These last few days have been a genuinely unpleasant experience. I was alone in the house with more work to do than I could really cope with, I was not getting anywhere near enough sleep (I am one of those bloody annoying people who writes most fluently and cogently between 9pm and 2am) I had too many things other than my essays on my mind, I could see that one essay in particular, a great big one that involved considerably more research and library-trips than the others, was simply not going to be anywhere near finished by the deadline… The whole thing was resonating most distressingly with the Great PhD Fuck Up of 2001 (in which, I was trying to work on a PhD, we were living with my parents because H had lost his job, I was working part-time because of PhD so we couldn’t afford our own place, I was radically disagreeing with my supervisor about, ohhh, everything, but being too chicken to say so, then as soon as H found a job and we moved to our own flat, my mother was diagnosed with breast-cancer, I took a year off PhDing to look after her, she recovered after surgery, my PhD didn’t, I promptly became horribly depressed and made life completely miserable for H into the bargain, and spent the next four years drifting in and out of bizarre short-term contracts and long spells moping about being unemployed myself, consumed to the bones with self-loathing. Ugh. Indeed).
Anyway. H came back from his family on Monday and made the mistake of giving me a hug and asking how I was doing, at which point I quite naturally burst into tears and pointed to the heap of done essays and the horrible heap of the not-done essay that was due in in the next three hours. Poor H. I’d been sounding quite chipper on the phone, because I lie, I dissemble, hah hah. I hadn’t wanted to ruin his time with his family and make him worry about me when there was nothing he could do and anyway, some mad frenzied part of me half-believed, half-hoped, that I might somehow crack the beast, possibly by finding 42 extra hours made out of dust-bunnies under the bed or accidentally warping the space-time continuum.
With H there to re-introduce me to Real World (hello Real World!) and rub my shoulders, I decided the best plan would be to hand in the three done essays, and to email my tutors and apologize, with dignity and composure and no grovelling or begging for mercy, for failing to hand in the Horrible Fourth.
And then I had another little cry, and spent the afternoon trying to talk myself out of some rather tiresome feelings of self-disgust and a tendency to catastrophize one essay into ‘I’ve failed my entire degree’.
Whereapon my tutor emailed back to say, never mind, things do sometimes get on top of us, can you get the essay done by next week?
What a waste of some perfectly good grade A anxst.
So H and I went to bed and did our duty by the clomid. And today we’re both on holiday. And wobbly-kneed and shaky, I stagger back out into the sunlight.