THAT'S not a very nice title for a blog post on a Lenten Sunday, now, is it?
I've been taking Topamax for two and a half months now, as a total shot-in-dark Hail Mary additive to my migraine regime. I didn't really think it would work. Nothing ever really does. Dr. McDonald didn't really think it would work, either. Still, I faithfully took it for the first week. And nothing. One week, no headaches. Maybe low-grade ones, but nothing real. Do you know what an amazing feat that was for me? One week. You better believe I never missed my Topamax after that.
My previous record for not needing elitriptan was 3 weeks. I blew by that. I almost doubled it. In 2.5 months I think I've had maybe two or three real migraines. It's a miracle. (Or a fluke. But I hope not).
It's not even that I feel so much better, which I do, but that I suddenly have so much more time. Being sick takes up so much time. And I can make plans. And keep them. It's really a rather amazing life. I can't even remember a time when I ever had a life like this, although surely at one time I must have.
As we all know, all of my silver linings have a cloud, so let's outline the clouds. 1) This could just be a coincidence. Winter and spring are normally my healthier times of the year, anyway. Maybe it's just luck.
2) I think Topamax might be making me sick to my stomach. In the time I've been taking it, food and I no longer really get along. In a way it's nice, because I have dropped a fair amount of weight without doing anything at all. In another way, it's not that fun to be sick to my stomach all the time (but that kind of sick doesn't really count as REALLY sick).
I don't want to have my Topamax taken away. I will gladly take the stomach rot forever just to have this life that I've gotten to taste lately. I have to go in soon for my 3-month med check, so I guess we'll see what happens.
3.03.2011
The Maass Family Travel Journal Plays Dress-Up
Or Alternately: The Maass Family Travel Journal Tries Not to Completely Lose Its Shit and Melt into a Giant Anxious Puddle of Insecurity.
So. We here at the Maass Family Travel Journal sat down with our wine and cheese and aged steak and agreed that we need to comport ourselves with a bit more decorum.*
Well, not really. We are being kicked into maturity. It's not exactly a welcome change. But grad school, that dirtbag whore, is making me do it.
Okay. Drama over. I have to attend a conference for grad school in Philadelphia in a week. If I'm being honest, it actually sounds very interesting, and I imagine I'll get quite a bit out of this experience. The part I'm not looking forward to, however, is the part that has to do with class. Because all of a sudden I am absolutely sure that I am without a doubt the worst student in the class, and also the ugliest and most unstylish to boot (that part is likely true). Clearly I am not even close to looking like a cool person. Looking like a fool is much more likely. Looking like a little girl trying to play dress up in fancy shoes is much, much, more likely. Yuck.
I want to whine now. About how much I hate being fakey, and about how much I am about to do it. I have to cut and color my long, now two-tone hair. My long, stringy Saturday hair. New clothes. I don't know how that will turn out, but let's just say that none of them are the raggy jeans, cargo skirts and band T-shirts that I generally prefer. I'm having trouble with clothes right now anyway, because we are messing with my meds so much that I can't stay at a regualar weight. Normally I gain, but lately I have lost. Which, yay! but now all my pants look like I could wear a large, filled diaper because of the butt bagginess. Professional, right? Do I even try with make-up? I only wear chapstick, and everything else makes me feel (again like a little girl playing dress-up. What to do? Be me and be slightly more comfortable in a very scary environment? Or try to dress and act like I belong?
Greg tried to comfort me over dinner the other night. "You aren't the worst," he said. And I jumped down his throat. "How would you know?" I asked. "Really, how would you have a clue? There's 20 of us. Somebody has to be the worst. Somebody is always the worst. This time it's me. I'm not used to it, but that doesn't mean it's not happening to me now. All I can do at this point in time is be the worst with as much grace as I can muster." Grace. Me. HAHAHAHAHAHA. Seriously, though, this is what I will have to keep reminding myself. Or I will have a nervous breakdown.
The Maass Family Travel Journal will be flying out early and (weather-permitting) traveling a bit on the East coast before the conference. This will serve the dual purpose of letting us here at the Travel Journal get out a little (it's been awhile!) and keeping me from thinking about school too much. Stay tuned to see how it all goes, complete with how many times I puke out of nervousness. That'll make you come back.
*We tell our evil border collie at least once a day to "comport yourself with decorum." Not that he ever does. But it's still funny.
So. We here at the Maass Family Travel Journal sat down with our wine and cheese and aged steak and agreed that we need to comport ourselves with a bit more decorum.*
Well, not really. We are being kicked into maturity. It's not exactly a welcome change. But grad school, that dirtbag whore, is making me do it.
