Pilate Program

DANGER: FALLING ROCK STAR ON WET PAVEMENT WITH ICE
CUIDADO: PISO MOJADO

Luke was only like yes, the world's most beautiful baby ever, and I'm not even remotely biased. I was posting pictures for my "Vintage Lucas" album on Facebook the other day, and even I hadn't noticed the detail of this particular photograph...I just thought he looked really cute. But Luke was quick to point out:

Whoopsie! (BUT OMG, isn't he CUTE!?)

I *probably* took this because Luke had a fresh scar and still a bit of yellowing, healing black-and-blue above his right eyebrow after SuperMom (me) looked away and he tumbled down the living room stairs, cutting open his eyebrow. I 911'd the paramedics, of course, because I thought I'd caused him permanent neurological damage (no, that would manifest itself in his teens, I jest). I remember them sitting him up on the kitchen counter, doing a basic neuro exam, Neosporining the cut, slapping on a Band-Aid and our insurance billing us for like $1,000 based on my overreaction. Jesus, no, he didn't need a freakin' cat scan. It was like 3 stairs.

And whom do we know who's really, really good at overreaction and catastrophizing? If you answered The Offbeat Drummer, you get a prize (I could like autograph one of my 1,000 limited edition came-with-cough-medicine plastic cups and send it to you for when I'm finally famous.) 

If your automatic reaction is "Oh, you damn women and your worrying," fuck you. Lest we forget how extremely rapid cycling bipolar I am. The only reason I'm capable of sitting down and writing a blog at 7:30am is because this is the first morning in weeks, literally, that I've felt any kind of clarity in my head. (Don't worry, I'm sure it won't last long on a cold, rainy Chicago morning.) 

When most people in the know think about bipolar rapid cycling, they associate it with shifts in mood from mania/hypomania to depression over the course of a few (typically several days, to weeks, to months). While I do endure that, I also endure something much rarer and more severe: ultradian cycling, which confounds literally every psychiatric or psychologically trained mind except for the blessed Patron Saint of Loony who is my current, new psychiatrist. 

Ultradian cycling, a visual: You're riding in the Tour de France, (not on steroids, you're just really, really strong), you're clipping along at probably a good 30 mph & you trip over a big rock, are thrown off your bike, and sit by the roadside crying for hours on end, about EVERYTHING. Your bones aren't broken, you have no scrapes or cuts, but the whole thing seems FUBAR, and then you fall asleep for 6 hours. (Let's assume, for the sake of argument, you're wearing a helmet; and, while you look like a douchebag, you don't really, really super want to die like at the moment.) 

Suddenly, a burst of adrenaline thrusts you back on your bike, your energy returns a dozen-fold, you trek quickly for another 20 miles at 30 mph, and the same thing happens again. You wake up, and the (pardon the pun) cycle just keeps going and going over a matter of hours and you NEVER FINISH THE DAMN RACE. If you luck out and DO finish, it's DAYS after the Tour de France is over and you wonder hopelessly why you embarked on this fatalistic journey in the first place. If granted the fortune to fill your tires and stabilize for a few days, at least you can bike to your hotel, take a shower, have something to eat, and chill. (After which, of course, you get a participation ribbon but no prize.)

There's this messy mess of a mess happening at school. Financial Aid is still messed up for the term (Knox's fault), and it's affecting this other REALLY messy mess that's messier than any bomb in my academic career.

Sure, there was that getting put on academic probation and kicked out of Knox for a term, but face it, the time off was alright, I worked my ass off making extra dough and saw my boyfriend in Galesburg every chance I had. I was only around 20 years old, and my future hadn't been rigidly mapped out or planned, apart from earning my BA eventually and getting married eventually (at the time, it didn't include didn't getting divorced eventually). 

