Crying

So it’s midnight and I’m crying. I don’t know if it’s a girl thing or a period thing, or the fact that I just caught the last few minutes of Forrest Gump but there they are, the tears. It’s not uncommon for this to happen, especially when I know that I have to be up early in the morning. The lights go out and the TV goes off, and there I am alone in the dark with nothing to do but think about everything that currently sucks. Last year was a big year for crying, but it also was the year I marked as when I really found myself, so there must be some relation there. I lost a lot of people… and a beloved dog, who I still find myself crying over frequently. I lost my grandmother, who I see more and more of in myself everyday, which scares me sometimes because she was basically senile. I lost a few friends, which ended up being the worst loss of all I think. I take responsibility for this, but that was never the hard part. I never had trouble owning up to the mess I made, but I still have trouble dealing with the consequences. I have trouble knowing that I let someone down and there’s nothing I can do about it. I have trouble trying to get myself to stop thinking about it all the time, and with how much my heart hurts, because I still love them.

I once wrote a piece about my dad, about how different we are, about how differently we react when it comes to people and relationships. It didn’t quite get the response from him I would have hoped; he was angry and defensive. Actually I think he was hurt by it, which is something that still bothers me everyday. His reaction hurt me. I told him my truth, and how I felt about our relationship. Heart on a platter, honesty never before seen… backfire. It wasn’t supposed to be about what I observed or what I assumed or portrayed him as because in the end I could be wrong about all that. What I wanted him to see was how I felt. How much I wished we had an understanding about us, between us. I wanted him to see how I had seen him my whole life, and I wanted him to prove me wrong. I wanted him to say that despite appearances, he really did understand me, or that he wanted to try to understand me.

He didn’t say those things though, and I spent months thinking that that wasn’t good enough. I spent nights like this, crying, and wishing that by some miracle someday I would hear what I wanted to hear. Lately though, I can feel him changing his mannerisms around me. Not all the time, mostly things are the same as they have always been. Sometimes I think though, maybe he’s silently making an effort to do what I wanted him to say. I’ll never really know, but if he is, that’s beyond good enough for me, it’s my miracle. I'm still waiting for my other miracles to come. I don’t know if I deserve them, but I can only hope that I can see them if they do.

On nights like this I’m afraid my roommates will hear my sobs and nose-blowing through the thin walls of our nineteenth century farm house. My worst fear is for one of them to knock on the door and say something supportive and ask if I’m ok. I’m like a dog that crawls into the woods to die alone. I must write alone, and right now I must cry alone. I don’t want to be pitied; I just want to be in control. I want to be left with some dignity in my state of vulnerability.

As I read over what I just wrote a light goes off in my head about what to continue on with, and the crying stops. I immediately go from helpless to fearless in two minutes time.

There is one thing I refuse to cry over tonight, perhaps because I am too pissed off to cry. Tonight, this entire column will be dedicated to an unnamed English professor whom three days ago pissed me off in a way no human being has ever done before. Without ever reading anything I have ever written, without ever observing me in a class, without so much as holding a substantial five minute conversation with me, this professor has insulted my intelligence by sending the following email, in response to a request to switch into one of their English classes for the semester:

“Megan,
The course is full and has been for some time. Besides I am not sure that you would enjoy the course or find it tolerable, given that it is entirely about theory; it is more about the philosophy of literature and not literature itself. Not easy to read. Sorry I could not be of more help."

No doubt he looked at my less that impressive transcript from my first two years here at X which might as well just have “Reformed irresponsible drunk" stamped across the fucking thing, but you can take what you like from that email. If somebody reads it and finds an innocent denial of admission to a class with no hint of insult or injury, please correct my initial reactions. I however read this rejection as the following:

‘Megan,
Even though I have only a vague recollection of who you are and am unaware of any of your intentions for your path in life, you are far too stupid to be in this class. A third year English major such as yourself could not possibly handle the philosophy behind literature, considering that’s what you’ve been learning and searching for in almost every other English class of your university career. Having never taught you before, I feel as though I am well qualified to assess your capabilities of handling a challenging class in addition to your will and desire to do so. My apologies for be arrogant, haughty, and assuming."

It’s like when people say something awful or inappropriate to you but their delivery is so nice that you can’t say anything about it. They say it so kindly that their ridiculous request or preposterous comment leaves you with nothing to say but, “Yeah sure, sounds good." But after the initial shock and outrage of receiving such a message where a simple, ‘sorry the class is full’, would have been sufficient, there was no way anyone was getting a “Yeah sure, sounds good" out of me. I responded accordingly and sent the following email:

“Professor",
While I appreciate your concern for my scholastic abilities, perhaps you should not assume to know what I would or would not enjoy. I look forward to entering the class next year before it is full.
Thank you for your consideration,
Megan MacKeigan

If that professor thinks for one second that I won’t get into that class next year purely to spite them, then they really don’t know me. The upside I suppose is that I will be so motivated to do well in that class and make them eat their words I may very well produce some of my finest work. Perhaps this is a new angle professors can follow: insult students to increase productivity. The point is though; I wanted to be in that class because I was interested in learning what it had to offer. I wanted to be in that class because I have become a student who cares about what they’re learning about, and that has been a major step for me. I wanted to be in that class because I thought it would help contribute to what I am producing and accomplishing as a writer (which by the way is more than these angst ridden diatribes about life and society).

I worked harder last semester than any other semester I have been here. I am by no means a model student, and I have a long way to go to catch up to the numbers that my colleagues have previously produced. But for the first time in my life I have found something that I’m passionate about. I’ve found something that I truly grasp and embrace and love. I’m sorry, and I mean no disrespect, but I have never been so unimpressed and disgusted at the words of a person who is supposed to be guiding me in the subject I have chosen to be my life’s work. This is a person who is supposed to inspire me to set goals and reach achievements and challenge myself in a field that I find interesting and meaningful. This is a person, whose salary is paid by my tuition, and I’m sorry but I don’t pay ridiculous amounts of money to be told that I’m not capable of learning what this professor has to teach.

The conclusion I have come to tonight, is that whether I’m disappointing those close to me or disappointing someone who hasn’t even given me a chance to disappoint them, I must never be disappointed with myself. Anger, regret, heartache, and sheer stupidity… those things I can handle living inside me and about me. But the minute I allow feelings of disappointment myself, that’s when I lose my belief in myself. When nobody else believes in you, you can always believe in yourself. Believe that you can get past being angry with what you’ve done, believe that you can go on living with regret, believe that eventually your heart will stop hurting, and believe that no matter how much you screw up, you’re not what everyone says you are. I can’t be disappointed with myself when I know, that when the tears stop, I will pick myself up, and keep on going. It’s what we all do everyday.