Tuesday, October 8, 2013

3 Hour Night Class Ramble

I don't know if I want to be a psychologist.
I don't want to be a psych major.
In the last 2.5 months of being a psych major, I haven't admitted that.
Francisco, I think his name was.
Dr. Francisco...something.
He's partially to blame for me trying to keep my head above water while drowning in the non-major-related work of my 3rd chosen major in 4 years of college.
I got chills when he introduced himself.
Doctor.
That must feel good.
This dude couldn't have been 3 years older than me & he'd completed grad school & had a room room of 500+ used-to-be-peers referring to him as "doctor".
He was handsome & looked semi-nervous.
Tall, dark shaggy hair & a smile that, when unleashed, knocked the air out of my lungs so hard, I felt like I was falling out of a skyscraper.

Anyway, I think part of me wanted to be Francisco.
Dr. Francisco.
More so than I wanted to be a psychologist, no less a psychology student.
I even tore the University website apart looking for Francisco, about a month later.
There was no trace of him.
Nowhere.
Like he didn't exist.
Like he NEVER existed.
Like I imagined this dude.
Then, it was just me.
Alone.
In this gigantic major.

Now I'm taking Psych 101, learning about how rats fuck & sleep & eat.
I don't care.
Not even a little bit.
I just want a PhD to say I have one.
To say I'm smarter than my brother & my mom.
To prove I'm better than the last note I played on guitar.
Better than the last back-handspring I did as a gymnast.
Better than the last dirty tissue I purposely threw on my bedroom floor rather than in the garbage.
Better than the failure my anxiety tells me I am.
Every second of every day.
Never good enough.
No possible way to be.
There's grad students auditing in all of my classes.
They'll sit up with the professor or lean all cool up against a wall.
Some of them even have the nerve to stroll around the lecture center, checking for cell phones like some sort of teacher's pet-Nazi.
They're my age.
Some of them may even have just as many years of college under their belt as I do.
But they didn't fail anything.
But they didn't withdraw from anything.
Anxiety never crawled into their bed with them at 3 am, stroked their hair & told them that it's okay not to try because they'll never amount to anything anyway.

Every time one of them walks past me, I want to trip them.
I want to remind them just how close the ground always is.
That they're really not that high up.
That, just that quickly, I can be the one looking down on them.
I want to run to the front of the room, shove my professor out of the way & show everyone the inside of my mind.
Wide & open like a Montana sky.
Busy like Times Square during Christmas season.
Lush with vegetation like a tropical rain forest.
Lonely & powerful as an ocean.

Someone give me a PhD for my thoughts.
Someone tell me regurgitation isn't education.
Someone tell me the truth.

My hamster wheel is getting rusty & I get the feeling that once it breaks, I'm likely to find a way out of this cage.
I don't think I want to be a psychologist.
Maybe it's time I jump another train.
Maybe I should wait.
Maybe college really isn't for me & I'm running a race I couldn't win if I tried.
Maybe that's the anxiety talking.
Maybe that's enough writing for one class period.

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