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I had such a life-altering weekend that returning to school and classes feels like the part of my life that’s out of place, not the other way around. It’s like this weekend marked a new era and now there’s no turning back.
The people I met and experiences I had at The Playground have altered my core being.
But it’s leaving me feeling hopeful. Like things are going to get better.
The world is bright, and things are good.
Things are absolutely not good, and I’m genuinely contemplating murder right now as I sit in my advisor’s office.
I thought this past weekend was a turning point for me, which was obviously a lie because returning to school was like being doused in a bucket of ice-cold water.
Dr. Edwards’s office is stuffy and smells like mildew, a scent which clings to the man himself as well. He’s an older white man who looks and sounds like a dying walrus.
I’d rather be anywhere else than sitting here, listening to him reject yet another handful of dissertation topics I’m proposing. Because it’s never just a simple “no.” It’s always more.
“I expect better from you, Ms. Hall,” the old man scolds. “Our students are held to a high standard and expected to exceed expectations in this program, not merely get by. Right now, you’re not even doing that.”
“I don’t understand,” I say, holding back all of my sassy rebuttals that come to mind.
“This is the fourth round of proposals you’ve brought me, none of which are anything remotely worthy of research, nor writing a full dissertation on.” He sighs, disappointment and condemnation dripping in his voice. “Time and time again, you present me with topics that are closer to satire than scholarly.” A cruel look overtakes his face. “At this rate, your standing in the program could very likely be in jeopardy.”
I know his remarks are nothing personal—if anything they’re fueled by his blatant misogynistic attitude toward women in the field—but nonetheless, the comments sting.
I have no problem with hard work, and I’m more than qualified to be pursuing this path. I’ve earned my position here and know that I’m worthy of my place in the program.
It’s him who’s my biggest problem right now.
“What would you advise then?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“I would suggest you take this seriously and find a topic that’s truly worthy of study. Something I can confidently put my support behind. None of this nonsense about treating minority groups or, God forbid, updating practices and procedures to accommodate degenerates.”
Tell me what you really think now.
I knew I was taking a risk with these proposals. I had been thinking about studying the treatment and specific needs of minorities for a while. Then, this past weekend inspired me to think further about how therapists interact with patients who live alternative lifestyles outside of societal norms, such as the expectation of monogamy within romantic and intimate relationships. I shudder to think how this man would react to the mention of BDSM or kink in relation to therapy.
To someone like him, the idea that there could be inherent flaws in how we train therapists is somehow an attack on him and not the field at large. He believes that his specific methods of treatment are the right way, which makes everything outside of his experience and expertise wrong, just like the patients I’m interested in working with.
His message comes across loud and clear.
Being different is a moral failing by his standards.
And I’m wrong for thinking otherwise.
His grating voice brings me back from my thoughts. “When you have a serious proposal for me, you may return. Until then, leave.”
The dismissal is a blessing, and I don’t feel like I can breathe again until the second that I’ve escaped his claustrophobic office.
Another painful meeting with my advisor and I'm no closer to figuring anything out than I was last semester. I'm trying to contain my frustration, but it's not working very well.
I leave the building that houses the offices for professors in the social sciences and start my journey across campus.
The university’s grounds are gorgeous, with lush landscaping and beautiful Greco-Roman buildings, but none of it really registers as I navigate my way to the parking garage where I left my car.
When I get there, I toss my bag onto the passenger side and collapse into the driver’s seat. Only when I’m locked safely in the confines of my vehicle do I let the tears fall.
I’m exhausted, too tired for all of this bullshit that comes at me day in and day out.
Those thoughts and feelings of wanting everything to stop have been creeping back into my mind lately, and I can’t fight them any longer. The fear of what I must face next to get through the day is overwhelming, and I’m finding myself craving the empty space in my mind where I cease to exist more and more.
