In the two years that I have been a college student, I have had only three mental breakdowns.
The first one occurred in my very first semester, when I was trying to get into the swing of things. I had had this complete and utter fucktwit of an English professor who loved it when people gave the wrong answers because for him, that was a perfect excuse for him to rip into those people like they were one of those pig corpses on Deadliest Warrior. Anyway, the day after that, I remember being so overwhelmed by the pressure that I ended up missing my last class of the day.
The second mental breakdown I had was last semester, when I was taking a Photojournalism class (it was only a month in when I realized that my talents were in writing, not pictures, but I digress). The professor who taught that particular class was a total dick as well, but it was his last semester teaching, so I guess I could understand where he came from. He was such a dick that he spent an hour and a half giving a lesson on the iPad and all the fancy-schmancy shit it came with. But what really rates him high on the dick scale was the way he ripped into people's pictures as well, like they didn't meet his standards of photography. Needless to say, I relinquished my mother's camera to her the last day of classes and devoted myself to writing from here on out.
The third mental breakdown took place last summer, when I took this class called "Human and the Divine." How the fuck was I supposed to know that "the divine" meant "the divine Lord?" Anyway, this professor was attentive and precise, but the way he graded was so harsh! I remember having the worst crying jags during class time, all because I wasn't as religiously insightful (if that's even a phrase). How I passed that class with a C-, I will never know.
These mental breakdowns taught me one lesson: stay away from teachers who are in their last semesters of teaching. They may be douches when it comes to grading.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
My Totally Mind-Blowing Epiphany, Part 2
*To my two loyal fans, I apologize for the lateness of this post. Life has decided to suck me into its gaping maw with its flailing tentacles, thus rendering me unable to post.*
In my last post, I shared with you all some details about the uncertainties I experienced during my work at my school's newspaper. And now I'm going to talk about the aftermath of my father's death.
After my father died (he was 41 years old), I was in a state that could only be described as a combination of three things: shock, relief, and acceptance.
I was shocked that he had passed so early because, for one, we (my mom, brother, and I) had done everything we could to ensure he stayed alive for as long as he could, and this year was the moment he decided to give up the ghost?
The relief came after realizing that I no longer had to center my life around him anymore. I could finally go out and do things people my age could do, like get hammered beyond belief and stay out till all hours of the night and shake what my crazy mom gave me.
And finally, the acceptance came after the relief. You see, from the time I was 12 years old up until February 4 of this year, my family and I were already going through Elisabeth Kubler-Ross' Five Stages of Grief, and the stage I was more focused on was the anger stage, because I was so pissed that my dad, of all people, had to be stricken with multiple frickin' sclerosis. So when my mom knocked frantically on my door and told me the heart-wrenching news, I was indeed shocked and horrified, but I was relieved and ready to move on, because that is, in fact, what my dad would have wanted.
Of course, this was all short-listed because I did some reflective thinking for a month, and I realized that my father was the cause of my paranoia and self-criticism. It wasn't enough that he had an intelligent daughter who was capable of spelling words most adults couldn't (at the tender age of 6). No, he had to make sure that I shared the same interests he did, which included Stephen King, Japanese programming, and a shitload of depressing 'fairy tale' stories (thanks a lot, Hans Christian Andersen). And if I didn't, he would just belittle the things I liked and accuse me of becoming a shallow little girl.
Even worse was my grandmother, who had her own plans for me. Because big breasts tend to skip a generation on my mother's side of the family, my mother and grandmother assumed I would be a member of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee. Lo and behold, right after I turn 11, I get boobies.
From the ages of 14 to 17, I busted my ass to make my grandparents happy. I sang in the choir, went to rehearsals, I even tried to pay attention to the sermons. But it was never. Fucking. Enough. Not a Sunday went by that they wouldn't pull me over about some minor detail, like my clothes (that they picked out for me, no less) or my hair or the way I talked to the elders of the church. They would even talk shit about the younger members, and expect me not to follow their example.
You could only imagine their shock when I called them one Sunday morning in January 2008 and told them I was leaving church. Naturally, their responses included gems such as "you're being possessed by Satan" and "God wants you to come to church faithfully" and shit like that.
So, to wrap this up, my father's death was my mind-blowing epiphany. And from here on out, I make the decisions in my life that I deem best for me.
Anyone who doesn't like it can suck it dry.
-- Lissa.
In my last post, I shared with you all some details about the uncertainties I experienced during my work at my school's newspaper. And now I'm going to talk about the aftermath of my father's death.
After my father died (he was 41 years old), I was in a state that could only be described as a combination of three things: shock, relief, and acceptance.
I was shocked that he had passed so early because, for one, we (my mom, brother, and I) had done everything we could to ensure he stayed alive for as long as he could, and this year was the moment he decided to give up the ghost?
The relief came after realizing that I no longer had to center my life around him anymore. I could finally go out and do things people my age could do, like get hammered beyond belief and stay out till all hours of the night and shake what my crazy mom gave me.
And finally, the acceptance came after the relief. You see, from the time I was 12 years old up until February 4 of this year, my family and I were already going through Elisabeth Kubler-Ross' Five Stages of Grief, and the stage I was more focused on was the anger stage, because I was so pissed that my dad, of all people, had to be stricken with multiple frickin' sclerosis. So when my mom knocked frantically on my door and told me the heart-wrenching news, I was indeed shocked and horrified, but I was relieved and ready to move on, because that is, in fact, what my dad would have wanted.
Of course, this was all short-listed because I did some reflective thinking for a month, and I realized that my father was the cause of my paranoia and self-criticism. It wasn't enough that he had an intelligent daughter who was capable of spelling words most adults couldn't (at the tender age of 6). No, he had to make sure that I shared the same interests he did, which included Stephen King, Japanese programming, and a shitload of depressing 'fairy tale' stories (thanks a lot, Hans Christian Andersen). And if I didn't, he would just belittle the things I liked and accuse me of becoming a shallow little girl.
Even worse was my grandmother, who had her own plans for me. Because big breasts tend to skip a generation on my mother's side of the family, my mother and grandmother assumed I would be a member of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee. Lo and behold, right after I turn 11, I get boobies.
From the ages of 14 to 17, I busted my ass to make my grandparents happy. I sang in the choir, went to rehearsals, I even tried to pay attention to the sermons. But it was never. Fucking. Enough. Not a Sunday went by that they wouldn't pull me over about some minor detail, like my clothes (that they picked out for me, no less) or my hair or the way I talked to the elders of the church. They would even talk shit about the younger members, and expect me not to follow their example.
You could only imagine their shock when I called them one Sunday morning in January 2008 and told them I was leaving church. Naturally, their responses included gems such as "you're being possessed by Satan" and "God wants you to come to church faithfully" and shit like that.
So, to wrap this up, my father's death was my mind-blowing epiphany. And from here on out, I make the decisions in my life that I deem best for me.
Anyone who doesn't like it can suck it dry.
-- Lissa.
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