(no subject)
Cut for incoherent ranting re personal life:
Okay....It has become apparent to me, looking at this LJ site, that I very rarely use this journal. On the occasions that I do, it is for few reasons. Namely either through some fandom contribution (most of which, unless I got the settings wrong, are 'screened' from public view re my embarrassment over their mere existence), out of boredom, or to vent about my current state of panic/general cynicism/desperation/self-loathing/a combination of the above.
This post falls close to the latter, and quite frankly I'm writing it for the sake of it. And, yes, I am well aware this is not friends-locked, and that anyone who might come across it might have little interest in my personal life/neurotic whining. So, to anyone who might read this, I'm sorry if all this annoys you, but if I post this 'in public', it'll make me feel like I've expressed something aloud, as it were. Right here and now, it is what I feel like doing.
So...I been in a bit of a quandary today. Waking up and feeling like I didn't - ever - want to get out of bed quickly changed into a sense of horror and panic and inability to lie still and do nothing. I had to occupy my mind. Cue reading through old and possibly obsolete lecture notes, typed notes from random essays, whathaveyou. I hoard information from all sorts of sources, most of which is of little or no use. Every time I browse my collection of essays, quotations, newspaper articles etc. I am reminded of a girl I knew in school, who was once described by the teacher as knowing an awful lot of 'useless information'. Whilst I can't claim to have her memory (for writing out lengthy quotations from Tolkien on the whiteboard?), I do have a similar love of information, of gaining knowledge.
The problem being that I have never, ever, really been disciplined in it. I have read about all sorts of things, none of which I can claim a great knowledge of, but all have sparked my interest at one point or another. I am very haphazard in my interests and in what and how I study. I passed my GCSEs after finally realising that the only way to get through school was to play by the rules of the exams - do as I was told. I passed my A-levels through having much enthusiasm (and, if you would believe my tutors, talent) for my subjects and a memory good enough to keep up high grades by dint of remembering relevant arguments and not going too wild on my own speculations. It was a process that has likely been reproduced in some form by any student in Britain unfortunate to go through the same education system I did. 'Unfortunate' in the sense that, looking back to my 'accomplishments' of four years ago, I have decided that all of it, all my enjoyment, academic development and desire to succeed has come to precisely nothing.
.....And what it has come down to is this. I have been a university student for the past four years. Strictly speaking it should have been three years, except my 'final' year (05-06) crashed and burned somewhat spectacularly when I became miserably depressed, pulled out of college, and ended up in a mental stupor of the sort I haven't yet quite got out of. If anything all the experience taught me was that I wasn't as sure of myself as my two - lovely - years at sixth-form college had caused me to think. I did in fact, consider myself two steps away from being a neurotic (I use the term loosely) emotional wreck with no sense of who/what/where she was or what she was intending to do with her life. Occasionally, I still dwell on that fractured sense of 'self' (what else can I call it, it sure as Hell isn't anybody else's?) only to bury it under a determination to continue. Continue to what, you ask? Who knows?
Last summer I spent two months working at my mother's office. Two months, this is, out of a five(ish) month contract. Truth be told, I had entered into the job for the sake of having one. I had (have?) never had a 'proper' job before, having been under the impression that my time would be better spent studying. I worked in an office, in the sort of role I had once considered taking on a temporary basis, imagining that it would be a decent way to get experience/earn money. Now, most of what happened during my time there can at least in part be put down to my state of mind at the time. I considered myself worthless, my life of no real significance, and I had a sense of having to 'get used' to the world and take whatever I could. Real life just did not, could not revolve around studying. I knew, rationally, that I had to focus upon the task - 'deal with it', as I so often tell myself when faced with a situation outside of my control which I don't much like. The job ended up a failure, my usual, almost obsessive focus on detail and procedure worked well, but I simply couldn't cope with the pace and stress of the job at hand. I left the job because of that. Defeatist? Probably. But it was either that or I was in serious danger of ending up even more depressed then I already was.
