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I am feldman's raging burnout
Feb. 22nd, 2010 05:06 pmI feel these days I am hanging on by my fingernails.
My priorities in life
are completely inverse to the amount of time
I spend on them.
Though 'spend' is wrong when hours are grudgingly sold
and moments stolen.
I'm reviewing math before my placement test in two weeks, using my mom's college text. It's more portable than the monstrosity I have from last term, stored in a binder because the glue wouldn't hold it together more than 10 weeks under use. Mom's was purchased (used) forty years ago at the same college bookstore I just dropped $300+ at in January. Well, technically the same store--though it's a B&N outlet now. This is the institution my mom walked away from in frustration; sick of misogynistic professors and ever-changing program requirements, among other obstacles. This is my target for grad school, and as a post-bachelor it's showtime right here and right now. Every test and assignment from here on out either adds or detracts from my application to the program this fall.
I have 10 hours of classes: Statistical Methods, Technical Communication, International Health. In the first week of March I have two placement tests: Math and Chemistry. By December I need to have taken math, chem, physics, physiology. By December I need to have worked in clinics to some extent: shadowed, volunteered, picked the brains of therapists and earned their recommendation. It feels impossible because I'm still working.
There's this feel-good story about how people return to college in later life, how they study after the kid's bedtimes, how they plug away for years until that one shining day when they cross the finish line and everyone applauds and they walk into the sunset with their sheepskin and their set of golden bootstraps.
This is not that story.
This is me, annoyed with a cold and dreading tomorrow because on Tuesdays I'm non-stop for 17 hours and I come home to everyone asleep. This is me, with an inch of uncolored roots that are at least recently washed for a change. This is me, thinking I will not make it to the end of this term, when I might have the ability to quit this paycheck and give more of myself to the shit that really matters. This is me, trying to make peace with being mediocre at work and brilliant at school, when I love being brilliant all the time. This is me, clinging to the health insurance and paying down as much of our debt as I possibly can before I finally give up the ghost and walk out the door, sick of shoving my family and my studies into the interstices of 40 hours of brain-rotting boredom and sick being paranoid that this leech of a job will weaken me just enough that I lose focus and blow it.
This is me, at work:
My priorities in life
are completely inverse to the amount of time
I spend on them.
Though 'spend' is wrong when hours are grudgingly sold
and moments stolen.
I'm reviewing math before my placement test in two weeks, using my mom's college text. It's more portable than the monstrosity I have from last term, stored in a binder because the glue wouldn't hold it together more than 10 weeks under use. Mom's was purchased (used) forty years ago at the same college bookstore I just dropped $300+ at in January. Well, technically the same store--though it's a B&N outlet now. This is the institution my mom walked away from in frustration; sick of misogynistic professors and ever-changing program requirements, among other obstacles. This is my target for grad school, and as a post-bachelor it's showtime right here and right now. Every test and assignment from here on out either adds or detracts from my application to the program this fall.
I have 10 hours of classes: Statistical Methods, Technical Communication, International Health. In the first week of March I have two placement tests: Math and Chemistry. By December I need to have taken math, chem, physics, physiology. By December I need to have worked in clinics to some extent: shadowed, volunteered, picked the brains of therapists and earned their recommendation. It feels impossible because I'm still working.
There's this feel-good story about how people return to college in later life, how they study after the kid's bedtimes, how they plug away for years until that one shining day when they cross the finish line and everyone applauds and they walk into the sunset with their sheepskin and their set of golden bootstraps.
This is not that story.
This is me, annoyed with a cold and dreading tomorrow because on Tuesdays I'm non-stop for 17 hours and I come home to everyone asleep. This is me, with an inch of uncolored roots that are at least recently washed for a change. This is me, thinking I will not make it to the end of this term, when I might have the ability to quit this paycheck and give more of myself to the shit that really matters. This is me, trying to make peace with being mediocre at work and brilliant at school, when I love being brilliant all the time. This is me, clinging to the health insurance and paying down as much of our debt as I possibly can before I finally give up the ghost and walk out the door, sick of shoving my family and my studies into the interstices of 40 hours of brain-rotting boredom and sick being paranoid that this leech of a job will weaken me just enough that I lose focus and blow it.
This is me, at work:
