I received a 99% on a ten page paper I did in a span of about a day (stupid careless APA error). The paper itself was difficult for me to write. Never had I gone so personal for a class assignment. I’ve had this professor three semesters in a row because I respect his teaching style, though most others don’t. He has some of the most challenging courses, and expects students to pretty much remember the textbook. I took that as a sign to do just that. I’ve done well in all of his classes, and he’s requested to do research with him on several occasions. I felt bad saying no, but I was already set on working with my mentor. Since I am graduating, I figure I’d let him see beyond my academic performance. In this paper, I revealed my mom’s illness and my relationship. It was done with the intention to let him read into my personal life more. I’m not sure why, but I felt like I owed him that. So I did it. His comments for papers are always very insightful— he remarked about interesting theoretical concepts I touched on. But his last comment is what struck me most. He read a piece that was published and told me he was moved by it. I take it as a great compliment, especially coming from him. I guess he knew a little more about me than I thought.
Because it’s not enough to live on the good and bad memories. It’s not enough to envision the moments that happened. It will never amount the realities of what was. It was, it was, it was, but will never be again. It doesn’t get easier. No matter what distractions are around, what troubles may obstruct your view, it never gets easier. Like peeling a bandage off, life is temporary. But I cannot accept what has been for the last seven months. It is not denial, it is a sadness that continually swells. Some days are better than others, but the fact of the matter stays the same. The same thought lingers like a bad taste to the tongue. I am not at home, I will never find a home. There’s a niche carved in the center of my heart, a sore throbbing along the cortex of my brain that forever long for a missing piece. I’ve desperately tried to numb it; tipping the bottle, running the ink wells dry. No amount of displacement appears to work. Every day is a struggle. Every day is another one further from the first, but the distance between hurt and being okay is the same. There is none. It’s a continuous pain, a constant hurt. It dwells under a moldy bridge, jaded by the surrounding environment. You can’t talk about it to anyone else, heaven forbid they say anything in response. You’re trapped in this loophole of pretending to be okay and stopping yourself from mentally breaking down. My seams are slowly parting from each other, the threads slowly pulling away from where they once were. If I were Frankenstein’s monster, I would have come apart ages ago, leaving pieces of me every where I tread. You left your legacy with me and I am left in shambles.
When “teacher” = mentor, friend, and partner in crime.
I have this,
I might be on the verge of a mental breakdown. So that’s wonderful.
limbs too weak
to reach and pull myself
up and out
up and out
Dude. So stoked to work on this research with Flad. A little concerned about the time crunch, but I get to work with my mentor on research that has potential to be published! LIKE WHAT THAT’S SO COOL I CAN’T CONTAIN MYSELF.
Then I thought… shit I’m gonna miss her.
This was awesome and I shared it with all of my sociology facebook friends and my professor. Now I must share it with all my sociology Tumblr friends.