Excuses. . .

I'm tired of excuses, especially from my students. Maybe I'm just getting old and crochety (isn't that a great word???), or maybe I'm just not being very understanding. But it seems that every semester I have a couple of students who explain to me that they are suffering from depression and anxiety and that I can call either their mothers or their therapists to verify this and that they are starting or stopping medication and that if there's any way I can be sympathetic and understanding and simply overlook their absences and missing work, they'd really appreciate it. And normally I try to be kind. I tell them that I, too, suffer with anxiety and that I know how truly terrible it can feel. I tell them that I'm so sorry to hear that things are difficult, which I am, and that I want to do what I can to help them get through this. But the truth is, I'm tired of being understanding and saying the right thing. I wonder if they assume that because I'm a relatively young female that I'll be nurturing and understanding.

What I want to say deep, deep down is something like this: "I'm really sorry that you feel crappy, and believe me, I've been there and I know how it feels. But it's no excuse. It's no excuse for missing class or missing work. I know this because I've gone through some really traumatic things, more difficult than you can imagine. And you know what? I didn't miss class or work. I didn't drop out of life. Even when I felt like I didn't want to ever get out of bed and face the world ever, ever again, even when I was probably suicidal, I just kept showing up. I kept doing all the things I was supposed to be doing, and that was the right thing to do. So if you want my sympathy, fine, you have it. I feel sorry for you. But don't think that gives you license to slack off. I've been where you are, and I know that you need to just keep showing up, even when you feel like you can't. I've done it, and I expect you to, too."

Is this absolutely the wrong response? Because I think it's totally true. And there's a part of me that just wants to say, "Enough with all your excuses. Either keep showing up and doing the work, or drop the class. Either way is fine with me. But don't stay in my class, be a big flake, then expect my sympathy."

The House

I'm in the process of purchasing my first home. Here's a photo of the exterior.

What I Wore Today

As you can see, these are great pink and tangerine and tan argyles! What could be better?

Just One More Update

I am feeling much better, although I'm still very easily exahusted. But I'm feeling back to myself, you know? I'm feeling like I want to write and read and bake muffins and do all the things that make me me. I've been touched by the concern that many of you have expressed, and I so much appreciate it.

Rest assured, that I seem to slowly be coming back to life!

One More Word About Photos

I really am interested in photography. If I thought I could, I would make a living out of it. I suspect that I'm not that talented. I realize that the sock project, as I'm now calling it, does not represent my best work. However, there's something interesting about the challenge of photographing one's self. It sounds narsissistic, but it really isn't. It's just more like a fun game. Someday, when I'm feeling more serious and have given up on the sock project, I'll maybe share some of my more serious work. I never used to think of myself as an artists. But photography is art, right? And then there's my writing. About six months ago it came to me like an epiphany: Hey, I really am a creative person! When I think about these things, I'm happy to be me.

Over the Knee Socks

Let me clarify: I do not assume that all of you are really all that interested in seeing photos of my socks. The sock project is really for my own entertainment. All of a sudden, taking photos of me in socks seemed like a really good idea. And for now, it brings me enjoyment (or at least giggles), so it's worth something.

That said, this particular photo is really of over-the-knee socks. And these are extra special because Carina sent them to me for my birthday. What a great friend! She's maybe the only friend who would realize that, "Hey, pink, striped over-the-knee socks somehow epitomize who Drennan is."

In case you are wondering, yes I do actually wear this stuff out in public. In fact, I wear this sort of thing to work. I know that my not seem all that professional, but why should I let that stop me?

I'm basically quite vain about my appearance, and I'm OK with that. The thing is that I don't want to be beautiful; I know that I'll never be beautiful. But I do want to be interesting looking. And you can't deny that a college professor who wears striped knee-highs is interesting looking.

I'm tired (again!) and headachy and don't know what to write. So here I sit, typing my obligatory daily entry. Only I don't even know what to say. I'm tired; I'm annoyed; I'm frustrated by being tired all the time.

Oh well, maybe more later.

Random: Happiness and Loneliness

All of a sudden, there' so much I want to say. And this makes me excited because if I'm wanting to write, it's like I am feeling like myself again. So here (for my benefit, as much as anything) are my current random observations about what's going on in my head.

