Horror

I have been saying, vaguely, for a while, “I am going back to school.” Yesterday, my boss asked me for a specific timeline. “Let me get back to you,” I said, and went to look at the school website.

I’ve put this off for an abominable length of time, which wasn’t altogether a bad thing. I needed some time to just relax and do nothing, and stop the tunnel vision focus on MY GLORIOUS FUTURE.

But the application deadline is in, oh, about a month, so here we gooooooooooo.

I cannot describe how much I hate writing personal statements. You would not think that is true, because what the hell is a blog if not an unsolicited personal statement? But I do hate it. I hate telling my sob story. And, you know, if I were going into the School of Business or something, I wouldn’t need to tell it. But I’m going to grad school for social work, and when they ask, why do you want to do this, what are your qualifications, well, let me tell you a long story… And when I think, do I need to tell this story? I think about what my qualifications are if I don’t use my sob story, and then I panic, because jesus, I haven’t volunteered, I haven’t worked myself into the ground enough, I’ve got no qualifications, oh god, LIFE PANIC.

I try to remind myself that about once a season, I have a meltdown about something. So, well, welcome to the winter of my existentialism. This, too, shall pass.

Last night, I tried to sit down and write down every single story that I feel nudged me into the direction of social work. It’s way too long for the statement, but it was a good start to just vomit all that up. It’s been a long time since I tried to pack all that horror into a handful of pages, and I was shocked at the end by the soap opera I had. What a weird fuckin’ life!

A few years ago, when I was still married to Mr. Flint and expected to remain so, when my plan was to go straight from undergrad into law school, and straight from law school into a career, and straight from a career into motherhood and house-ownership, and straight from motherhood and career and house-ownership and husband and life into a psyche ward (this was actually on my to-do list, because even in the middle of a meltdown I am eminently practical, and estimated a total psychotic break would occur somewhere between 35 and 40 — and I don’t think I would have been wrong). During this time, I sat down to write my personal statement for law school, and it was very similar to this one — I mean, the stories haven’t changed much, I’ve just added this new one called “domestic abuse.” And I even remember writing about the same lessons I took from those stories. At that time, though, I came up with those lessons to add a literary flair to my statement. They seemed like the right lesson a character like me would have learned. I don’t think I felt them. I just knew I could fake them.

This time, I really felt like I understood those lessons in a new way, was able to accept them, integrate them, and honestly claim them as my own. And I added a few new ones, which surprised me — it’s been a long time since I was able to make sense of the fabric of my life:

Lessons From a Fucked-Up Life

1. Whenever you hear yourself say, “Somebody ought to do something about that,” that somebody is you. Nobody else will do what needs to be done; they are all busy saying “Somebody ought to do something about that,” and assuming that somebody isn’t them.

2. Doing the right thing doesn’t feel good. If it felt good, everybody would do it. If you’re expecting a reward, you’ll stop doing the right thing pretty quick.

3. There is absolutely nothing to be gained from keeping quiet about abuse.

4. Never assume. Never assume a person is as successful inward as they appear outward. Never assume that you and another person are speaking the same language, or live in the same world. Never assume that certain things only happen to certain people. Never assume that anybody deserves anything. Never assume that the bad guys get punished. Never assume that something will change unless you change it.

5. The right help at the right time is the only difference between me and the statistical outcome of most runaways. Receiving that help was a matter of luck. That is unacceptable to me. The difference between a person’s life and a person’s death needs to come down to something more than luck.

If I can find a way to say all that without making myself retch, I’ll be doing good.