Okay. Drama over. I have to attend a conference for grad school in Philadelphia in a week. If I'm being honest, it actually sounds very interesting, and I imagine I'll get quite a bit out of this experience. The part I'm not looking forward to, however, is the part that has to do with class. Because all of a sudden I am absolutely sure that I am without a doubt the worst student in the class, and also the ugliest and most unstylish to boot (that part is likely true). Clearly I am not even close to looking like a cool person. Looking like a fool is much more likely. Looking like a little girl trying to play dress up in fancy shoes is much, much, more likely. Yuck.
I want to whine now. About how much I hate being fakey, and about how much I am about to do it. I have to cut and color my long, now two-tone hair. My long, stringy Saturday hair. New clothes. I don't know how that will turn out, but let's just say that none of them are the raggy jeans, cargo skirts and band T-shirts that I generally prefer. I'm having trouble with clothes right now anyway, because we are messing with my meds so much that I can't stay at a regualar weight. Normally I gain, but lately I have lost. Which, yay! but now all my pants look like I could wear a large, filled diaper because of the butt bagginess. Professional, right? Do I even try with make-up? I only wear chapstick, and everything else makes me feel (again like a little girl playing dress-up. What to do? Be me and be slightly more comfortable in a very scary environment? Or try to dress and act like I belong?
Greg tried to comfort me over dinner the other night. "You aren't the worst," he said. And I jumped down his throat. "How would you know?" I asked. "Really, how would you have a clue? There's 20 of us. Somebody has to be the worst. Somebody is always the worst. This time it's me. I'm not used to it, but that doesn't mean it's not happening to me now. All I can do at this point in time is be the worst with as much grace as I can muster." Grace. Me. HAHAHAHAHAHA. Seriously, though, this is what I will have to keep reminding myself. Or I will have a nervous breakdown.
The Maass Family Travel Journal will be flying out early and (weather-permitting) traveling a bit on the East coast before the conference. This will serve the dual purpose of letting us here at the Travel Journal get out a little (it's been awhile!) and keeping me from thinking about school too much. Stay tuned to see how it all goes, complete with how many times I puke out of nervousness. That'll make you come back.
*We tell our evil border collie at least once a day to "comport yourself with decorum." Not that he ever does. But it's still funny.
1.20.2011
the creativity killer
Grad School.
The thing about it was not that I jumped in with both feet, and that I was inordinately and absurdly excited to do so. I had sniffed around for a few years, requested brochures and information, even attended a session at St. Catherine's. The thing was how quickly and how deeply I plunged - after years of hemming and hawing I did it all in one day when Greg was in Montevideo. I told no one. Later, I mentioned it to my mom. In this email:
"Just got the acceptance today. I have to accept/decline by the 24th. We start the end of May. More later - I'm at work, and I haven't looked at the info they sent me - I didn't look past the part that said "Congratulations!"
My mom sent me that email recently, maybe just to remind me that there was a time not that long ago when I was really, really excited about this instead of really, really....unsure. It's so hard to find the right words to describe how I feel about grad school. It's so hard to find the right feelings. It's not that it's hate, although at times it certainly feels that way. It's not that it's indifference or uncertainty, either, although there have been assignments and maybe even entire classes where those feelings reigned supreme. It's definitely not love - I loved undergrad. I had thought I loved school, but what I've come to realize is that I what I really loved was my school. This experience is nothing like that one. And it shouldn't be. But I just wonder, in a program that is almost entirely online, is there anyone else who is wondering right now whether they ever should have done this at all?
The first year was kind of nice. It was hard, at times, to find the time to do everything, but it went pretty well, and I felt like I was learning a lot, and I felt pretty happy in my job and pretty hopeful about my future. I complained a lot. I relished breaks from school. But really, it went pretty well.
And then it was summer, 2010. And it all fell apart. I guess it wouldn't have been so bad if I hadn't been SO SICK. ALL THE TIME. And if I hadn't been trying to do two jobs at work. Before I knew it, entire weeks had flashed by, weeks of my life where I remembered doing nothing but going to work and going to bed, sick. I was behind in everything. I didn't care at all. But you never stay that sick forever, you either get better or... die, maybe? Get real help? I don't know.... And being a little better, it seemed that it would be a tad bit wasteful to consider that I had done an enitre year's worth of grad school only to quit. So I didn't quit then. And I didn't quit in the Fall, although they probably should have failed me for lack of participation and turning in a big, heaping, still-steaming pile of dung for my Applied Project draft. I tried to make up for it by being a Legal SuperStar, and I actually did manage that quite nicely. Legal was one of my favorite classes.