Returning to university was not easy, and I cannot to this day recall why I really returned when I did. I was certainly not in the mood too. I was angry with myself, had a pessimistic view on what the outcome would be (abject failure in my perfectionist's eyes). I could have stopped there, gone back some time when I was more mature, better equipped mentally/emotionally to deal with the world. I should have done so. I went to lectures, attended seminars, did with varying degrees of success the tasks assigned (not all, but enough to get by). And my heart was not in it. It had not been in it for some time, possibly as far back as when I realised - some time in the first year - that studying English Literature would not be the doorway onto understanding the written word in a whole new light, but merely having the same old canon, the same dry criticism reiterated again and again.
Now, I know I'm reacting to this from the perspective of an amateur, an outsider. I am not an academic, nor am I an accomplished student. Someone who knew what the academic study of literature was supposed to be about could tell me, probably at great length, where I have gone wrong. And they would be right to do so. I fully admit that I am in no position to cast aspersions upon the nature of my chosen subject. I am a failure, and a foolish one at that. I had lost whatever it was had spurred me on to take the subject. I had no plan, no narrative (ha...) that I could follow, and I am not one to go through life without some idea - however fantasised - of how things might, could, will work. I feel even as I write that I'm being overly melodramatic (it is a habit, and along with my usual way of speech/writing I have no idea where it came from) but I am writing what I feel....so that, for the time being at least, counts for something. It seems that there is one 'simple' way to get along in life, and that is to get a job which pays the bills. Ain't it grand, what society expects from us? What it takes to survive? An idealist like me, well, I shall get used to it eventually. I sound selfish and conceited, and spent far too much time trying to get my head around why I feel the way I do, and what would be the best way to change it.
And here I am. I am twenty-two. I am single (that is the way people describe themselves in these sorts of situations, isn't it? "age, status, problem of choice"), and living with my family. I have never done anything of value except study. I feel I have wasted my time (and money) doing a subject I no longer care for, the consequences of which will be that I graduate with a B.A. in English so paltry in comparison to my peers that it counts for nothing. Right now I feel that, should that be the cast, I might as well go out and get the next job that would take me, for whatever money. For what it'd be worth, it would be a start....
Okay....It has become apparent to me, looking at this LJ site, that I very rarely use this journal. On the occasions that I do, it is for few reasons. Namely either through some fandom contribution (most of which, unless I got the settings wrong, are 'screened' from public view re my embarrassment over their mere existence), out of boredom, or to vent about my current state of panic/general cynicism/desperation/self-loathing/a combination of the above.
This post falls close to the latter, and quite frankly I'm writing it for the sake of it. And, yes, I am well aware this is not friends-locked, and that anyone who might come across it might have little interest in my personal life/neurotic whining. So, to anyone who might read this, I'm sorry if all this annoys you, but if I post this 'in public', it'll make me feel like I've expressed something aloud, as it were. Right here and now, it is what I feel like doing.
So...I been in a bit of a quandary today. Waking up and feeling like I didn't - ever - want to get out of bed quickly changed into a sense of horror and panic and inability to lie still and do nothing. I had to occupy my mind. Cue reading through old and possibly obsolete lecture notes, typed notes from random essays, whathaveyou. I hoard information from all sorts of sources, most of which is of little or no use. Every time I browse my collection of essays, quotations, newspaper articles etc. I am reminded of a girl I knew in school, who was once described by the teacher as knowing an awful lot of 'useless information'. Whilst I can't claim to have her memory (for writing out lengthy quotations from Tolkien on the whiteboard?), I do have a similar love of information, of gaining knowledge.
The problem being that I have never, ever, really been disciplined in it. I have read about all sorts of things, none of which I can claim a great knowledge of, but all have sparked my interest at one point or another. I am very haphazard in my interests and in what and how I study. I passed my GCSEs after finally realising that the only way to get through school was to play by the rules of the exams - do as I was told. I passed my A-levels through having much enthusiasm (and, if you would believe my tutors, talent) for my subjects and a memory good enough to keep up high grades by dint of remembering relevant arguments and not going too wild on my own speculations. It was a process that has likely been reproduced in some form by any student in Britain unfortunate to go through the same education system I did. 'Unfortunate' in the sense that, looking back to my 'accomplishments' of four years ago, I have decided that all of it, all my enjoyment, academic development and desire to succeed has come to precisely nothing.
