What's Going On

Just updating, because this time of the semester is always interesting.

For starters, I haven't really gone to classes or done homework for a few weeks now. One of the unfortunate consequences of this is that my English teacher was worried about me. I don't like it when people worry about me. Especially people I like and respect. So I met with her briefly outside of class to assure her I was ok.

During this meeting, I found myself admitting that I didn't have any excuse for missing class and that all I'd really been doing was sleeping and reading and writing and watching TV during my hiatus. She responded by saying that she understood how that might be theraputic, but she also warned me that it sounded suspiciously like depression. She overtly suggested I go talk to someone about my problems and not so overtly suggested I not do anything harmful to myself.

Some part of me wanted to be angry at her because she was being very intrusive and nosy. But honestly, I just felt bad for making her worry. I wanted to comfort her. I wanted to tell her that I'm not the kind of person that needs to be worried about. That I would never and could never hurt myself no matter how bad things got because I don't like pain and am terrified of death. That I'm not depressed. Or that if I am, it's fine because I don't feel sad just apathetic and indifferent and sometimes a little angry. That no matter what, I'll be ok, I'll get over it. I always have. I always will. I'm just that kind of person.

Of course, I didn't tell her those things. Instead I just asked her not to worry without providing her good reason not to. Even still, I hope it helped a little. I don't like when people worry about me.

Speaking of teachers, I had to meet the English department chair not too long ago for him to sign my degree sheet so that I can graduate. I took a class with him one semester: post-modernism and film. He is the most intelligent, intellectual, verbally eloquent person I have ever met. I think I idolize him a little. I always want to seem smart in his presence. I want to seem worthy of speaking to him. But when I go near him, I always feel like I'm bumbling.

On the last day of the class I took with him, he handed back our final papers. When he gave me mine, he said "much better." He said this because my first paper for that class had been crap. I didn't want to write it. I spent not nearly enough time on it. It was crap. I knew it. For the last paper, I made sure I wrote a brilliant paper because I wanted him to know I was a good student and an intelligent person. So I was happy with his praise, but already knew the thing he told me. So all I said to him was "I know."

I've been kicking myself for that comment ever since. I wonder how it sounded to him. Arrogant? Dismissive? Suspicious? I can't help thinking I should've expained it more or just graciously said "thank-you." When I was on my way to get him to sign my degree sheet, I was actually considering apologizing for the comment.

But of course, when I got to his office I did no such thing. I wasn't even sure if he remembered me. I was just one student from one of his classes. So everything was business when I saw him. For both of us. Until I was about to walk out with my signed degree sheet. He called me by my name and asked me how I was doing.

I wish he hadn't. I almost spilled everything about how I was feeling about life, school, family. But I couldn't. A man like him, a tenured univeristy professor with a B.A., an M.A., and a PhD could never understand lack of motivation, right? So I just mumbled something about senioritis and he wished me luck getting through it. Then I left. And now I've got even more to kick myself about.

In a drastic change of subject, the final project for my playwriting class is that one of the theatre troops on campus will be putting on a ten minute play from each student in my class. I sat in on the rehearsal for my play today. It was a decidedly bad experience. I won't bad mouth the director or actors, because that's not nice, but it's really hard to watch something you wrote be misinterpreted or just mauled.

I mean...when it was read in my class, it went over really well. My classmates understood it. They knew when it was funny and they knew when it was serious and they undertood why. But the actors don't seem to get it. They kept trying to be serious and realistic when they were supposed to be dramatic and over-the-top and funny. And when they were supposed to be realistic, they just came off as ingenuine. The director seemed to understand what I intended with the play, but didn't seem to convey it to the actors well. Of well, I'm prepared to be dissapointed with the production. I guess there's a lession in that, namely that I'm not meant to be a playwriter. I don't like my work in other people's hands.

In other news, I have a ton of work to do and I'm not doing it at all. I have a paper that's a month late. I have a paper that's a day late. I have a paper due today. I have a paper due Monday. I have a project due Monday. I have an exam on Thursday. I have exam on Friday. It'll all get done eventually, I suppose.

Someone told me not too long ago that they like this me. The fuck the world, I do what I want me. This me, they said, is sexy.

I suppose it would be if I actually felt that way. But I don't. I'm not thinking "I don't want to do my work, so I'm not going to." I am thinking "I don't want to do my work, but I have to." And even if I don't have to, it still feels that way.

I don't feel liberated or sexy, just trapped. I'll be so damn happy when school is over and I'm finally let out of the cage, even if only to stretch my wings for a little while before being put back.