Nearly every day, I feel overwhelmingly lonely and deliriously happy by turns, sometimes both at once. Happiness makes me want someone to share it with. And earlier today, I read Dolce Carina's reply to my post awhile back about relationships, and she confirmed that what I want is entirely normal and healthy and possible. And something about that makes me so happy.

I've been thinking today about all the labels I give myself: Christian, teacher, writer, friend, daughter, sister, neurotic, strong, independent, insecure. I wonder; am I merely the sum of all these labels? I wonder which of these is most important. I wonder if anyone will ever appreciate me for all instead of just some of these. But what does it mean that I label myself a writer? I mean, I don't go out telling people, "Hey, I'm a writer," because I don't exactly write professionally. But I do write stuff that moves me along professionally. So maybe I do write professionally sort of. But I know I'm a writer because I need to write in order to live fully. I think that some of you understand that.

Oh here's something else. And this is no exaggeration. Since moving to Vermont, I am moved on a very deep level every day by how beautiful the sky is here. When it's clear, it's a blue I don't remember in California. But when it's cloudy, that's best of all. Each morning on my way to work (it's this lovely, perfect 13-mile commute!), I think, "God, thank you for giving me this beautiful sky." So as corny as this may sound to some,I am so thankful for the sky each day. And the stars are the best of all. I've often thought that there must be a God who loves me simply because of the stars. They seem to serve no purpose; they are just beautiful. What a creative, brilliant, loving God to give us such beauty every day.

And there are all these things, these experiences, that are so full of joy each day (it's those 11 moments), that I am moved to tears (a trite expression, I know). And I think that life, just to breathe and smell and feel, is such an amazing, inexplicably wonderful thing. And I feel perfectly joyful.

But then, almost instantly, I'm aware that I want someone to share it with, that the beauty would be even fuller if only I could communicate (oh, paltry words!) just how much it all is. And that, for me is loneliness. Loneliness is the phone that doesn't ring each evening. Loneliness is the birthday card that doesn't come in the mail. Loneliness is hoping that someone wants to listen to me exult in the start, but no one is there. And I suppose that's part of why I blog. It at least gives me the illusion that I can communicate with someone who cares.

And here's the other thing. I swear that I love my friends more and more each day. Partly, I love some of you because I know that you do read this and that means I'm not alone, even if most of you are far away from me. And then I'm happy again. It's a pendulum, I guess.

My mother has often reminded me that there are to ways to have balance in life: to find rest somewhere in the middle of things or to be like a pendulum moving between extremes. Those are my words, not hers, but that's the general idea. I think that finding rest in the middle is maybe the sanest way to live. But I guess it's just not who I am. I seem to exist at the margins or the extremes or something. I used to fight it, to try to situate myself in the middle, to be quiet and meek and conservative and to follow the rules. But that's just not who I am. And as non-sane as I think moving between extremes may sound, I'm learning to embrace it because it's who I am and because it all adds up to joy in the end.

Can I laugh and cry at the same time? That's how I feel now.

Oh, but I'm here and I'm alive and I feel and I'm writing about it. And this is me. And I like it.

The Cat in the Hat

So I love these sox. And whenever I wear them, I can't decide if I feel like Pippi Longstocking or the Cat in the Hat. But I think they are super fun, especially with Mary Janes, as you see here.

I don't know why, but taking photos of me in fun knee socks seems like just such a good idea! There's something very cheerful about stripey socks.

Dreams

I seem to have a particular talent for remembering my dreams. If I dream about a particular individual, I tend to tell him or her what I've been dreaming. I suspect that others may find this rather disquieting. I'm not sure why I feel compelled to tell someone, "Oh, I had this dream about you last night, and you and I were going on a picnic, when. . ." or whatever.

But here's what I dreamed this morning:

I was in class, and the students were taking a test. There was a group of about six sitting in the back, and they were clearly cheating on the test. Also, they were making quite a lot of noise and disturbing the rest of the group. I asked them to leave the room. But they wouldn't. Naturally, I felt both angry and threatened, so I telephoned public safety for an officer to come and escort them from the room. The public safety officer laughed at me and refused to come to my classroom. He asked me how old I was and tried to tell me I was a student, not the instructor, and as such had no right to throw anyone out. Meanwhile, the students continued their blatant cheating.

What really gets to me about this dream is that the students weren't just vague, generic "students," but actual individuals I have had in class in the past or who are in my classes right now. Also, I really did give test to both my sections this morning.

