Blog,
Feb. 19, 2013
Are we actually free or we are driven at times to
fall unintentionally into muddy potholes then change clothing before proceeding
on the journey in new attire, as a new person?
I yearn to get far away from concerns of food
preparation, bills, focusing on how other members of the household meet their
needs or carry on with their own work under at times dire circumstances. I also need new attire, not just because
I am in the process of reaching hard ground after having lingered in a swamp,
but because I also need shoes!
My problem started when I first rented the second
floor bedroom where I still live, a sense of uncertainty pervaded me at the
time.... I was going to have a real
daytime job and be self-supporting. This had not been the case previously,
since I had been a housewife for the previous twenty-two years making little
money while creating art in two basements. A divorce altered the course of my
life. Also, an apparently inconsequential event occurred in the summer of 1983. I was enrolled in graduate school at
the University Hospital in Philadelphia. A paper was due for the summer school
course I was attending at the Medical school downtown. One evening, after my
return from school I asked my landlord, who was an excellent writer, to correct
the typos in the final paper for the course. It was about 5 PM. Before I went
to bed I asked him to return the corrected paper, which was about 6 pages long.
He had not finished correcting it. I stayed up longer and asked him again about
it because it was due the next day. He was not yet finished. I left for school
without it. When I handed it in the following day to my thesis advisor who also
happened to be the Department Head, everything appeared to be all right. I was somewhat
concerned because my research had expended beyond the requirements of the
course, but the more the better!
The first half of the
summer semester ended and I received a letter from the head of the department
asking we to withdraw from the Master’s program because I had several
incompletes and was failing. As a child and adolescent I had been raised on
footage of low self esteem: not pretty, absent minded, sloppy, messy, dirty,
etc. and having failed to finish the paper in time was an added reminder of my
incompetence. Therefore I simply accepted the verdict and did not question it
when I went to the last meeting with my advisor, who had that summer become the
new department head. I deserved it. I recall vividly what he asked me at the
time: “How do you perceive yourself? “
Somehow a picture appeared of a fully opened sunflower living in a dark
basement. I described it to him. I was an underdog who managed to survive
anywhere. Thereafter our conversation was brief and I agreed to leave the
program.
Something haunted me about leaving a half started
session with a transgendered patient whose trust I had finally acquired, and
who was starting to have some self-esteem. Yes, my procedures were somewhat unorthodox, but the psychiatrist
in charge of the 12th floor of Hahnemann University Hospital
approved of them. Besides, I didn’t really think that I was failing! On the other hand, I would no longer be
able to get a job as an art psychotherapist because it appeared that I would
not get my M.A.
In a quandary I called a very
good and old friend of mine, Eve, and related her my mishaps. Her reaction marked
a change in how I would react to unfair insults for the rest of my life. Her
voice was clear but firm, her support of me was unconditional. Her words were
those of a commander giving battle instructions to a reluctant soldier. “You
can’t take this lying down! You are telling me that you don’t believe you are
failing. This man wants to get rid of you because of the subject matter of your
paper, which appears to go against the belief system of the department
guidelines. You need to absolutely go to the registrar, and check your grades
and find why you are failing!”
She obviously threw
more nuggets of wisdom and common sense at me that day over the telephone. But
the next day I did go to the registrar. No, I was not failing. All my previous
incompletes had gone, except for the last paper, which supposedly was sent in
late and for which there was not yet a grade. As a matter of fact, spelled out
in black ink on my report, I had several A’s. The registrar suggested I speak
with the Dean of the Medical School and ask him for re-enlisting. I was
upstairs in five minutes. The dean looked at my records and said that he did
not see any problem, why should there be one? Would I want to continue with my
studies? All was clear. There was no problem.
My head reeled with surprise and anger
and also for gratitude. “No”, I said, I shall not continue because I would feel
most uncomfortable. “The man asked me to think it over. As I left the tall building and walked
outside, a strange sense of relief overcame me. Did I really want to spend the
rest of my life counseling schizophrenics and paranoids on the twelfth floor of
Hahnemann Hospital where male aids related stories to one another about how they raped and fondled drugged or
unconscious female patients in
restraints?
On the other hand,
what was I going to do now? (See
next installment.)
No comments:
Post a Comment