part 95, or "keepin on keepin on"

So it's been awhile, huh?

I spent the entire Christmas break hunkered down, eating and reading novels. I managed to gain back the weight I lost when all of the shit started going on with my mom. With all of my food issues, it is a pleasant surprise to find that I am actually relieved to have put that weight back on, to feel just right again, just healthy. I never thought I'd see that day. One more point for progress, I guess.

I started back at school a couple of weeks ago. I didn't pass my statistics class with a high enough grade to go on to the next statistics class. That means I am not graduating AGAN.

I didn't mind doing all of the work in the stats class, but when it came down to the tests, I had a very, very difficult time just getting the information from the test question into my brain long enough to process it and keep it all together so that I could spit out an answer.

Its been terribly frustrating. I spoke with the head of the department, and had a meeting, as well. My problem with stats is that the part of my brain needed to do that shit has been pretty much vaporized by high levels of cortisone. In other words, PTSD killed the stats part of my brain. I presented the argument that the university was not providing adequate accommodations to regarding my disorder, but they just suggested that I change my major.

I actually cried during that meeting. None of the tears made it all the way out of my eyeballs, so maybe it wasn't really crying. But I just sat in front of those people and told them that I could not - was not capable of - processing that type of information in the format required to pass the class. I already have accommodations through the disabilities office - I get extra time on exams. They kept referring to that in that meeting, as though I had not just told them repeatedly that I could have all the time in the world, but my brain is not going to eventually re-materialize and allow me to do the goddam statistics problems.

They gave me the guidelines for appealing their decision to the dean's office and wished me luck.

In the meantime, I'm 10 credits short of a bachelor's degree. I technically have almost enough credits for two bachelor's degrees, so what else could I do? Go home and cry? I've been struggling to get through this shit for over six years, and that's only the six years at this particular university.

I've been struggling with it my whole life, to achieve this recognition by society that I am smart and hard working. I didn't finish high school, and I only had one semester left of that. I only lasted one and a half quarters the first time I tried to go to college, and that was almost fifteen years ago.

But I've never stuck with something as long as have with the process of getting this fucking piece of paper that will validate my worth on a mainstream level. I quit high school with only a little way to go, and I have resented the stigma of being a high school dropout ever since. The stigma has largely been imposed upon myself, but when my brother and sister graduated from high school, they got parties and cakes and presents and money and a financial and social boost into secondary education.

When I got my G.E.D., I got my mom off my back and a certificate in the mail.

I tried to be proud of my high scores, but no one really cared that much. Apparently, scoring in the top 10% on the G.E.D. does not mean anything beyond gaining the eligibility to work at a gas station.

When my brother was failing his senior year, my parents enrolled him in a private school where he was able to finish up and graduate on time.

My sister never struggled with such things, so it was easy for her to stay on that path, going from home to college to a house in the suburbs. My brother didn't go to college right away, but he became a missionary instead. He spent a few years travelling the globe and telling people about Jesus, and his star shined just as brightly as my sister's.

I became a homeless drug addict, and then got pregnant with my drug dealer's baby at the age of 18. I married him, and we went off and worked our asses to the bone to take care of ourselves and our baby, but that apparently counts about as much as scoring high on the G.E.D. I don't suppose it was any big surprise to anyone at all when we got divorced and I moved back in with my parents less than two years later, my baby boy alongside me.

I didn't ask my parents if I could move back in, I just did it. I figured that way they couldn't tell me I couldn't live there.

My mom made it very clear to me - over and over again - that she was not going to be one of those people who end up raising their own grandchildren. The idea of leaving my baby in the cesspool that was my childhood home had not once crossed my mind, so I didn't take it too personally.

Not at that time, anyway.

I don't like to think I sit around and feel sorry for myself. I have always believed that if I didn't succeed at something, it was because I did not put forth enough effort. My parents did tell me I could grow up to be anything I wanted, but then they taught me to believe I was too lazy to do the work to get there.

I wasn't lazy. I was traumatized. By them. A lot. Fucking assholes.

Anyway, here I am now still trying to do the work and not succeeding. But now I know it is not because I am lazy. Its because I grew up in a goddam horror movie and the constant threat of inescapable pain and death made it hard for me to concentrate on my school work.

That's what it felt like in that meeting - like it didn't matter how hard I worked, something that harmed me a long time ago and was completely beyond my control would prevent me from achieving the success of getting that stupid piece of paper that would mark my social position as "college graduate."

I don't really think that piece of paper is stupid. I imagine if I do eventually get one, I will sleep with it under my pillow for a few nights, and then have it professionally mounted into some garish display of pride, one that screams, "I'm a college graduate!" It would be awesome.

So instead of quitting, I decided to go ahead with the appeals process and go to the dean with the other papers I have - the ones that say I am broken, but its not my fault, and that the university is legally bound to accommodate my disability so that I can graduate after pouring thousands of dollars and hours and sweat and tears into their undergraduate psychology program.

I guess we'll see how that goes.

For now, I am in the process of changing my major to (drumroll, please) CRIMINOLOGY! I don't know if this criminology program existed at the time I started school, but I'm glad I found it, even if it is six years later and will add at least another year of going to school before I graduate.

Despite the many frustrations and disappointments, I am actually really enjoying going to school again. I'm excited about what I am learning, and am confident that I can do this. The only stats requirement for this program is a class called "intro to political research." I mean, come on. I can do that with my hands tied behind my back while in a dissociative trance (it feels really good to be able to laugh about these things, even if no one else gets it).

Who knows? Maybe by this time next year I will be about to graduate with two bachelor's degrees and several minors.

I have seen this t-shirt on campus a lot: WARNING: EDUCATED BLACK WOMAN. I love it because it is so true - empowering an entire class of people who have been systemically programmed only to fail is truly frightening to the people already in power.

I'm thinking maybe I will get a t-shirt that says: WARNING: EDUCATED MENTALLY ILL WOMAN. That sounds very frightening, don't you think? I don't think I'd actually have the balls (how misogynistic - maybe I will just start saying that I don't have the ovaries) to do that, but it puts a big smile on my face imagining that I will.