questioned. Now I have to deal with more shit on top of the shit I already manage on a daily basis to fight for something I shouldn’t have to fight for. It’s not that I can’t manage more shit; I feel I shouldn’t have to. I have never given anyone any reason to doubt me, or any reason to question my ability to do anything. I have never and will never put anyone in harm’s way.

Regardless, I am now questioning my life’s path. Maybe I am not where I am supposed to be. I have sort of, unfortunately, lost the motivation to continue where I am at. Part of me wants to stay so I can prove to these people that I can do anything I want to do, but part of me doesn’t want to be around people that feel the need to bring other people down.

I’ve been looking at other educational options. Perhaps entering a new program at a different school. Perhaps pursuing a doctorate instead of a masters. I’m not questioning my pursuit of psychology and counseling. That will never change. It is actually something I will need in order to be taken seriously, especially as I continue to grow PAFPAC. I want to be a counselor. I have had so many shitty experiences with counselors and I know that something needs to change. There are cracks in the system that need to be fixed. And I believe I can do that.

There’s just so much to consider. I wish I was more financially comfortable so I could take time to consider everything. I considered asking my grandmother for a loan – that is how desperate I’ve become. My grandmother seems oblivious to everything (as you can read here) and I’d be putting myself at risk of interacting with my abusers if she tells them about the whole thing. I’m still considering it, I just don’t know either way at this point.

I wish I could work more jobs, but it’s physically impossible at this time. I fear I will need surgery again to repair the damage in my foot. I never had the surgery I was supposed to have last summer because that was the time I ran away, and my feet are significantly worse now than they were back then. If surgery happens, I’m really screwed. I can’t afford to be out of work. Hell, I can’t even afford to be working.

It sucks right now. Everything just sucks. But I keep on keepin’ on.