Embracing the ordinary, for once

I have recently spent some time with the black hat, and the resulting navel-gazing and abundance of self-analysis has caused me to think about my presence online. I have this blog, of course, and am a lurker on Facebook, but the location of most of my online shenanigans these days is Twitter. At first I loved the open and public nature of Twitter - by nature I am a fairly open, even transparent person and it was just so refreshing to be able to share ‘stuff' with my handful of followers. Then Twitter went supernova, and suddenly I find myself being followed by over two hundred people - most of whom are real live human beings who live in the same city as I do. My first Twitter buddies were either personal friends or people I knew online from forums and whatnot, so exposing my raw and glistening insides for all to gawp at wasn't that much of a big deal, or even anything different from a normal conversation in my world. Things are different now. As well as friends and the usual Twitter crowd, I'm being followed by Murdoch people - and not just people I know. I'm not arrogant enough to believe that my followers hang on my every word, or even read anything I write, but it suddenly seems less important to be open and honest and more important to not appear to be a walking train wreck to people in my place of employ. Especially as I'm still waiting for my position to be made permanent. It's not just self-preservation at work that has motivated my change of Twitter MO either. Carter starts kindy next year and I know it's a bit premature to be thinking about things like this, but kids talk. And parents talk. And I don't want to be the crazy mother, I really don't.

So I'm going to tone it down on Twitter. Add a filter, if you like. Less of the emo soul baring stuff. I won't go as far as to say I'm going to create a ‘normal Rachel' persona - it works really well for others, but I'm too attention-deficit to keep it up for more than a few hours - but it will be the ‘normal' side of me that you'll see on there. I'll save the crazy stuff for the blog (and probably post the link on Twitter, which I'm sure is entirely contradictory, but I figure only friends are likely to click through anyway.)

More navel-gazing has led me to the conclusion that all of this means I'm slowly getting better. Not only do I not want to appear crazy, I don't want to *be* crazy. Being well is important to me, and important to my family. I don't want to be pinging around any more, leaving things unfinished or barely even started, leaving nowt but debris and credit card debts in my wake. It's painful to see in others, and this has made me only too aware of how others may see me. I want to go to work, be a parent, see my friends, do a bit of cooking and ironing. Maybe some cross stitch if I really feel like living. I want to buy a house. I don't want my husband and child to be embarrassed by me. At least not until Carter's teenage years, when I will make his embarrassment my sole purpose in life. But, for now, I thrive on the ordinary.

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Aug 25th 2010 22:28 // Diary // 1 Comment

Punishing Parenting

Parenting sucks. I don't mean the act of being a parent, of course - I love being a mother; it's funny and terrifying and tiring and amazing and a million other things. But when did ‘parent' become a verb? There are books, websites, forums and more - everywhere I look there's something or someone telling me how crap I am at ‘parenting' - but is this a modern phenomenon? I'm pretty sure my mother never had any books telling her how long to breastfeed on each side, or endless debates on which kind of nappies were best, or just how runny her egg yolk was allowed to be when she was pregnant - she just got on with it. She had *her* mother of course, but that's a different story...

The cynical part of me (which, according to some, is about 98.3%) imagines that the concept of parenting was dreamed up to make money from vulnerable and insecure new parents. I can just imagine them (by them I mean middle-aged old witches) sitting around and coming up with a plan to make parents feel like they are doing a bad job and then magically offering a solution which costs $39.99 but will guarantee you a perfect all-sleeping no-crying automaton. There are plenty of these so called ‘experts' around - Gina Ford and Supernanny (aka Jo Frost) spring to mind, and I know there are more but I blame pregnancy brain (I know it's four years later, and I know that pregnancy brain has been debunked as a myth, but you see that's just an excuse to make me feel even worse - I can't even blame the damn hormones!)

