Oh my

Oh my. I don't know what I expected. But I hoped I'd found something that worked. I was, I think, very wrong.

I hated the class. And I think what I hated was the fact that it took something I loved (books) and made them BORING. We talked about how to select books or how to select tools to help you select books, but the text book was written by somebody who thinks science fiction and fantasy lit are the same thing, who obviously doesn't have a respect for genre lines, and who thinks books are tools of the trade not portals into other places, not lakes in a wood between worlds.

Oh, what did I expect? To meet likeminded people? Well, it's true, they were all book people, but they were all teachers and media specialists, people taking this class to append their current job situations. And of course, they were right to, because this is a class for them. I kept wanting to stop talking about the books as things and to start talking about the books themselves; and honestly, this isn't a literature class. We're only going to be discussing books in terms of selection and how they fit in with managing a good library. And I just wanted to talk about books, about theme and character and plot and style and choices the author made and what he or she could have done differently, and what do you think this repeating symbol is trying to communicate when related to this character's inner struggle, etc etc? There is none of that. Oh man, oh man.

Because, I think I'm in the wrong field. Maybe I should take my master's in literature. I don't want to waste my money paying for classes when I honestly don't think I'm going to complete the program now. It's a year and a half of misery for a job I don't think I want anymore. But that's my problem... seriously? One class and I'm ready to quit, just like that? But who am I kidding...? I never really wanted it; it was just a way to get people to stop asking me what I was going to do with my life. If I had some sort of framework in mind, then they'd leave me alone and stop asking. Nevermind that I don't know the answer and am just faking that I do. I was selling my dreams short because I wanted a school setup I could afford without being in debt for any real period of time. But that's so stupid. And I'm going to be missing stuff I'm excited about and want to do (concerts, mostly, but still...) and spending all this money on something I have no interest in.

When I could be taking a writing class, a religion class, a literature class, a history class... something that actually interests me.

I have no talent. I have no initiative. I have no passion. I have no drive. I have no interest in what other people think of me (but this is mostly callous I've built up over time. If I anticipate the apathy or the blatant dislike then I can't really be hurt by it). I already know that I'm fat and awkward, so I don't allow myself to be surprised that no one would ever love me romantically speaking me. I'm a realist. Thought it kills some portion of my soul every time I think that, I'm a realist.

I remember my Intro to Psychology teacher talking about depression. He said that, interestingly, depressed people often have the most realistic image of themselves, compared to others who fool themselves into thinking they're prettier, more well-liked, more cool or kind or important than they really are. He said that it's the "fooling ourselves" part of life that makes us happy, healthy human beings, and that when we lose that very important aspect of our self image and start seeing ourselves in a harsher but perhaps more accurate light, suddenly we become depressed.

I tried to explain this to my mom once and she was horrified. She thinks this guy was insane, especially saying such things to such vulnerable folk as college students. (Umm... no comment). But I happen to think he's dead on. I can fool myself into thinking I look better than I do, when really I'm fat and, as a result, quite ugly. I can fool myself into thinking my job is enough, when really, sitting in that room of librarian wannabes I realized I was the only one in there that had what Amber always called a "fake job" instead of sitting at a desk or working in a school, etc etc. I can fool myself into thinking that everyone has something they are called to, or that they simply love to do, and that they will eventually find this passion and pursue it and find happiness and satisfaction. But the truth rolls around, and it's that I don't know my purpose, it's that I really think I don't have a purpose, that I am a redundant human being. I think that any good qualities I possess are possessed by other people I know, often in much higher quantities than I have, and that the bad qualities far outweigh them anyway.

What it comes down to is that, rationally speaking, there isn't really any reason for me to be alive. But you say that and it sounds like suicidal thoughts, which automatically gives you the edge of 'crazy.'

Oh my oh my oh my. You know it's a bad situation when I fall into THAT pit of despair yet again!