And now. There is only one semester left. It would be stupid to quit, when I've come so far, and everything I've worked for is suddenly so close. Like, seriously close. There's snow on the ground now, and when the snow is melting, that's when I'll be nearly done. I will probably have to buy just one bag of dog food between now and then. I mean, it's close. At one time it seemed like this time would never come. And then it seemed like if it ever did, I would be so happy. And the strangest thing is, I don't feel happy at all. I feel relief that it will be over, but relief is a very different animal than happy. I don't feel proud; I don't think I will, either. I almost, almost, feel....ashamed. Because I have wasted two years, thousands of dollars, LOADS of creativity, and all for something that I no longer have any feelings for at all.
Maybe this will get better when I meet some of my classmates in Philadelphia. Maybe it will be worse to see all those type-A's, to take my rightful place as the bottom-feeder in our little cohort. Maybe someday I will feel like I want to use this degree, and maybe someday I will be glad that I did all of this. But that day seems really far away today.
The thing about it was not that I jumped in with both feet, and that I was inordinately and absurdly excited to do so. I had sniffed around for a few years, requested brochures and information, even attended a session at St. Catherine's. The thing was how quickly and how deeply I plunged - after years of hemming and hawing I did it all in one day when Greg was in Montevideo. I told no one. Later, I mentioned it to my mom. In this email:
"Just got the acceptance today. I have to accept/decline by the 24th. We start the end of May. More later - I'm at work, and I haven't looked at the info they sent me - I didn't look past the part that said "Congratulations!"
My mom sent me that email recently, maybe just to remind me that there was a time not that long ago when I was really, really excited about this instead of really, really....unsure. It's so hard to find the right words to describe how I feel about grad school. It's so hard to find the right feelings. It's not that it's hate, although at times it certainly feels that way. It's not that it's indifference or uncertainty, either, although there have been assignments and maybe even entire classes where those feelings reigned supreme. It's definitely not love - I loved undergrad. I had thought I loved school, but what I've come to realize is that I what I really loved was my school. This experience is nothing like that one. And it shouldn't be. But I just wonder, in a program that is almost entirely online, is there anyone else who is wondering right now whether they ever should have done this at all?
The first year was kind of nice. It was hard, at times, to find the time to do everything, but it went pretty well, and I felt like I was learning a lot, and I felt pretty happy in my job and pretty hopeful about my future. I complained a lot. I relished breaks from school. But really, it went pretty well.
And then it was summer, 2010. And it all fell apart. I guess it wouldn't have been so bad if I hadn't been SO SICK. ALL THE TIME. And if I hadn't been trying to do two jobs at work. Before I knew it, entire weeks had flashed by, weeks of my life where I remembered doing nothing but going to work and going to bed, sick. I was behind in everything. I didn't care at all. But you never stay that sick forever, you either get better or... die, maybe? Get real help? I don't know.... And being a little better, it seemed that it would be a tad bit wasteful to consider that I had done an enitre year's worth of grad school only to quit. So I didn't quit then. And I didn't quit in the Fall, although they probably should have failed me for lack of participation and turning in a big, heaping, still-steaming pile of dung for my Applied Project draft. I tried to make up for it by being a Legal SuperStar, and I actually did manage that quite nicely. Legal was one of my favorite classes.
And now. There is only one semester left. It would be stupid to quit, when I've come so far, and everything I've worked for is suddenly so close. Like, seriously close. There's snow on the ground now, and when the snow is melting, that's when I'll be nearly done. I will probably have to buy just one bag of dog food between now and then. I mean, it's close. At one time it seemed like this time would never come. And then it seemed like if it ever did, I would be so happy. And the strangest thing is, I don't feel happy at all. I feel relief that it will be over, but relief is a very different animal than happy. I don't feel proud; I don't think I will, either. I almost, almost, feel....ashamed. Because I have wasted two years, thousands of dollars, LOADS of creativity, and all for something that I no longer have any feelings for at all.
Maybe this will get better when I meet some of my classmates in Philadelphia. Maybe it will be worse to see all those type-A's, to take my rightful place as the bottom-feeder in our little cohort. Maybe someday I will feel like I want to use this degree, and maybe someday I will be glad that I did all of this. But that day seems really far away today.
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