I may have flicked through one or two of these baby books when Carter was tiny (from the library, mind) and it was all totally soul-destroying. Routines, schedules, wearing only white romper-suits (I kid you not) and only eating purees for months (the baby, not me, although eating purees may have helped me lose the baby weight that's still kicking around). There were no books that told me, "Yeah, it's cool, feed ‘em when they want feeding and it'll all work out in the end," and I could have done with that. Because, in the end, that was how it worked for me. Perhaps these kinds of books wouldn't sell - I'm not sure I'd want a gardening book that said, "Plant it, add a bit of water and see how she goes", but then again I think gardening is more difficult (I am yet to kill a child, for example). Perhaps parents want to feel like they have at least some semblance of control left in their lives, and perhaps white romper-suits is the way they regain this control.

When I imagined myself as a parent I always saw myself as one of those super-organised helicopter parents, ferrying the kids around in my cool but economical car to gymnastics/tennis/horse riding/extra calculus. My kids would do loads of ‘stuff' after school, and this was probably because I never did. We didn't have a massive amount of money when I was growing up, and I always thought that was why I didn't do after-school activities. Therefore, my children would be blessed with all the ‘fun' they could stomach. But as I grew older and more self-analytical I realised that the reason I didn't do much after school was because I never stuck to anything. I would try something new, get all the kit, then get bored after a few weeks. It pissed my mother off so much she refused to let me do anything else. I am still much the same - just ask Justin. So the helicopter parent thing didn't work out, and I'm glad, because I'm sure all of those mothers have eating disorders and are surviving merely on gin and Ritalin.

I try not to parent too much. My mother did a great job without doing much at all and I think she got it just right. There's even a name for what I do - it's called ‘benign neglect.' Or ‘slow parenting', which is similar. It's sanctioned, I'm normal. I shall not raise a serial killer/Liberal politician. I make sure Carter eats his veggies most of the time, and have managed to convince Justin that he's not quite ready for Alien, but generally I'm quite relaxed. I know he's only three, but most other three-year-olds I know are in some form of activity. I had the best time as a kid just doing nothing - playing in the garden with friends took up most of my spare time and I'm sure it did for most other people my age. Yes, summer holidays were long and boring and it was just wrong being made to go to bed when it was still light, but when I look back it just all seems so magical - a bit like Neverending Story without the scene where the horse dies.

Possibly my main problem is that, as a parent, I'm horrendously insecure. I feel like a giant fraud, and am certain that one day the Parenting Police will come and tell me I've been found out and that I need to give up my child and go back to playing NES games and drinking cider out of a 2 litre plastic bottle. If everything I do is wrong then it's better to do nothing than to fuck it up, surely? The thought of schooling is terrifying because I may have to mingle with other parents, all of whom have Land Cruisers and do Pilates and are able to help out in class because they are Proper Parents and do not choose to work full-time. Or maybe I'm just being ridiculous and paranoid. Probably. Maybe. My kid is fucking amazing and that can't all be from Justin, can it?

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Aug 13th 2010 22:15 // Diary // No comments

Thriftival 2010

I can't take credit for the name and I'm not sure if that's a bad thing or not. But the idea of Thriftival came as a response to a few months of spending that has left me financially and emotionally drained. We are very lucky in that we have two decent incomes and limited outgoings, but this has meant that I have become completely spoilt and have a house full of stuff I don't value because it's stuff I haven't saved for. And there are other things I want: I want to pay off my credit cards, which were maxed out during my brief period of unemployment this year. I want enough savings that I don't have to worry about any brief periods of unemployment that may arise in the future, and I want a house. Renting has suited me fine in the past, but now I want my own place, one where I can have twenty cats and a recreation of the Parthenon in my garden. To purchase such a place I need a deposit, and a deposit will never arise if I keep buying stuff.

Turns out I'm not the only one who wants a break from spending. I'm not even the only one in my house (although whether he wants a break from *his* spending or *my* spending is unclear). So after some discussion with friends Thriftival was born, and I think the next couple of months will be much easier if there's some form of peer support.