.....And what it has come down to is this. I have been a university student for the past four years. Strictly speaking it should have been three years, except my 'final' year (05-06) crashed and burned somewhat spectacularly when I became miserably depressed, pulled out of college, and ended up in a mental stupor of the sort I haven't yet quite got out of. If anything all the experience taught me was that I wasn't as sure of myself as my two - lovely - years at sixth-form college had caused me to think. I did in fact, consider myself two steps away from being a neurotic (I use the term loosely) emotional wreck with no sense of who/what/where she was or what she was intending to do with her life. Occasionally, I still dwell on that fractured sense of 'self' (what else can I call it, it sure as Hell isn't anybody else's?) only to bury it under a determination to continue. Continue to what, you ask? Who knows?
Last summer I spent two months working at my mother's office. Two months, this is, out of a five(ish) month contract. Truth be told, I had entered into the job for the sake of having one. I had (have?) never had a 'proper' job before, having been under the impression that my time would be better spent studying. I worked in an office, in the sort of role I had once considered taking on a temporary basis, imagining that it would be a decent way to get experience/earn money. Now, most of what happened during my time there can at least in part be put down to my state of mind at the time. I considered myself worthless, my life of no real significance, and I had a sense of having to 'get used' to the world and take whatever I could. Real life just did not, could not revolve around studying. I knew, rationally, that I had to focus upon the task - 'deal with it', as I so often tell myself when faced with a situation outside of my control which I don't much like. The job ended up a failure, my usual, almost obsessive focus on detail and procedure worked well, but I simply couldn't cope with the pace and stress of the job at hand. I left the job because of that. Defeatist? Probably. But it was either that or I was in serious danger of ending up even more depressed then I already was.
Returning to university was not easy, and I cannot to this day recall why I really returned when I did. I was certainly not in the mood too. I was angry with myself, had a pessimistic view on what the outcome would be (abject failure in my perfectionist's eyes). I could have stopped there, gone back some time when I was more mature, better equipped mentally/emotionally to deal with the world. I should have done so. I went to lectures, attended seminars, did with varying degrees of success the tasks assigned (not all, but enough to get by). And my heart was not in it. It had not been in it for some time, possibly as far back as when I realised - some time in the first year - that studying English Literature would not be the doorway onto understanding the written word in a whole new light, but merely having the same old canon, the same dry criticism reiterated again and again.
Now, I know I'm reacting to this from the perspective of an amateur, an outsider. I am not an academic, nor am I an accomplished student. Someone who knew what the academic study of literature was supposed to be about could tell me, probably at great length, where I have gone wrong. And they would be right to do so. I fully admit that I am in no position to cast aspersions upon the nature of my chosen subject. I am a failure, and a foolish one at that. I had lost whatever it was had spurred me on to take the subject. I had no plan, no narrative (ha...) that I could follow, and I am not one to go through life without some idea - however fantasised - of how things might, could, will work. I feel even as I write that I'm being overly melodramatic (it is a habit, and along with my usual way of speech/writing I have no idea where it came from) but I am writing what I feel....so that, for the time being at least, counts for something. It seems that there is one 'simple' way to get along in life, and that is to get a job which pays the bills. Ain't it grand, what society expects from us? What it takes to survive? An idealist like me, well, I shall get used to it eventually. I sound selfish and conceited, and spent far too much time trying to get my head around why I feel the way I do, and what would be the best way to change it.
And here I am. I am twenty-two. I am single (that is the way people describe themselves in these sorts of situations, isn't it? "age, status, problem of choice"), and living with my family. I have never done anything of value except study. I feel I have wasted my time (and money) doing a subject I no longer care for, the consequences of which will be that I graduate with a B.A. in English so paltry in comparison to my peers that it counts for nothing. Right now I feel that, should that be the cast, I might as well go out and get the next job that would take me, for whatever money. For what it'd be worth, it would be a start....