There is some swearing in this article that is not very academic or polite; just a warning.
In the interest of exploring my creativity through this blog, I'd like to frame this post with a poem that I wrote two months after I initially drafted this post (and yes the blog post itself has sat in my drafts for two months, I had a hard time framing it in a way that didn't censor my frustrations, but also wasn't accusatory toward individuals who are doing their best).
So to start:
Is there always something?
"i imagine there are volumes of poetry inside my head waiting to be transcribed if i weren’t so fucking analytical the american education system taught me how to get an A on a book report taught me how to pass a comprehensive examination it did not teach me how to be creative without being embarrassed by my creativity it taught me that poetry and art are secondary to academia not synonymous with the word intellectual the most fascinating humans i’ve ever known are chronically artistic and i envy them because on my best days all i do is write A papers and i’m confident in my ability to create complex sentences that explain how dominant epistemologies reify racial hierarchies in order to obscure subaltern processes of knowledge production but i’ve never taken an art class because all i know is empirical evaluation what happens when a draw a shitty picture? write a shitty poem? no one ever taught me how to fail and it makes me wonder might there be poetry between every line of a textbook i’ve ever read? it’s nice to think so but i wouldn’t know i’ve never really understood poetry
And the post
I'm back, though not necessary with any newfound positivity after returning to Eckerd. I actually only opened this blog up because I just spent half an hour scream crying about how much I hate one of my majors (among other things), and I thought maybe writing through my thoughts would help.
I came into this semester excited to be back at school, excited to have a single room, excited to see my boyfriend and my friends, but really concerned about COVID and the workload that was about to be thrust onto me. As it turns out, these concerns were not unfounded. I spent the first three weeks devoting nearly the entirety of my free time to doing homework. Readings I wasn't entirely interested in, essays I have to write if I want to graduate. And then, in mid-September, I got sick. Like every single COVID symptom on the list of potential COVID symptoms sick. I was so feverish and fatigued that I thought I wouldn't make the very short walk to the health center without passing out. But I wasn't really concerned about my health so much as the fact that I was about to be majorly behind in all of my assignments for the upcoming week. Thankfully I was negative for COVID (and strep, flu, and mono too) but I still felt like absolute dogshit, I literally couldn't speak at a normal volume without having a coughing fit. I spent an entire fucking weekend guilty to the brink of tears that I couldn't bring myself to do my homework. I recall even being guilty that I sat down to try and write this post instead of doing my homework.
By the time I had recovered enough, and was feeling brave enough to do homework, I made it through four chapters of at least ten that I had to read over the next two days before I started having a mental breakdown about how I literally do not even like International Relations anymore and I don't know if I even want to go to grad school because I hate how college makes me feel.
On top of academic stress: two of my best friends left Eckerd after sophomore year, I don't live with the last one standing anymore because I have a hard time sharing living spaces with people (because I'm so type A), I'm isolated and mostly alone because I don't trust my friends COVID behavior, I feel like I have an involuntary eating disorder because the cafeteria food is so fucking bad that I am not properly nourishing my body but I don't have access to a kitchen (and even if I did I can't cook), I'm constantly nauseous because I'm not eating enough (which then makes me anxious), and I barely have time to leave my room to enjoy the outdoors unless I'm walking to class.
I keep thinking about the little tiny version of myself who used to read multiple books in a day for fun, who used to have hobbies, who played outside, built fairy houses, swam and played field hockey, figure skated, and who was constantly thinking about the future and wanting to grow up. I hate reading now. I hate it. Because it's always delivered to me in the form of a freaking assignment. I have to take notes on it and critically analyze it to get a good grade. I haven't enjoyed reading a book that I chose of my own accord since I read All the Light We Cannot See in late middle school/early high school (which was nearly EIGHT YEARS AGO). And I have no hobbies. I fucking hate it when people ask me what my hobbies are because I don't have any. I don't know what it feels like to enjoy something so much that I do it in my free time, besides stupid things like playing Minecraft, watching shitty dating shows, or decorating my room. When I was 12 I wanted to go to the Olympics for swimming; I haven't done laps in a pool for three years. Eckerd's pool has no heating or cooling system and it's always either too hot or too cold to swim in. And I literally cannot bring myself to spend time on things that don't involve schoolwork. I feel like my classes are consuming me. Usually, in the past, I've been able to drop a class or rearrange my schedule. I can't do that this semester unless I want to lose one of my two majors. And frankly, sometimes I think I don't really want to do International Relations anymore, but I've spent four years taking all of the classes I need and now I have one and a half left, and dropping feels like a gigantic, massive waste. And I would lose my financial aid for the semester if I dropped. And I'll be in even more debt for no reason.