OK, so here's the basics: Thriftival runs from August 1st to September 30th and in that time no non-essential purchases should be made. And yes, this includes buying out your mobile contract to get an iPhone 4. You, and only you, know what's essential, but the general rules are as follows:

Things that are not allowed:
DVDs/CDs/Video games
Computer bits and phone upgrades (unless they're free)
Books. Exceptions to this are uni books and if you absolutely have nothing to read in your house. Read that dusty copy of Pride and Prejudice if you have to.
Jewellery
Cosmetics. Exceptions are if something has run out then you can replace it. But no new stuff.
Clothes/shoes/bags. Again, replacements are OK if essential, as are things you need to buy for a special occasion.
Expensive haircuts and beauty treatments.
Stuff you don't need. Which means crap to make your desk look pretty/even *more* stationery/apps to colour code your music collection/*insert your particular brand of ‘stuff' here*
Too many lunches bought at work. I am trying to take lunch in every day.

Things that are OK:
Coffee. As much coffee as you need.
Fees and subscriptions.
Magazines
Cards and gifts
Socialising. This is a personal one, I think. I think drinks/coffee with friends, movies, the odd dinner out are OK. I won't be allowing myself takeaways and meals out that aren't for a specific reason. The weekend is not a reason ;-) Also allowed are tickets to sporting and musical events, so long as you don't buy 50 t-shirts when you're there.
‘Big' things you were going to buy anyway. No sense waiting 2 months for a new washing machine/TV/car etc if it was planned.

These are just guidelines: feel free to adapt them to your own circumstances and just use common sense. Feedback is welcome - if you think of any things that can be added to the list then add away - the more the merrier.

The lovely and able Justin has set up a tumblr page, so check that out, and if you do a Twitter search for #thriftival you should find some stuff too :-)

Happy saving... x

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Aug 2nd 2010 20:27 // Thriftival // 3 comments

Good times. If I could stop twitching long enough...

The thing that surprised me most about my trip to England was how much I actually appeared to be a normal person. I got a glimpse of what it must be like to be charming and funny and popular because I felt like I was all of those things and without even trying. It felt like mild hypomania but only the good parts. Of course it could have been a hypomanic episode - too much spending? Check. Driving too fast? Check. A general feeling of being out of control? A feeling of not actually being in my body but out of it controlling it like a puppet master? Check and more check. If it was, then I probably wasn't charming and funny and popular, I just thought I was and nobody had the guts to tell me. But I'll put that scary thought out of my mind and chalk it up to excitement at seeing friends and family for the first time in ages - for some it had been more than ten years. I had a great time but it was so lovely to get home, and even after a week my mental state is still fairly good. I must try harder to be chatty and interesting (even though it would ruin my carefully crafted surly and sarcastic persona).

And what do bipolar people do when they feel good? They stop taking their meds. Yes, I am a textbook case, come stare at me. Actually more thought has gone into it than just a decision to stop taking one of my meds. I don't think I need the Cymbalta; the lithium and Avanza are doing a great job at keeping my mood in check and I have such horrendous issues with SSRI/SNRI discontinuation that I want to get off it now, when I'm feeling good and can handle the symptoms rather than in a year when I discover I'm pregnant and have to come off it STAT. Not that the second child thing's a certainty, but we might think about it in the next year or so and I want to be prepared. If I can't handle being off the second antidepressant then I'd rather know that now. I did taper the Cymbalta like a good girl, but I've been 3 days without it now and feel like shit. Anyone who has ever had to deal with discontinuation will know all about the ‘brain shivers'. It's impossible to describe but the closest is like having pins and needles in your central nervous system. I try moving my arm and tiny electric shocks travel from my brain down my neck and along my arm. Then there's the itchy skin and crazy dreams. It's shit. But I think (hope) I'm over the worst of it. And I have my trusty Seroquel to get me through the really bad patches and help me sleep. And if that doesn't work then I'll start smoking. Just kidding. Well half kidding.

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Jul 31st 2010 22:51 // Diary // 1 Comment

June 500 (shake baby shake)

I joined in with June 500 to get me writing, and write I did, but I haven't been very faithful in keeping it going. For those of you who don't stalk me on Twitter (and why on earth don't you?) a few of us have started a group with one aim: to write 500 words a day. It can be anything not work-related, so blogs, stories, letters and novels are all in. The idea is that a small and manageable target makes the task of writing less overwhelming, and that at the end of the month a habit will have been formed. There's also the slight incentive of peer pressure; I know I always feel guilty when I don't get my words in for the day.