Does this mean I'm insecure? I'm not sure that I think dreams mean much of anything beyond the possibility of reflecting what's on our minds. But I am suddenly feeling like I need to psychoanalyze myself or something.

BTW, don't be too put off if I should ever telephone or e-mail just to tell you that I dreamed about you last night. I tend to do that.

So, this is going to be a really banal post, I'm afraid. Today, I went back to work. I'm finally feeling a lot better. Well, my symptoms are mostly cleared up, but I still feel tired a lot. In fact, I'm exhausted now. Also, I had an echocardiogram today. I'm still not sure why the doctor ordered that, but I got to hear the different valves, and that was kinda cool. It sounded like a lot of liquid moving around in something kinda squishy, which may very well be what goes on in the human heart. If only matters of the heart were so simple.

I'm tired, and I guess I don't have much to say. But I felt like I should contribute my daily post.

My New Obsession: Knee Sox

Ok, so my new obsession (along with tea, good books, and bubble baths) is now knee socks. This has been coming for some time. I love, love, love wearing cute / funny / quirky knee highs. They are so comfy with a comfortable skirt. And in my opinion, they are perfect for work. And so what I think I should do, as I'm making a concerted effort to wear them more often, is take all kinds of pictures of me (or maybe just my legs) in fun / funny knee socks. Isn't that loads of fun?

So look for pictures of me in interesting socks. In part, I have DC to thank for this obsession.

P.S. I also have a thing for tights in interesting colors and textures.

The Golden Compass, His Dark Materials Book I

I'm reading Philip Pullman's young adult novel The Golden Compass.


I have read the book at least three times before, and I've taught it at least twice before. It is a book that fascinates me, but I can't say the same for the other two in the trilogy, oddly. I guess that I'm here writing just to sorta collect my thoughts on the first portion of the book before we discuss it in class tomorrow morning.

SIDE NOTE: My panic has subsided! I'm drinking chamomile tea and pondering the cool knee socks that Dolce Carina sent me that I plan to wear tomorrow.

Back to Pullman: So he opens with an epigraph from Paradise Lost, and the trilogy becomes this weird response to Paradise Lost and by extension to traditional Christianity. But it's this really strange, unsettling, distasteful, almost adolescent response to Christianity. But that becomes more evident later in the trilogy. Now you may be wondering (sometimes I myself wonder) why I, a professed Christian, am so fascinated by this really weird, juvenile attack on Christianity. Maybe it's because I find the criticisms hard to take seriously. Several years ago at a conference this trilogy came up in a round table discussion of YA fantasy, and I remember one participant saying that Pullman comes off like a teen ager who has decided that God doesn't exist and is angry at God for not existing. And I think that observation gets at what it is about Pullman's critique that strikes me as groundless, silly, and even adolescent in nature.

At the same time, I find this first installment in the trilogy fascinating. I suppose that one thing that is interesting about it is the way in which the conventions of fantasy as a genre seem to be questioned. But then maybe not. WARNING: THIS POST WILL BECOME A PLOT SPOILER, SO STOP READING NOW IF YOU ARE SO INCLINED!!! Really, Lyra, the heroine, discovers by the end of the novel that the people she's been idolizing are really her biological parents. But THEN she discovers that both biological mother and father are the real villians of the piece; it really hearkens back to "I'm your father, Luke!" But that's troubling. Maybe this is the larger issue: in Pullman's world good and evil, right and wrong are never clear-cut. Some would argue that this is realistic. But it's so unlike the way that fantasy typically works. This is interesting.

Pullman writes, in this particular novel, of a world that is different from ours, yet very like ours in this way. I keep meaning to ask my physicist friend about all this, but apparently there's some theory (maybe part of quantum physics?????) that there are these alternate worlds out there, one created each time a major historical event happens. Only in the alternate world, it happened the other way. And so, horror of horrors, I suppose there's some world where Hiltler lived and dominated the Western world. In the case of The Golden Compass, it seems that Lyra's world is a world in which the Protestant Reformation deviated from what we know. This seems to be this historical point of departure. Again, this fascinates me. I say that the Reformation seems to be the separating point because there is a reference to trouble which began when "Pope John Calvin" moved the papal seat from Rome to Geneva. SIDE NOTE: John Dee is also mentioned along the way; I am always on the lookout for references to Dee.

