Smart

There are a lot of things that I am good at.  I can knit; I can sew.  I can make a mean meatloaf.  I can whine with the best of them.  I can read through course catalogs for colleges/universities and get a good idea of all the policies and procedures the first time through.  I can down a pint of Ben and Jerry's in no time flat.

But I have never done smart.

Smart was not me, growing up.  Smart was my older sister.  She seemed to effortlessly get A's and B's in school, and was always coming home on this honor roll or that.  Not so much for me.  I didn't like to study.  I didn't really like school, to be totally honest.  So, I didn't do well.  Not in high school, not my first time in college for my BSW.  Only by the skin of my teeth did I pass and graduate.

Then I started working in University settings.  First in Enrollment, then Academic Advising.  I started to appreciate "school".  I understood the learning process more.  The more I understood it, the more I appreciated.  I decided that I should go back to school, to get my Master's.

I am sure that there were some who thought that I wouldn't pass.  I am sure there are some who thought I wouldn't make it all the way through.  I am pretty sure one of them was me.  But I surprised myself; I did more than "good", I did honors good.  Graduated with a 3.78.  Holy Cow!

I was happy with my Master's; I thought it made me stand out on applications and that I was going to go far.  It did make me stand out, but in the past 7 years since I got it, I haven't gone far.  I wasn't doing what I really wanted to do, which was to teach at the University level and be a counselor in a practice.  I wanted to have a greater impact on the world.  I wanted to work with adolescents and young adults who were struggling and not making the best choices when it came to coping.  Because I have been there, and I know what the caring of one or two people can do.

But I thought I wasn't smart enough to do that.  To do that would mean to become a doctoral student, and I couldn't possibly do that.  Right?

With a lot of encouragement from about 5 people in my life, I decided to give it a shot.  I applied.  I sent in transcripts, written statements, letters of recommendation.  I crossed my fingers and waited.  I was called in for Interview Day, a day where you would be interviewed by 2 professors and learn more about the program.  I got a new dress, new shoes, new jewelry.  I wanted to "look" smart.

My first interview, the Professor went on and on about how wonderful my references were, how I had an impressive GPA, that my statement paper was well written.  I perked up.  She made me sound smart.  We talked.  I shared stories; she shared horror stories of her graduate work.  Then she did something that shocked me.  She started talking about things she and I could do, could work on, when I was a student.  She talked like I was already admitted.  I was thrown for a loop.  I was in shock, but I was also euphoric.  This lady, who I had never met before, thought I was smart.  Me.  Smart.

I didn't sleep last night, knowing that I would get a phone call today saying if I was or was not admitted.  I woke up at least every 45 minutes and would think about it for 20 before going back to sleep.  I was scared.  What would it mean if I was rejected?  What would it mean if I was accepted?  Torturous!   

Then today, as I was driving to work, my phone rang. I recognized the number.  It was the school.  I was worried.  My stomach did flip flops. 

"Hello?"

"Hi, Megan.  It's Dana from the Illinois School for Professional Psychology.  How are you?"

"Fine, how are you?"

"Great!  I wanted to call to congratulate you on your acceptance to the PsyD program...."

Tears.  Lots of tears.  I had to pull the car over tears.

They think I am smart.  They think I can handle this work, that I have what it takes.  They think that I will make a good doctor. 

A Doctor. 

Dr. Mueller. 

Dr. Megan Mueller.

Smart.  I can do this.  I can do smart.

NaNoWriMo

So, it's November, which is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo).  The goal, if you haven't head about it, is to write 50,000 words in the month, essentially a novel.  I told myself that I was up to the challenge...HA!  It's Nov 13th and I am only at 6638 words.  That means I would have to write almost 2500 a day, every day, to finish on time.  Well, that's not going to happen.  But at least I tried, and I will continue to try to see if I can get even half way there.  50,000 words is a LOT of words, right?

I think that it's been so hard for me because I selected to write a novel based on what is going on in my life, and that's a little challenging.  It's hard enough for me to be honest with myself about what's going on in my life, let alone try to put it down on paper.  How do you talk about suicide and how many times you wish you could have completed it?  How do I accurately describe what it's like when I self-harm when it usually happens in a state of fog.  And am I really ready to share all the details, the very private parts of my life, with the world?

Sigh, it's a challenge.  I think I need to think about it some more and maybe try again next year.

In other news, the Interview Day for the PsyD program is tomorrow and I am so nervous.  I have been wanting to get into this program for so long, I don't know what will happen if I don't get in.  Well, I have a good idea of what will happen, but let's keep it positive for now!

Cannot

Today I cannot be still
I want to make it hurt
I want to cut and bleed
The pain and stress
Would be resolved
But I am clean over 30 days
I want to keep that streak
I am antsy
I am unsettled
I want to write
Yet cannot form the words
I want to scream
Yet I have no voice

Lay

She lay down on her bed for what was to be a quick little nap.  After getting up too early that morning, and having one two many cups of coffee that were now upsetting her stomach, she was looking forward to the break.  She had showered, redressed, but left her hair damp and messy as the pull of her pillow was just too much to withstand any longer.  Curling up under her beloved blue and yellow bedspread, she rested her head on the maroon colored pillowcase, reminding herself again that she must buy matching sheets.  Within seconds she seemed to happily drift off.
She felt a thump on her bed, and it didn't startle her at first as often her oversized Bulmastiff dog liked to jump in bed and nap with her.  Keeping her eyes closed, she moved a little closer to the edge of the bed to make room, and felt the animal spin three times before it laid down.  She reached back to pet the short haired dog, and stopped short when she felt fur.  Fur like a cat, not fur like a Bulmastiff.  She cautiously removed her hand and could feel her body quiver as she knew what was really behind her on the bed.  A low level laugh could be heard, and she squeezed her eyes closed even tighter.

"It's been a long time," he scoffed.  "Did you really think that you were going to get rid of me?"

She didn't know how to respond.  She thought maybe if she ignored him, maybe if she didn't give into any of his games, that he would grow bored and just go away.

"You can choose not to answer me, but I will always be here," he added, as if he could read her thoughts.  She could feel him shake in laughter as the bed quivered under her.

"Don't look.  Don't react.  Don't talk.  And for God's sake, don't cry," she told herself.

"I'm very comfortable here today, so you can go about what you are doing, but know that I am watching, that I am waiting for you."  It made her sick to her stomach to hear him say those words.  "And here, I found this.  I thought you might need it, you know, as a sort of comfort."

He flicked something over the bed at her and it landed right on her pillow.  She opened her eyes only enough to see what the item was, then grabbed it and clutched it close to her chest.  He had tossed her an exacto knife, just like the one she used when she cut.  She didn't know if she should keep it or throw it, so she just laid there with it.  The coldness of the metal handle was a familiar feeling, the ribbed pattern running up and down the length of the knife.  The blade was exposed, it was tempting, it was a tease.

"Thought you might like that," the lion laughed.  He settled himself further into the bedsheets, making it obvious that he was not moving.

She closed her eyes again, feeling him drain all her energy and willpower.  She didn't want to go here again, was hoping not to go here, and yet here she was.  It always comes back to this, she thought, and it always will until he wins.  Until she is dead, he will always, always be here.