A Place above the clouds

Ideally, I would matriculate to a small, all-women’s, mostly minority university with a big-ass library (and student gymnasium) in a beautiful city somewhere outside the United States. Unfortunately, there are no such universitites, and even if there were I doubt I could score a seat in their freshman class.

So I dropped the “small,” skipped the “all-women’s,” lost the “mostly minority” and the big-ass library (*tear*–I had to prise that one off my must-have list). “Beautiful city” was the only survivor–My future alma mater must reside in a moderately sized city with adequate public transportation and (this is key) a thriving arts scene.

I haven’t locked down a major yet, but not for lack of trying. I simply entertain too many interests, and all of them beg to be explored! Originally, I intended to double-major in Urban Studies and Demography, but that little blueprint was scrapped when I discovered only two colleges offer both subjects (and neither fulfills the “beautiful city” mandate). Although I still hope to study Urban Affairs, plan B is looking more and more viable–a double major in Linguistics and Communications.

Using the above mentioned preferences, neccesities and desirables, I compiled a list of–get ready for it–60 eligible universities. Over the next few weeks, I will explore each of them in depth, listing their pros and cons in individual posts.

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You might have noticed that all my post titles (except for two) are references to songs, bands, and albums. This post, however, is for those of you who haven’t.

From now on I will include a video or link of the allusion within its post, but to recap:

“I Feel Stupid and Contagious:”

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“Catch My DisEase”

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“No Buses (Where I know I should not go)”

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“Tears of a Clown”

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And now, the musical accompaniment to this post:

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Note: For some reason, WordPress does not embed the video, but if you clink on the link buried in the HTML code jumble, the clip should open. Or you can visit my identical blog at http://fromthekeyhole.blogspot.com/

“Education is an admirable thing, but it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught.”  -Oscar Wilde.

From the prominence placed on higher education, you’d think it was the be all and end all of human existance. As if a diploma was the seal of validity, the certitude of success, the meaning of life. And those who lack (or fail to attain) this distinction are base, contemptable  wretches who don’t deserve the dirt beneath their feet.

Forget the facts: 85% of our country’s 300 million denizens hold a high school diploma. And 65% of today’s graduates immediately matriculate to college. But 40% of them drop out within their first year; less than half graduate in four years. The result? Only 29% of Americans hold a four year degree.

Nevertheless, I have embarked upon the tempestuous trail to Collegehood. Step 1: Find a college. I suppose I could just eenie-meenie-minee-mo my way through the thing, but no, I’ve got consciously consider my options. The right location ensures eternal happiness, but the wrong one (according to my academic counselor) will fuck you up like you won’t believe. Keep in mind, I’ll be spending the next four years of my life at this campus, and those four years have the capacity to determine all the ones that follow (according to my parents). This is a life or death decision (according to all the complete strangers who act on the urge to shower me with their alma mater’s stats).

Between the U.S. and Canada, there are over 4,000 Houses of Higher Learning. And from the internet, they all look pretty much the same. (That eenie-meenie thing doesn’t sound so bad now, does it?) It took a while, but eventually I complied a list of 40 or so colleges worthy of closer examination. The next few posts will be devoted to their pros and cons, in a sort of Survivor-style smackdown: The Collegiate Version.  

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I just yelled at my cat. For someone who thought she’d already hit rock bottom, that was a new low.

My makeup disgusts me. I hate the way it alienates my face. When I wear it I stringently avoid all tactile encounters; I don’t want the makeup to contaminate anything else.

The metro disgusts me. The train makes me feel like a rat being shuttled through a sewer; the grime permeating the buses depreciates my faith in humanity every time I board them. The slight chill at the bus stops seem to rob me of my limited energy, and the mere thought of my hour-long commutes makes me long for the oblivion of sleep.

There’s an unidentifiable hair on my keyboard; that disgusts me too. I’m even eschewing the mouse and the chair: they radiate heat from my brother’s prolonged computer use. Despite the nippy temperature, the warmth is quite unpleasant. It conjures repulsive images of breeding bacterium and sticky, smelly sweat.

But the most disgusting thing is me. Today, I slept twelve hours straight, broke my vow to hit the gym, arrived late to my singing lessons, ate more marshmallow peeps than I care to admit (in addition to a half a dozen girl scout cookies) and generally wasted my life, just like I did yesterday, and the day before that, and every other day of the past few months.