Other than a fairly epic letter to a penpal, all my writing has so far been for this blog, so when I have nothing interesting to blog about I don't get my writing done. The thought of writing creatively fills me with terror and dread, so that's out for now, and I'm just too tired to do any history writing. So back I come to the blog, so blog about how I don't have anything to blog about. And then I get confused, and there's a paradox in the space-time continuum and the world implodes. Then we all have a nice cup of tea and a sit down.

About the only exciting thing going on in my life is my knee injury, and frankly I'd rather see the back of that. Instead of improving it's getting worse, and what was a minor twinge a few days ago has progressed to where I can hardly walk and moving my leg just one degree in the wrong direction makes me see stars. But I love the Australian healthcare system - I've been to see a physio twice already and have a few more appointments lined up. If I was in the UK I'd be sent for an X-ray, and if no break then that would be it, I'd be expected to put up with it until it healed. I know I criticise the NHS a lot lately, and I can't fault the service I received during Carter's birth, but it's just really inefficient compared to the way it works here. Yes, the physio is a private provider, and I have insurance, which makes all this less financially painful, but I don't see how a similar system can't work in the UK.

Anyway, my physio has tried soft-tissue massage, ultrasound, and today even did some acupuncture. None of which have worked (although the acupuncture was fun and I will definitely try it again) so for now I have the affected area taped to provide stability. If it hasn't improved by this time next week there'll be an MRI to investigate further. As I understand it, there are three possible problems, none of which are mutually exclusive. The best case scenario is ligament damage. I already know my lateral collateral ligament is strained, but the knee has a lot of ligaments. Then there's the possibility of a tear to the meniscus, which is made of cartilage. Now cartilage has no blood supply, which makes healing difficult, so surgery may be an option if I wish to roller skate again. Bleh. Then my physio mentioned the possibility of a broken bone. Seriously. Apparently one can fracture the fibula and, because it's not really a weight-bearing bone, still be able to walk. Then I Googled. Then I stuck my fingers in my eyes so I couldn't read any more. Sometimes you can have too much information, and it really isn't doing much other than putting the fear of the Flying Spaghetti Monster into me. So I prefer to go with the first diagnosis, and I will do so until I hear otherwise.

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Jun 14th 2010 22:44 // Diary // 2 comments

One in four and the danger of statistics...

One in four. We've all heard the statistic. A quarter of us will be personally affected by mental illness in our lifetime. Twenty five percent. This statistic was thrown out there in order to reduce the stigma surrounding mental illness: if you don't have it, chances are somebody in your family will. Or seven members of your high school French Class. Or that bloke over there, three seats away from you on the bus. Now it turns out that we could have been wrong all these years; a study has shown that the true proportion could be as much as 50%. If half the population will be affected, how helpful does that statistic become? For that matter how helpful was the original one?

Let me begin by saying I make no secret of the fact that I have mental health issues. People say they refuse to be defined by their illnesses, but mine is so closely entwined with who I am and what I do that I can't be separated from it. Nor do I wish to be. This wasn't always the case: fourteen years ago I was encouraged to keep quiet about 'being unwell' or 'being fed up'. If I spoke out I'd never get a good job, or a decent boyfriend, or make anything of myself. I was young and naive, and I felt ashamed. It's hard to believe that such a relatively short time ago people were discouraged from talking about mental illness, so I suppose the 'one in four' statistic has had some use in raising awareness of mental health issues. I'm sure the campaign has done wonders to increase understanding among non-sufferers: family, friends, employers, and really, that's fantastic, but on a personal level I haven't felt reassured.

