Monthly Archives: September 2009

Learning to be less stressed

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Remember how I graduated with an A.S. in Multimedia/Web Authoring from the community college I went to? For that degree, I had to take two college-level English courses: ENG-101 and ENG-112. ENG-101 was all about essay writing. We read a lot of different sources and then wrote very complicated essays. Some of the topics were pretty deep for a freshman level class, but I loved it. I learned a lot about how to write an essay, and a lot of the things my high school teachers had taught me got thrown out. (For instance, I could use the first-person when writing a paper.)

Then came ENG-112, which focused more on literature and writing in response to that literature. I enjoyed the stories, but my assignments weren’t as tough as they’d been in ENG-101. I sucked it up and finished, and then thought I’d never have to take another English course again; even though reading and writing are my strong points, I was excited to have crossed those off my To Do list for my degree.

When I graduated and then decided to transfer to the university I’m attending, I assumed both of those English courses would transfer over. How could they not?

Except, they didn’t. At least not completely. And I couldn’t explain it to you even if I tried, because I’m still not sure I get it.

Both times I met with an advisor to register for classes (I had to drop out the first time because I couldn’t afford it), I was told that my ENG-101 transferred but the ENG-112 didn’t because, at Southern, it’s part of my Communications requirement. Which made sense, because at NVCC ENG-112 was about literature. I didn’t protest because how could a second-level college English class hurt me?

Fast forward to last night, when I sat with my eyebrows crinkled. Why is he going over the essay rubric piece by piece now when we had to read it over for homework? I tapped my pen and began to jot down ideas I had for a new thesis. Suddenly, I sat up fast in my seat. The syllabus, I need the syllabus! I opened my folder and pulled out the syllabus.

The very first line said, “Please note that ENG-112 used to be ENG-101.” Now I knew why we were going through the writing process so slowly. I sat in shocked, frozen silence for a long time. How could they do this to me? Why, instead of moving forward with my college education, was I suddenly thrown not one, but two steps back? Why would they make a transfer student take the same beginner’s class again?

I tried to focus my attention on my open notebook and the new ideas I had scribbled on it, but my mind raced. Should I go to the temporary advisor I’d met with earlier this summer? Should I talk to my professor after class and see what he thought? Should I go to the Chair of the English Department and demand that something be changed for me? I envisioned running around chasing people the same way I had chased down the Dean of Academic Affairs when trying to graduate from NVCC when an advisor had told me to take the wrong class — and that wrong class eventually almost prevented me from graduating.

Okay, I thought. I can either drive myself crazy trying to get this fixed (and it probably won’t happen anyway), or I can just suck it up and deal with it. I can ask Will if I can change my thesis for this essay, and explain to him my situation, and see if I can make this work.

And just like that, I let it all roll off of me. I didn’t think I was even capable of such a thing, but I guess I am!

PS: I have not smoked a cigarette since my birthday, when I partied a lot and smoked a little (and decided that, even drunk, I no longer like cigarettes). I miss them a little sometimes, but mainly I’ve been doing just fine without them.

Cracking

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Yesterday, I got no answers. Instead, I went for more blood work. Because apparently the hospital that my rheumatogolist’s office is connected to does blood work better than the place I normally use.

By the time I got home I was exhausted, emotionally and physically, and starving. And I still had to go out to the pharmacy to buy my golden birth control.

Somewhere between the pharmacy and home, I got into a huge fight with someone because they lied to me. It wasn’t the first time, so I was livid. There’s nothing I hate more than a liar. By the time I got home from that, I was beyond Tired and all the way into I Packed My Bags and Went Crazy. Dad asked me something about work, and I lost it. I cried all over myself and my mom, and then cried some more.

Three weeks into not sleeping, working part-time, running a business, going to school full-time, and running a pen pal support group, and I lost it. I feel like a total failure.

I told Mom about how, at night, I literally wake up in the dead of night (four, five in the morning) with urgent tasks such as “Set up email on Google!” and “Check Spyware Doctor to see what it found while scanning!” Some days I wake up even before my alarm goes off. I toss and turn all night, my mind racing with everything I need to get done. Because it needs to get done, or the world is going to explode or implode or something like that.

I’m also up at night in pain a lot of the time, or toss and turn worrying about test results. So, no sleep + stress + multiple jobs = AAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHH! (Imagine here a little Lizzie Maguire stick figure running around, except she should look like me. If anyone wants to draw said Lizzie Maguire stick figure for me, go right ahead!)

Mom sat on the floor with me and gave me several relaxation techniques I can use at night to try to shut my mind the fuck up. One of them is repeating the same word (it should be a soothing word) over and over when I start to think of my To Do list. I did that last night, and it helped a little.

I have a lot I need to think about. Obviously, something has to go. I can’t do it all. If I could sleep better, I could probably handle it all better. So I’m going to work on that and see how it goes.

Tell me what I want to hear

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This afternoon, I get my blood test results. I have to admit, my hopes are really high. I’ve also got this nagging fear that my rheumatologist is going to look at me and say, “Everything’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with you.” I have this superstition that my blood tests are only going to show something if I’m in pain during the blood work. (When my double stranded DNA came back positive, my right leg hurt like a bitch. I was convinced that whatever is wrong with me will only show up when I have symptoms. My mom said that isn’t possible, but I’m still kind of superstitious.)