So what do I do to remedy my worthlessness? Augment it, of course.

I came home today, anxious, bemused, exhausted , and on the brink of tears for no discernible reason, only to be confronted by my cat. As usual, he was meowing at his food bowl, notwithstanding the bounty of kibble it contained. Typically I just stand there and meow back until he settles down and starts chowin’, but some dormant demon chose that moment vivify.

“What?!,” I screamed, dumping the kibble on the floor. “What do you want?! You have food, look, right there, look! I’m sorry baby, but I have nothing else to give you!” And I fled to my room, to the safety of my quilts and pillows. But before long, I heard a familiar rustling emanating from the myriad magazines that litter my bedroom. Scratching at them is my cat’s way of announcing his displeasure; he knows this irks me and wins him instant attention/food/aid/etc, anything to make him stop. “What?!,” I cried expelling my quilts to the floor. “What do you want?! I’m never getting another cat! Never getting another cat! Go away! There’s no one here! I’m not here! Gone!” With that I furiously burrowed under my blankets. He just glared at me, before lithely leaping onto my futon and nuzzling my hand, purring. Far from evoking my maternal instincts, this gesture drove me over the edge. I stroked his cheeks, sobbing, “I’m sorry kitty. I’ve let you down. I’ve made you so dependent on me, and now I can’t sustain you. Maybe I should have set you free, let you run feral. Then you could have tended to your own needs, instead of relying on a miserable human. Nature would have provided for you,  you would have been happy and free, I’m sorry. I’m so busy, kitty, I’m tired. I’m sorry.”

Monologue concluded, I sprung from my bed, dislodging my poor cat, and locked myself in the bathroom to compose myself. My eyeliner had migrated down my face and onto my collar, joining a tea stain I earned earlier today (my just reward for violating metro’s No Beverage policy.) I felt hot and lightheaded. But I postponed the cold, cleansing shower I craved, because kitty was scratching at the bathroom door. He wanted me to pet him.

There are a thousand thoughts buzzing round my head, but I can’t seem to catch a single one. They taunt me, allowing a shutter-speed glimpse of their contents, never granting the intimate veiw and comprehention I seek. No panoramas today–just vexing little polaroids.

Treading through an ocean of snapshots; that’s my life. And searching for the solid, sandy bottom.

It’s ten past one in the morning. At 5:15AM, a taxi will arrive so I can make the six o’ clock Greyhound to New York. The drive from D.C. lasts four and a half hours; I plan to  spend it sleeping. Last night I could not nod off–some manic electricity had invaded my system. I managed about three hours of zzz’s this afternoon, but I’m still deathly tired. No rest: If I succumb to sleep now, I know I’ll miss my bus. 3 and some hours to go…

Will you stay up and keep me company?

Slept: 12 hrs.
Meds: 2 Focalin, 1 Xanax, 1 Lexapro at 2:45 PM. 1 Xanax at 12:15.
Food: 2 mints, 6 girl scout cookies, small portion of greenbeans and carrots w/ lemon-honey sauce and a handful of peanuts at 1 PM. More greenbeans+carrots w/ white rice, peanuts and mac&cheese at 5:30 PM. 1 marshmallow peep + peanuts at 10:15 PM.
Activity: worked out for 1 hr.

Today, for the first time in several months, I cried.

My mother and I were running errands, discussing our upcoming trip to NYC. Although it’s supposed to serve as a vacation of sorts, our itinerary revolves around college visits. Sarah Lawrence, Eugene Lang, Bard, Hofstra, Fordham–I’ve compiled quite a list (especially for a city I absolutely loathe.)

Not that my mother cares. She’s already concocted a detailed blueprint for my college years, a blueprint that completely omits any of my predilections. I knew she wanted me to attend a small liberal arts college–she’s been championing that path for years–but today she dropped a bomb that didn’t just cross lines, it annihilated them.

“St. John’s in Maryland is supposed to be very good.”
“No. I’ve checked them out. They only offer one curriculum. One. It’s centered around ‘Great Books’ or something like that.”
“That sounds great.”
“No it doesn’t. Everyone takes the same courses. There aren’t any degrees or concentrations.”
“So? I think a basic liberal arts degree would teach you how the world works.”