Although I knew mental illness was common, if anything I felt more alone than before. If a quarter of people were affected then WHY DID THEY ALL LOOK SO FUCKING NORMAL? Was I the only one putting every single ounce of energy into appearing to be a functioning human being? And acting was hard work - I wasn't as good at it as I am now, and quite frequently I failed. I know self-loathing and doubt is the nature of the beast, but I never felt any solidarity in numbers. In fact, I was the only one I knew who had even taken an antidepressant, let alone been face to face with a psychiatrist. You could have comforted me with all the statistics in the world but all I needed was one person, just one, to tell me, 'Hey, I feel like that too.'

Then I was well (sometimes too well, as it turned out), and for a long time. I forgot all about the black hat, and statistics, and concentrated on being a robot of modern life. Of course the black hat hadn't forgotten me, and was just waiting for an opportunity to strike. Anyway you know all about that. But this time was different. No longer content to pretend it all wasn't happening I refused to make excuses for myself. I put it all out there - told my friends and family, shared with my employer, rented ad space in the paper. OK that last bit was a lie but you get the picture. I'm not sure why my attitude has changed. Maybe because I am older. I don't know about you, but as I've aged I've developed a don't-give-a-shit attitude, which gives me the freedom to be the crazy cat lady if I choose. But it's not just me - others are opening up too. The very empathy I needed when I was younger I now find in so many of my good friends. This may tell you that I tend to choose crazies for friends (and it may well be right) but it may also indicate that people are willing to be themselves and not be ashamed of having mental illness.

So going back to the new statistic: half of people will be affected by mental illness. This begs the question: how do we define mental illness? It's difficult; what may be normal for one person is not for another, and when we leave the obvious mood disorders and look at personality disorders and obsessive-compulsive-type disorders, the waters are muddied further. People surveyed were asked how they felt, but not why - a perfectly normal emotional response to a break-up or a job loss may easily mimic the symptoms of depression. I don't want to be all, 'Ooh I'm special, I have a proper disorder and have been in hospital so I'm more important', but we can't lump all mental illness in the same broad category. Dysphoric disorder is no less real than major depression, but they are not the same and shouldn't be categorised as such. This might leave a dysphoric person feeling that their only option is medication, or a severely depressed person thinking 'Well if half the population are like me then I should just get on with it - we can't all need help.' I know it's not that black and white, but if one thinks that half the population is affected then it's not a great leap to think that mental illness doesn't really exist/isn't serious.

We talk about destigmatising mental illness but these statistics are in danger of leading people to confuse 'common' with 'normal' and make no differentiation between types and severity of illness. Mental health resources are at best stretched, and funds need to go where there is most need - it would possibly be dangerous to take too much notice of this study. I'm lucky - I can afford private psychiatric care - but others must rely on a struggling public health system, and with statistics like this it could be all too easy for individuals to miss out on vital treatment because funding has gone elsewhere.

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Jun 9th 2010 22:44 // Diary // No comments

Falling over, flags, and footy

I love sport. Apparently sport just wants to be friends. On Sunday I fell off my roller skates and made my knee go 'pop', so my sporting life for the next few weeks will be spent in front of the telly. Which is probably how it should be. I think people who like sport can be put into one of two categories: those who like to watch sport and those who like to play sport. There's probably some cross over, and I could draw you a pretty Venn diagram, but chances are, if you like to play sport you'll be out there doing it on a Sunday afternoon and not yelling at the TV with a six pack and a bucket of KFC. I fall firmly into the first camp - I can watch almost all sports on TV, (including golf, which I don't really count as a sport) and have even been known to take a couple of weeks off work to watch the Olympics.

But I want to play sport, and I was not happy that my first attempt ended with me sprawled in an undignified heap on a busy riverside path. Especially as I can actually roller skate. Well I can rollerblade. Apparently there is a difference - who'd have thought it? I suppose my legs and feet were so used to blading that they struggled with the change in centre of gravity on quad skates. And I hit a stone that was definitely just waiting to trip me up. I want to get into roller derby next year. Roller derby is cool. Ergo, if I do roller derby I will be cool. However I don't think I looked especially cool bumbling along so much practice needs to be done. It's a good job I don't care what people think - If I did, I'd be practicing in the middle of the night. In disguise. In France. So I have a choice. I can get back on my skates (after my knee is fixed) and continue to scare small dogs in my pursuit of all that is violent and bloody, or I can give it up and go back to watching sport on telly. I am a born quitter, so option two would be your safest bet, but for once in my life I want something enough that I'm prepared to work for it. Even if it means looking stupid and getting some bumps and bruises along the way.

