Invictus

Another weekend in Fayetteville. Recorded an episode of "Doctor Who" off of SciFi/SyFy in HD, ate at Mellow Mushroom with the parents, and did nothing, more or less.

Oh, yeah. There was that whole pull-my-hair-out-because-of-my-lost-history-seminar-paper-which-might-be-the-fulcrum-of-my-admission-to-a-reputable-graduate-school-and-whatever-hair-isn't-out-goes-gray scenario. Nothing big.

I've already been accepted to Australian National University's Master of Diplomacy. It's good, it's credible around the world, and its alumni seem to really go places. Double masters in one and a half years in Canberra, ACT, Australia. Every alumni I've talked to has had no problem coming to the States, finding prestigious jobs, and moving up in life. The very things I want, dammit. For some reason I can't explain why I'm still fighting tooth and nail to get into Melbourne's history program. My referees (as in, a letter of referral) want me to stay away on the basis of the quagmire that was their report, some ANU alum have told me to pick ANU over UMelb (not like they would have a bias), and even the Aussie I work with has told me that the only perk UMelb has over ANU is that Melbourne > Canberra in terms of sights and events.

Yet, here I am. Staying up late, editing drafts of my horrible Honors thesis, writing 2500-word research proposals until 2 am, and more or less groveling via email with my prospective thesis advisor to the point I know the time difference by heart. Part of me wants to just say that it's because I actually had to PAY to have my application considered there. Another part of me says that it's that obstinate, stubborn sunnuvabitch in me that keeps dragging this out until it's finished.

Then, there's ego. A part of me wants to go ahead and have two different schools offer me admission. Sure, it won't be a fight or a beauty contest or anything (That much is for sure). But there is a part of me that yearns for every bit of acceptance, every bit of recognition and merit that I can freaking reach for. The last two years have been like Viet Nam for my heart and mind, and I honestly feel like I am finally due some kind of return. Post-London Little Rock, wandering and working in a post-traumatic daze with a roommate who let his idiot wife run the show once she moved in. There was unemployment, and before that the horrible job. There are money issues. There are banks and credit cards out to screw over every living human being. There's the job that, no matter how much I love it, I feel like I can't leave at 5 pm. I'm so on edge as of late that the littlest thing will set me off, in a big way. And on top of it all, I'm sick now.

God, I hate being sick. I am never as much of a baby as I am when I get ill.

I'm not the kind of person who has ever, not even once, believed that "it will all get better." That kind of fatalism is reserved for the weak-willed and the unimaginative. It doesn't just magically get better, ever. It takes work, initiative, a plan. Gather information. Talk to people. Get insight. Triage. Don't just sit back, let life steamroll you, and when you're so numb from the darts life has put in you suddenly decide to declare life is all better.

Maybe that's why I keep fighting for Melbourne. Maybe that is my way of trying to make it better, as symbolic as it might be.

Missy Gee, I am nowhere near the writer you are.