I don't know what to make of this novel. How can I so much enjoy something that so overtly attacks what I really believe in and trust and love? I suppose it's because that Pullman is critiquing a version of Christianity that, really, is unlike the Christianity to which I hold. Maybe that's my way of justifying my interest in this novel.

So I've written all this and haven't even gotten to the most ineresting, engagin thing about Lyra's world--the presence of daemons. Each human is attached to an animal daemon, which is rather like a soul, a conscience, and a familiar all rolled into one. Humans are constantly with their animal daemons, who are physically present, and they communicate with them. Daemons work to structure the development of the characters, and here is Pullman's particular genius. This is really interesting to read about.

Oh, I've not really said all I've wanted to, and I'm not sure that I've clarified my ideas at all. But just writing through some of these things is helpful. I don't really assume that any of you really want to read all of this; I write it for myself. And it is useful to me.

Panic!

For some reason, I'm feeling really panicky for the last two hours. I went to church, went out to lunch, came home, took a very brief nap, did my taxes. And all of a sudden I felt panicky. When that happens, I worry that it will become this weird, full panic attack, so I try to take measures to prevent that from happening. Usually, it's helpful if I can telephone someone I trust and say that I'm feeling panicky and talk for 15 minutes until I get distracted enough to feel normal. That seems to work. But today, there wasn't really anyone I felt like I could call; I would have tried my mom but figured she was busy with church and family stuff. So that line of defense was out. The other big line of defense is to take drugs!!! Now wait, I know that taking pills just to stop panicking may seem to you like a bad / unhealthy / crazy thing to do. If that's what you think, I don't blame you. I used to think that way too. But about four years ago, my medical doctor convinced me to try meds for my anxiety. I don't have to take them all the time, just when I feel a panic episode coming on. Apparently, this is good because it gives me the illusion of being in control. I've had therapists and medical professionals over the years encourage me to take my meds more freely. The thing is that there is a potential for addiction, so I try to be really careful and only use meds when I feel like I need them. But they tell me I can and maybe should use them more often. So when I realized that there wasn't anyone to phone, I did take a Xanax, my current med of choice. But it hasn't kicked in the way I'd hoped. So here I am, blogging about my anxiety. I've found in the past that trying to describe my symptoms and how I'm feeling to another person, someone I trust, has been helpful in working through the anxiety. I know that it's only a feeling, yet it feels very real in the middle of it. And talking seems to help. There's no one to talk to, so this seemed like a reasonable alternative.

So there we go; I'm out of the closet about anxiety and panic attacks. Most of you already know all this about me anyway. I'm thankful that I no longer feel as though I have to hide it. I've also accepted that however unpleasant anxiety and panic feel, it all doesn't mean that I'm defective. I used to feel defective. Nor do I think it means that I'm not trusting God, a diagnosis that some have given.

Sometimes, I'm just going through my day, and things are going fine, and out of what seems to be nowhere, panic strikes. The good news is that I have learned in the last year or so to manage it much, much better than I used to.

I'm starting to bee some better. It's taken long enough. Still, this morning I went out to do some simple, enjoyable errands, and after about and hour and 20 minutes, I felt like I had to come home and take a nap. Is being old like this, I wonder.

I did want to say that I'm reading this Margaret Atwood novel, Life Before Man, that's really interesting. It's about a love triangle, but the interesting part is that it's told from the perspective of all three participants. I think Atwood is really quite a good writer, and I checked out a couple more of her novels from the library today during my excursion.

There's more I want to say about Atwood, about buying a home, about relationships in general, about Polly and Guinn, and I suppose I'll get to it when I get time and energy enough.

Relationships

So, I've been thinking a lot about what I'm looking for in a "relationship" and whether I really even want one or not. Is it way too personal to post that kind of thing in what is ostensibly a public forum? Probably, but when have I let that stop me before?

So I think that I do want to get married someday, provided that I meet just the right person. And that's seeming increasinly unlikely, as I'm looking for a rather unusual combination of qualities / characteristics. Some might say that I should try to be more open-minded. But I can't help the things that are important to me, even if they seem silly or minor to someone else.