This doesn't mean I can't enjoy the upcoming spectacle of the football World Cup. That would be soccer to you lot. I've joined the tipping comp at work, and I'm madly looking forward to seeing England being dumped out by Portugal at some stage. During the last World Cup I was enormously pregnant, so I will be looking forward to a beer or two this time around. I shall be supporting Australia, and my reasons are somewhat complicated. Give me cricket, give me rugby or give me any other sport, and I will be firmly behind England (or GB). But the England football team leaves me cold. It's full of 'superstars' who earn too much money playing for the Premiership and from advertising deals, and these egos have a history of not playing well together. I generally get the feeling that they just don't care enough about playing for their country to actually make an effort to win. Also, I feel the need to distance myself from England supporting and the negative image that goes with it. It may be wrong, or at best misplaced, but I often feel shame when I see the England flag; for me it is synonymous with racism, hooliganism and 'This is England'. I can't separate patriotism from nationalism from racism, and there is so much of all of that in football. So I shall support the team of my adopted county, not least because it features Tim Cahill (who plays for my home team Everton). And while I won't be flying flags of any colour I will be cheering for the Socceroos and hoping for a triumph of the underdog, or whoever I happen to be tipping.

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Jun 8th 2010 21:22 // Diary // No comments

Seeing Red

I'm thinking of dyeing my hair again. What, Rach is dyeing her hair? Must be Wednesday. Hair-dyeing for me generally goes hand-in-hand with mental wobbles, so it will be nice to do it whilst sane for a change. I need more red. I know it is red, well sort of red, but it's gone a lot darker than I'd like and it's time for something a little more fuck yeah!

Being a redhead is about so much more than just hair colour for me. Hair colour is just something you have, but having red hair has been so much part of my identity that it seems to take on some sort of supernatural significance. Like having a spidey-sense, only not quite as cool. Redheads are supposed to be fiery in temprament; I don't think that really applies to me but I definitely feel like I can get away with more when my hair is fiery. It's like a licence to strop :)

I'm a red-haired child of dark-haired parents and grandparents and my sister is a brunette. There have been enough milkman jokes to last a lifetime, but one only has to look at my extended family on both sides to see the genes at work. If you want an easy-to-understand guide to red hair genetics you can look here. My great-aunt is a redhead, or at least she was until her hair faded to the most amazing white with just a hint of apricot. I want that when I get old; I want that hair that never goes grey. I feel it's my genetic right after years of being the ginger freak that none of the boys fancied.

Some slightly angrier redheads have claimed that we are an oppressed group and that, historically, we have been racially discriminated against. This has to be bollocks. Maybe they are confusing being ginger with being Irish - the Irish have certainly borne the brunt of some racism over the years, but (according to Wikipedia) only 10% of Irish people have red hair. Yes, redheads are easy targets for bullies, and that sucks, but as a group we are not discriminated against, and I certainly don't feel especially ethnically aligned with my fellow gingers. There are of course terribly sad stories of red-haired kids committing suicide after bullying became too much, but unfortunately bullying can happen for many reasons, usually some perceived difference. There was a story in the paper a while back: a woman had complained to a supermarket after seeing a greetings card with a ginger joke on it. They withdrew the card. So we can't make fun of gingers but we can buy umpteen cards full of misogyny and ageism? I admit, it's fairly difficult to offend me (unless you are Sarah Palin, in which case merely existing can send me off in a flurry of letter-writing to Points of View), but are redheads just being far too sensitive? Is this sensitivity just making things worse? There are so many gorgeous girls and guys with red hair: Willow from Buffy, Amy Pond from Doctor Who, Julianne Moore, Shirley Manson to name a few (I'm sure there are some hot ginger guys but it's late and I can't think of any right now - uh, Ron Weasley?)