I feel like some of my professors are so detached from the reality of what it feels like to be a student right now. Why am I expected to empathize with a professor when they explain that outside circumstances prevented them from grading my assignments on time when I am not returned the same favor? I can't read an entire book every week for four of my classes. And it's incredibly disheartening to spend a ridiculous amount of time on my coursework only to wait a month to receive a grade when I was given a week or less to do said work. I look out my window and see people on social media having fun, going to the beach, to bars, to Kappa Field, and my first thought is always "don't they have homework?" followed by "why don't they have crippling anxiety about getting COVID?" What the fuck is that? I'm really freaking proud of myself for maintaining a 4.0 the past three years and I don't want to let go of that but today, right now, I feel like I'm losing my mind.
When I was younger I wanted to be famous; rememberable. I wanted a job and a life that was noteworthy (like a famous author or musician). I wanted to impact people on a really large because I thought the idea of me living and dying without any type of legacy was terrifying and depressing. Now I almost just want to work as a fucking secretary for an OBGYN, or a college because it would mean I get to organize things all day. I guess I like organizing, if you could call that a hobby. But 16 year old me would be absolutely appalled that I have even had that thought in the back of my mind, and probably tell me I'm succumbing to the patriarchy. I'm just so freaking exhausted that I don't really care. I want to have free time again, more than just in the summer. I don't really want to have to work at all. I wish money didn't exist. I want to hang out with my cats without feeling the societal pressure that I should be doing something productive. Productivity is bullshit. It's torture. I don't understand why more people don't talk about this.
I've found, in my four years living here, that administration has a puzzling fascination with the landscaping on campus; an obsession with making sure it looks perfect. When it's not, there's a literal outrage. I wonder if they would be similarly appalled to learn that every room I've lived in at this college has mold in it; that all of my ceiling tiles were brown from water damage when I moved into my room this year; that my AC rattles so loud that I shoved a clothespin in it so I wasn't literally driven insane by it after maintenance never came; that the cafeteria food is destroying my body; that back when we had COVID restrictions in the dorms I was the only one who still wore a mask in the communal bathrooms; that being here makes me nauseous from the constant stress I'm experiencing; that I fundamentally feel unsafe in the Caf, Pub, and Library now that they've completely waved mask restrictions.
But it seems impolite to bring any of that up. It always seems impolite to advocate for myself in an academic context. And living here is overwhelmingly an academic experience, despite it also being a personal one. I've found, with the exception of a handful of professors (and I think it's important to note that they're all humanities professors; particularly those in the religious studies and gender studies departments) that there is no room for conversations like this in classrooms or during office hours. If I need to take a mental health day (or a sick day) for one of my classes, I have to write an entire essay about what I missed. Sophomore year I literally went to class six hours after I was discharged from the hospital–the day after I had an fucking appendectomy–because my professor at the time required us to an essay about what I missed for excused and unexcused absences. I had just had an organ removed. I could barely walk. And I chose to go to class because I was worried about being behind on work. That isn't sustainable. No one should feel the pressure to do that. But I don't feel like I have a choice because of the way I've been conditioned to see my grades as equivalent to my value as a human. COVID absolutely fucked my mental health, but it also make me realize that I don't have to feel this way. There are alternatives. Solutions.
Cutting the grass is not one of them.