And that’s when the alarm bells went off: not only is she determining my college, she’s hand-picking my major. Forget my interests in Urban studies, or Speech and Rhetoric, or Psycholinguistics. In fact, forget me– I mean, how am I supposed to pick a major, let alone chart my own course, when, according to my mother, I “don’t even know what life is about.“

“And stop changing your mind,” she snapped, when I announced my refusal to visit NYC. “First you want to go, now you don’t. Why do you have to be so difficult?” She completely ignored the catalyst behind my reversal: her own overbearing (not to mention completely out of line) behavior. Instead, she pinned it on me. Typical.

Last Monday, my therapist encouraged me to set boundaries with her: draw a clear, stalwart line between the acceptable (detailing her bosses’ absurd antics) and the unacceptable (dishing on last night’s date with her boyfriend–I love my mom and all, but I’d rather stay blissfully ignorant of her sex life.) When the college issue arose this afternoon, I saw the perfect opportunity to act on his advice. I felt she was intruding on my personal space, and I told her so. But the balanced, heartfelt dialogue I hoped to establish was usurped by an angry blow-up full of finger pointing and verbal grenades. How am I supposed set boundaries with a woman who is determined to break them?

That was where the tears originated: from the frustration of a painful, pointless argument that got me nowhere, except my mother’s bad side. It brought back all the painful memories of altercations past, all the reasons why I never argue with her now, why I always let her have her way. No matter what the subject or point of contention, she never admits her faults. Instead, she reveals how its all my fault, how I started it, how I just can’t understand, how my vices are the root of all evil. I can’t reason with my mother.

Usually, after a tiff or a spat, I lock myself in my room and sleep for 10 hours straight, escaping the conflict and the pain. But today I recognized my adversity, and I cried about it. Angsty, violent, potent tears. So, I figure I’m moving in the right direction.

Yesterday, I went looking for my freshman yearbook. For some reason, it wasn’t shelved neatly with all the ones from middle and elementary school. I paused, puzzled–Did I even buy one that year? I tried to conjure a mental image of the cover, an individual page, an individual photo. Nothing.

But then, it all came back in a swift, smothering deluge of memories: Magdelene, the goth girl I’ve known since more innocent times, who accidently dyed her whole head purple with semipermanent haircoloring, which didn’t come out for weeks and stained the white cinderblock wall where she sat in the back of Geometry, Magdalene, rubbing her head against the “autographs” page in place of a signature.

And Patrick and Oscar, the two sophmores I shared a table with, constantly stoned and/or planning to get stoned, dealing weed under the table and between classes, recounting their drunken, debaucherous weekends at the top of their voices, surreptitiously slipping drug references into their art assignments; who further displayed their artistic prowess by decorating my yearbook with phallus and condom related doodles, accompanied with the counsel “stay safe use protection,” the duo I shall forever thank for introducing me to drugs.

And Kristin, the plump social outcast whom I befriended out of pity (much to my chagrin), who immediately seized my yearbook and corrected all the captions on the Colorguard page where she had been mislabled as “Christen,” vigorously marking out the errors with the zeal of someone righting a great and serious wrong, forgetting altogether to sign it.

And Alison, an acquantince whom in retrospect I regret not befriending, her asian eyes bearing down on the page like a hawk as she scribbled a ridculously long and perfunctory message about how much she would miss me over the summer.

And Tyler, my driver’s ed partner who only ever wore Metallica t-shirts; together enduring our longwinded coach as he babbled about his days in the Coast Guard and manged to slip in a few traffic instructions between anecdotes; Tyler, an excellent driver that somehow managed to fail the license test (twice), constantly ribbing me on my own sad auto skills, I ribbing him on his tawdry taste in music, who simply wrote “Try not to kill anyone out there.”

And Derick, the incredibly hot yet geeky Junior whom I probably would have slept with had he not been so goddamned pious. And Holly, the anime geek who drew cute little chibis in everyone’s books. And loads of other students just like me who left no trace, no laughs, no distinctive memories or episodes save for a small little signature in the back of someone’s yearbook.

Who: Me.

What: A highschool student in the process of breaking down, and attempting to put it all back together again.  

Why: Pills don’t work. Therapists don’t work. But at the moment, I don’t really “work,” either, so I figure I have nothing to lose.

When : Daily, if everything goes according to plan. I want this blog to be a record as much as an outlet: the things I ate, what I bought, and the little goals I try to acheive each day. Mundane details, mostly. But hopefully others will find the anecdotes and reflections worth reading.

Where: Just outside of D.C., on the orange line.