I am not a victim. Being a redhead is awesome. Yes, you have to go through school being constantly asked if you have ginger pubes, and it is impossible to go out in the sun without wearing one of those bee-keeper's outfits, but I wouldn't change it for anything. Apart from when I did change it, and went black for a while. The black was fun, and extra shiny, but I felt like I'd lost myself a little. Maybe one day I'll write more about that, but for now it's all about the red.

I grew to love my hair colour but people don't always understand that. If I mention that I'm dyeing it they look all horrified and tell me I shouldn't be ashamed of my natural colouring. Perhaps it's some kind of reverse discrimination thing and they feel like they have to be nice to the freak in case they get told off by the Offensive Greeting Card Police. Fancying chips for a change does not mean that I have forsaken all that is chocolatey - I still heart the strawberry blonde. Anyway, this has been a really long and rambling way of telling you, my loyal readers, that I will be dyeing my hair this weekend. Probably some shade of auburn. Because Amy Pond is hot and maybe by having the same colour hair I will absorb some of that awesomeness.

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Jun 4th 2010 15:02 // Diary // No comments

Bloody students.

After a brief cameo down in timetabling, I'm back working with students in Domestic Liaison and Recruitment. I do the liaison part, and my specialty is external students. In case you don't know, external students are domestic students who can not, or choose not to, go to lectures and attend university like a normal person. Because quite often they are not normal people.

Actually most of them are decent sorts, trying to fit study around work/family/teaching in Ghana (I kid you not). Studying at degree level takes an enormous amount of self discipline even when you do have classes to attend, so anyone who can successfully get through it alone has my admiration and unwavering respect. I spoke to a prospective student last week who wanted to give up her job in the city and move back to Port Hedland to work in a school whilst doing her Grad Dip in Education. For those who don't know, Port Hedland is 1300km north of Perth, it's a mining town, and it's (allegedly) a hole. I managed to convince her to apply (and I don't even work in recruitment) and I reckon she'd make a great teacher.

If only they were all like that.

Some of them are just dumb. I'm not pointing the finger at a particular cohort, but some students find it difficult to complete the simplest of tasks. Actually, yes, I shall point the finger, and the finger points squarely at Bachelor of Education students. You know the type: blonde, all soft like a marshmallow, dots her 'i's with little hearts, likes scrapbooking. Thinks she can be a teacher because she has a couple of kids and really how hard can it be? You know how this one's going to pan out when you receive her first assignment (on literacy) and she's spelled 'assignment' and 'literacy' wrong on the front page (oh the irony!) About half our external students are Education students, and it usually means about double the work of the rest of them, but we do have a good laugh at their expense. Then the laughs turn to tears as I remember that my child will be starting Kindy next year.

But dumb is OK. I can also handle neurotic, lazy, technologically challenged and incarcerated. I like the variety and I like the challenge - it's why I went back. Unfortunately, however, we also have to deal with harassment and insults, and I have had to deal with both this week. And it's only Tuesday.

Firstly, we have this student living in Queensland: let's call him Fred. He called me last week saying that nobody would help him <insert sob story> and he needed something. Being new and naive, I felt sorry for him and agreed to talk to the relevant people. I do this, only to find that this particular student is not allowed to call us. Or any other department at the university without going through his disability case officer. I call them, they say they'll deal, and off we go. But then Fred starts calling and calling, and telling him he has to talk to Equity isn't working. I stop answering my phone and one of my colleagues answers, only to be abused when she tries to transfer him. We hear from the call centre that he has been abusing them too. It's horrible - we try to help but we can only deal with so much, and management's opinion is that we don't get paid enough to get harassed. I feel crap because he obviously has some mental health issues, but I think the university needs to be tougher on people who consistently behave like this.