I just want answers. I want the rheumatologist to say, “You have blahblahblah. Here’s what we’re going to do to help you.”

I can’t really think of anything else. I won’t be able to relax until this afternoon. And even then, will I just end up frustrated and disappointed?

Today is going to be a very, very long day.

Going crazy, wanna come?

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I’m broke. My pharmacy tried to kill me. My uterus feels as if there were a kitten inside of it trying to claw its way out.

Ah, yes. It’s good to be me.

Between doctors appointments and being sick, my check was… a lot less this week, and will be… even more less next week. Normally, I’d tap into my savings account, but I’ve already done that. The money in there is supposed to go toward repairs for my car: mounts, brakes, blower motor. I have a little money left in my business account, but tax season will soon be upon us and I would sort of like to be able to pay said taxes without scrambling or resorting to selling oregano as marijuana. (I’m totally kidding about that last part. Please don’t come after me, FBI.)

So I’m a little tight for money. I have yet to buy my mom a birthday present, even though her birthday was two weeks ago. I feel like the biggest jerk alive, even though she says she doesn’t care. Of course she doesn’t care! She’s my mom. But I still feel like she deserves so much, and I can’t even give her one little birthday gift.

On top of all of the being broke, my pharmacy has it out for me. Somewhere along the line, someone screwed up my birth control dosage — which explains why, for the last few months, I’ve had awful cramps. As in, I don’t ever get cramps. As in, they fucking HURT. (Did I mention the kitten? Yeah. Enjoy that mental image.) To make a long story short, I’m supposed to be on a higher dosage birth control that does NOT have a generic version, and someone fucked up and gave me the generic version — of a lower dosage, and lower price. So tomorrow, when I go to pick up the correct, non-kitten-clawing-its-way-out-of-my-uterus version, it’s gonna cost me $40. I also have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow that is going to cost me $30. I so miss the insurance we used to have, the one with no co-pays that covered EVERYTHING.

I keep trying to figure out why, as a person with a normally high-paying job, I have no money. It’s not like I blow it away on stuff. I’m pretty good with a budget. I mean, there is my Target addiction, but I have mastered getting my fix without going broke. (Ask me about their dollar aisle. Do it now!!)

I have to get the birth control, because without that I’ll probably end up with a baby instead. And I’m having a hard time imagining having a baby when I am broke as it is and sleep in a dining room. (Someday I’ll get to that.)

I have to go see the rheumatologist tomorrow, because he has my blood test results and I’d kinda like to know what the fuck is wrong with me. That would be nice. (Too bad he can’t just give them to me over the phone, like Pam the PA does. But I digress.)

And the car? Yeah, I might want to have those repairs done, since I drive about forty minutes away from my city three times a week to go to school. I don’t know why, but I don’t exactly want to break down (or go without heat when the frost hits). So those repairs are kinda important.

But don’t worry. I’ll figure it out like I always do. It’s not like anyone who has ever borrowed money from me is willing to help right now (you know who you are), so I’ll just take care of it myself.

Did I mention that I’m also really stressed out right now because it turns out I have a million things to do — including taking a HUGE test — so that I can get into the Education Department at my school (so I can be a teacher)? Yeah. I won’t even get into that right now.

So how are YOU doing? :)

Joseph J. Berry

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Joseph J. Berry How do you write about someone you never knew?

There’s a lot of information about Joseph John Berry — or Joe Jr., as his family and friends called him — on the internet. I could recite the facts that I’ve gathered, that he was Chairman and CEO of Keefe, Bruyette, and Woods, and that even though he worked his ass off, he valued family above everything else. Someone else already did that.

I see some of myself in this guy. I’m an entrepreneur. I hustle. I have my own company, go to school full-time to be a teacher (Mr. Berry taught math for a while, too), run a pen pal support group, and work a part-time job. I hope to grow my little web design company into something big, so that it replaces a certain web design firm in my state. I hope to make a difference in kids’ lives the way that some teachers made a difference for me. The way that, it seems, Joseph made a difference in his kids’ lives.

Like Joseph, I also highly value my family. I envision myself as being the kind of mom who greets her kids home from school with fresh baked brownies or muffins. My best friend is my sister. I love listening to my great-grandmother talk about when she was young. I know I can always count on my aunt. I don’t mind doing things with my family, where most people my age are trying to get the hell away from theirs.

Joseph J. Berry I didn’t know Joseph, and I never will. But when I look at his photographs, I don’t see a snooty CEO. I see a man full of warmth and a big heart in his soft eyes.

I wanted to do this not because I feel like I have to, but because like Faiqa said, our nation never mourned our dead. No matter what you believe about 9/11, that is at least one truth. Joseph J. Berry — and all of the others who died that day — deserve to have their stories told. They deserve to be remembered. Not romanticized as if we knew them, but remembered as people who lived and breathed. Who worked. Who loved their families.