Yes, it is true. I am in the last big weekend of my doctoral degree (well, ok, I do have one other class to take in the summer, but it isn’t too heavy, so I’m totally not counting it). Meanwhile, this weekend is the big comprehensive final. It consists of 4 questions and we have 4 days to do it. Should be a snap. I started with the question I deemed easiest, as working on the hard question would have just depressed me and taken all day to stare at, much less get anything done. I started at 9:15 am. I worked from 3 to 7:30. I am still sitting here with half of one question answered. I am seriously considering going to bed.
Seriously? What the fuck is wrong with me? I really don’t know. I am sick to my stomach and have no idea what I need to do to make this happen. I started the question answering it one way then decided about 10 pm to change my answer. I liked the second choice ok and it seemed more specific, but now I can’t seem to find any research that supports that form of therapy. Fuck.
Yes, I really just want to say FUCK about this. I don’t have any clever lines or funny anecdotes, I am just feeling fucked. Also, I am having some spasms in my back, something that has never happened to me before and holy fuck does it hurt! Seriously. I am in ridiculous pain every 10 to 30 seconds, more or less. I took Motrin which my sis the nurse practitioner said would help. I still feel bad an hour and a half later. fuck.
Also, this whole stupid process really reminds me of how much I miss my dad. He is the only person in my family who would really be proud of me for what I am doing. He might be the only person in my family who would even care. He also would be helpful, listen to me read the questions and offer whatever advice he could. No, he is not a clinical psychologist, but he might offer ideas about the structure and flow of my answers that would be heard and heeded.
My dad died more than 2 years ago now. I am reminded of it frequently, pretty much every day when I get in the car I inherited from him. Also singing in the choir is a tough place for me, as I am often reminded that he never got to see me perform. My dad loved music and was especially fond of sopranos. In his last years he was very interested in Cecilia Bartoli. I have some of his discs in the car, too, but I can’t listen to them because I just want to cry when I hear them. It was a dream of mine for him to hear me perform with the local women’s choir. Plus the stupid fact that as he was in his dying days we were singing some pretty sad songs about dying and losing someone important…fuck.
Is it over yet?