Secondly, I got massively insulted by a student today. I had been helping her out (including coming in on a Saturday to do something) and we were doing the same chemistry unit. I happened to mentioned that I was thinking of scaling back on the study and she looked at me as if I was a pathetic bunny - she even did that patronising head-tilt thing. She said, "Oh no, don't stop studying, you don't want to work in a dead-end admin job all your life!" After picking myself up off the floor, I happened to mention that, actually, almost everyone in Student Liaison has a Bachelor's degree or higher, and that my job was interesting and well-paid. She was amazed - it was as if she thought that getting a degree was the golden ticket to fame and fortune. And doing one unit a semester I think she'll be stuck in her crappy job long after I move on to better things. I was angry for so long and I'm not sure why. Maybe because she should have known better - she is 36 - or maybe because I've been wrestling with the study question myself. I did realise something though: I am happy with where I am - my job, my salary, my working day. This has been a long time coming, I've always been wanting more/better/faster/louder. In short, I was in danger of becoming her, and I don't think her dissatisfaction is going to do her any favours.

There'll be more tales of 'interesting' students, I imagine. I'll think up an amusing name, like 'Tales From the Crypt' but better. Gotta get something out of my dead-end job, I suppose ;)

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Jun 1st 2010 21:26 // Diary // 2 comments

To be, or to be doing?

It's exam time, and it's painfully obvious that this semester has been a washout. Obviously working full-time has drastically cut my study time (or, more precisely, my procrastination time,) but I think my high-maintenance attention span switched off long before that. I showed up to my exam yesterday, and I think I did enough to pass, but I'm not even going to bother attempting tomorrow's chemistry exam. Firstly, I'd lose a day's work and therefore a day's pay; and secondly I just can't be arsed when my chances of passing are very slim. I just don't care enough.

You may wonder why I study at all. I wish I knew why I have this compulsion to be enrolled at university. I don't need a degree - I have one, and with honours to boot. My job doesn't require any further study, but in a sense I think my choice of workplace is partly responsible for feeding my need to know something about everything. The desire to learn is sometimes paralysing, and I wish I knew what made me this way. Because I know learning doesn't have to always be in a formal setting - I could learn chemistry from a library book - but I'm so used to being at uni that I'm worried I won't be able to function any other way.

I didn't get my degree in the traditional way - oh yes I did go away to uni at 18, but my first attempt was hampered by depression and the drinking and sleeping around that went with it. The next two attempts were no better; the depression had turned into something more and I was combining the drinking and sleeping around with living with an overachieving boyfriend who had an amazing talent of making me feel like shit. I didn't know I had bipolar disorder back then, I thought I was just a fuck-up.

Anyway, I got myself sorted out, married an awesome and supportive man, and went back to uni at 26. It all went well, no melt-downs, good grades and a fantastic honours dissertation (even if I do say so myself). I even managed to fit in work experience at the National Archives and having a baby. So if I needed to prove to myself I was good enough, then surely I did that in 2007 when I graduated.

Maybe I just do it because I can. The flexible studying system here means that I can do what I want, when I want, and not even have to go to classes. It's like having a huge chocolate box right in front of me, with units and courses instead of tasty treats. And like with chocolates, I want everything. Now. Unfortunately my interest lasts for usually about the same amount of time as it does to eat a box of chocolates; If I may adopt one of Evil Willow's favourite phrases, "Bored now," sums it all up. I should get that on a shirt. I enjoy studying, but not always, and not enough, I think.

Truthfully, I'm so scared of the demons that I need to fill every waking hour with something, anything to keep them at bay. And having formal study makes it all much more valid, like I'm not crazy. Counting off time in teaching weeks and semesters makes each little chunk go by that much faster, and every chunk that is crossed off I can say, "Hey, look, I'm normal, I did that." I've always wanted time to go faster, always been waiting for the next big thing, always looking round the corner for the latest distraction. I wish I could slow down; I have a nice life, good family, great friends, and a boy who's already growing up way too fast. But I'm so scared of turning into one of these people with a house and a car and a job and a family and a cat -one of these people who are content to just be - that I'm failing to see how powerful just being can be. I need to learn that life can be just about living and not about constantly doing.

So I'm taking an almost-break from studying this semester, just doing the one creative writing unit. I'm going to concentrate on work and family, and house-hunting. I don't want life to pass me by - it's no good knowing everything if you've missed out on life to get there.

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May 30th 2010 23:04 // Diary // No comments