What an incredible few weeks. So full. Such a rollercoaster. I went by to see Dr. Reef and ask him if it will always be like this.. This full… This overwhelming. He showed me his “to do” list, and said “yes. And no.” Perhaps I should start at the beginning.
The first week of school was great, we are in the third week now and it seems incredible that three weeks has indeed passed. The biggest thing I did, the most I could do, to get into that physics course was show up. So I showed up. Again and again. And I got in the class- which I am so pumped to be in because already it is blowing my mind all over the place. When I used to smoke weed and ponder the meaning of life, speculate about how things worked and fell or landed in place, I could have saved a ton of money and just enrolled in a physics class. It’s a conceptual physics course, so not too much math, less adding or multiplying, although there may come a time. In either case, I’m in, I’m loving it, I am grateful.
The psych class is awesome. The teacher, quirky, interesting, aggressive in her lectures, which I love. She already says things that make me uncomfortable, which means I’m learning. Humans learn best when we experience some sort of emotion with the lesson, even if that emotion is discomfort. I went to her office hours today to let her know I must leave early to catch a plane, and to thank her for making me uncomfortable in class. She laughed. I also told her she has ruined my college experience, because I now hope and expect all my professors to lecture in such a way that I am unsettled, forced into making decisions, made to think about myself and the way I function in this world.
My English teacher, who is not the same English teacher I had over summer, does not teach in the style of teaching I feel I can best blossom under. It’s just the way it is. I was furious yesterday, was supposed to take a test (I will be absent from her class this week and scheduled to take it ahead of time), she left to attend another lecture and I felt short-changed when I arrived to her empty office. So I called and left a message, listening to the phone ring from outside the door, left, returned to leave post-it’s on the door and shove my journal beneath the crack. I left again and called my Dad, super pissed. Told him if I lose points because she wanted to hit some dumb lecture instead of being my teacher I’d lose my shit.
My Dad is pretty good about putting me in check.
First of all I was 5 minutes late. Second, she was helping me out. Third, I was being increibly selfish thinking her sole purpose in life was to sit in that little office awaiting my arrival to take some retarded quiz. So I sat outside the lecture hall waiting for her to finish.
And the quiz was retarded. Not like easy retarded, just not really what I’d consider college level. It felt like high school, where I have to remember the most pedantic details of “Death of a Salesman” (which made me cry by the way). I wanted to talk symbolism. I wanted to talk about Willy Loman falling apart, about self-discovery and self-destruction occuring simultaneously in one act. But I had to remember what exactly he said to the waiter. Who he spoke with first, in his mind. I got a B-. Which made me even more pissed. Because I didn’t pay attention to those bullshit details.
So I got mad at her for failing to test me on worthy things. Because I know what is worthy. Jennie Jennie Jennie. So much to learn.
Just because this teacher wants one word answers doesn’t mean they all will. What is my part? Well, I failed to remember the small, seemingly meaningless details. So what do I do?
I study harder. I memorize the fucking play if I must. I slaughter it on my essays. Murder on my play reviews. I work harder to be a better student.
Two Saturdays ago I started to get sick. It felt like bronchitis, which makes sense because I had started smoking again. Fairly standard behavior for a nicotine addict. By Monday I felt like I was dying. I wrote all my professors, told them I wouldn’t be attending class, and smoked my last cigarette in the morning with a cup of coffee. Figured I’d feel better by Wednesday and would get smokes then. Because they couldn’t have anything to do with my bronchitis. By Wednesday I could barely breathe, went to the school nurse, the free clinic, and gave up because nobody would see me for free. Mr. Man came to pick me up, I was furious (withdrawal and sickness combo), told him I don’t care anymore, I’m just gonna go home, drink nyquil and smoke cigarettes until the cilia in my throat laid back down. He took me to another clinic, told me to stop hurting myself, and we got medicine.
I can get so upset. So angry. So furious that I forget I am getting in my own way. As long as I am angry I can’t get better.
So, no smokes, actually completely nicotine free, and ready to succeed in class despite my teacher’s style of teaching.
Even if I means I know every word of Hedda Gabler.