A couple of years ago, a friend introduced me to a man that she thought might hold "relationship" potential. She was trying to make conversation with us, and she says to him, "So B., what kinds of books do you like to read?" knowing that I'm very bookish. He said, "Oh, I don't read much at all; reading puts me right to sleep." And he really seemed nice, intelligent, accomplished, physically attractive, had a very good job. But I was immediately put off by that comment. And that was really the end of that. Am I silly for discounting someone just because he hates reading? I just can't imagine spending each evening trying to make conversation with someone who doesn't read.

All I want is someone who will occasionally make me a cup of tea, read me John Donne's poetry, and go to church with me. Well, that's not ALL I want. But it's a start. Is that asking so much? Oh, and someone who will take my car in to get the oil changed for me. And in exchange, I'm willing to cook and do laundry and all that domestic stuff. Really, in spite of my career aspirations, I like domestic things. I love the idea of creating a comfy, homey space. Maybe I do have an inner homemaker.

I'm delirious, I know, so maybe none of this makes sense, but it's what I needed to say right now.

I went to the doctor again today--my ear is bothering me again. But here's the really great thing about it. After prescribing a nasal spray to help open up my ear, the doctor also prescribed a mystery writer that he thought I'd enjoy! Isn't that crazy? So I'm supposed to check out Margaret Truman, who is apparently the daughter of the former President.

I know this sounds weird, but I think I have the most kick-ass medical doctor. Sometimes, I wish we could just hang out even when I wasn't feeling sick.

So I'm still sick. And I'm supposed to be in Atlanta at a conference with Dolce Carina, but I was too sick. And I'm fed up with being sick. I know that my health is generally good, so I shouldn't complain, but I'm convinced that some of my symptoms are worse than they were two days ago. The truth is that I'm really starting to worry. Maybe that's really my real, real problem: that I'm a worrier.

On the bright side, it's nice to have an excuse to take it easy and lie in bed (I still have trouble with lie / lay; I mean I have to think about them whenever I write them) and read and watch DVDs. That's kinda nice. And all I really feel like eating is Mac and Cheese; Carina knows my deep, deep love for Mac and Cheese. sigh! I really wish I were with her today.

Oh, so I got all into House MD and watched the first season on DVD, and it was great and all that. But now it's over and the second season isn't out yet, and I don't get it on regular television. And all that to say that I'm having House withdrawals, on top of whatever else.

So there's my update. I'm not my usual thoughtful self. Sick does that to me, I suppose.

Carina, if you read this, know that I miss you today! And I love you lots!

Ok, I am still really sick. Most of you know this because I've e-mailed or called to tell you just how miserable I am. What I've been reminded of during this bout with a rather unpleasant virus is that I'm really bad at being sick. No kidding! I quickly get frustrated and irritable at not being able to do all the things I think need to be done. I really don't know what I'd do if I had some really debilitating, chronic illness. Seriously. I haven't been able to live at the pace to which I am accustomed for 12 days now (yes, I'm counting), and it's really getting to me. Part of me feels like I really need to practice yoga, and I just feel like I can't. I can barely walk up a flight of stairs without having to sit down and rest afterwards. I'm not exaggerating. And I haven't been writing, not anything. That always seems to lead to this weird, disconnected mental and emotional state for me. And that's what I'm feeling--disconnected--in addition to the physical discomfort. For the past week or so, I feel like I've lost myself somehow. I know that sounds really silly. I know that part of the difficulty is that while I was sick my family was visiting from out of town, and I tried to keep up with them as best I could. And I know that that probably just wore me down even further. And I haven't been taking very good care of myself. I haven't been eating very well, for example. I can barely make myself a cup of tea, much less dinner. I know I'm just complaining. But even with being sick, I want to get back on track somehow, and I just don't know if I can. I have so little engergy. Even the smallest task makes me unduly exhausted. (BTW, the doctor did test me for mono, and I was negative. I live in fear of catching mono and being out of everything for two months.) I sorta want to get things done and work and read and be more introspective, all the things that make me, me and make me feel balanced. But all I feel I can handle is sitting on the couch for a couple of hours, then taking a nap. This sort of thing makes me thankful for good health.

Breaking News!

Ok, so that title was a bit misleading. What I did want to say is that I know that I've somehow fallen behind on my mission to blog each day. Here's the thing: I'm really, really sick. And I'm just not getting better somehow. I guess there's more to it than just that. Last night my family left; they'd been visiting me from out of town. So I was busy and occupied with them. But mostly, I am really sick.