But see, now, in graduate school, I have this track I'm on (not unlike a race) of a specific sequence of coursework and practicum and interning that I've already switcherooed into a slower pace and out of order because I am trying to maintain some type of sanity. (And I've been getting very good grades, "stellar!," as Guy said.) So what? So what takes a "normal" person takes me three times as long. My motto has always been, "It'll all get done." And it does.

It wasn't until last week when I received formal Americans with Disabilities accommodations for my tenure at school. I'm thus entitled to "double time" during which to complete all of my work; and, ok, embarrassingly, as many freakin' bathroom breaks for my wild GI tract that I damn well please, regardless if eyes roll or it offends anyone. Prior to that, it was more of an informal understanding and compassion between my professors and I that I had a great number of "challenges" in completing my coursework, but it was always GOOD. 

Guy said in a conversation recently that I don't seem as excited or rarin' to go this Fall term as I was last year. There's very sound logic behind that. I took 3 classes over summer term, which were brutal, one being a 6-hour long weekly class in advanced skills for psychotherapy. While the professor and I seemingly got along, she was tough. She's the one who dinged me a participation point the first day because my overwhelming exhaustion the night before of having been in Rockford minding my (at the time) 3/4 of the way dead brother caused me to close my eyes several times, though I actively participated to the best of my abilities. Blah blah blah, the term was going fine--if anything, I was over-extending myself (going the extra-extra-mile, and was being thus rewarded with a 92% (A) heading into the final paper). 

I was side-slammed, swiped and bogged by a major depressive episode which required, as I reported to my psychiatrist and therapist, between 16-20 hours of sleep a day, and I was behind in the final paper writing for all 3 classes. The two online class instructors accommodated me, and worked WITH and not AGAINST me, and I wound up with an A and a B+ in those 2 classes.  This particular professor, though, who did grant me extensions, dinged me again for taking a second sick day during the semester, thus violating her attendance policy (teeth grinding) because I literally couldn't exert the effort to get out of bed that day and was trying really, really hard not to be suicidal.

My mom wasn't being particularly helpful during this period. Our conversations were pretty much like this:

The ultimate shiz that hit the fan was on the morning of July 12th. I was seen by my LCPC (Licensed Clinical Professional Counselor; what I'll be if I don't go for a doctorate) for said major depressive episode, with the professor's final deadline for the final paper being etched at 5pm that evening, even after a SNAFU regarding a clinical transcription video only the professor could fix, thus delaying me further. I received a letter from the LCPC which I emailed to the professor humbly and kindly asking for 48 additional hours (until Sunday, July 14th, at midnight) to hand in the paper. It went unanswered. I'd kept the professor abreast of my progress and submitted the paper on the evening of the 14th, as promised. Prior to that, the professor relied on the deadline I said (in writing) I should be able by which to abide. Consequently, the professor refused to even read the final, plunked a zero on it, and gave me an F in the course.

MMM HMM.

In an email copied to several key people at school, I humbly, pleadingly, yet snidely and condescendingly basically begged the professor to at least read and grade the paper and offer me a proper grade based on the quality of my work, not how angry or offended she might have been. Yes, I was (as I've mentioned previously) wrist-slapped for my tone, but by this time, I was outright ticked. According to the school's grade appeal process, I did my part formally, and have yet to hear from her as to whether or not she will treat me fairly.

Which leads me to the last few days. Just hours after meeting with the gentleman who eased my fears by virtue of these accommodations in formality on Wednesday, I was slammed by his notice of being led to Pilate this coming Tuesday for what I assumed to be a post-lot-cast-for-my-clothing, blood-flogging committee hearing with a consortium of folks who decide if I should be expelled or not for this unfairly slapped F, and proceeded to hyperventilate sobbing, panicking and worrying, rallying in the troops and begging Guy for a hug and a kiss on the forehead for courage Monday night (which I still want, hello!?), fearful that all I've worked for--my whole career path, which I believe is my genuine calling from God--would be stripped away and I would, as predicted by my, uh, relative, that no matter how hard I worked, I'd never amount to anything. It didn't help that I was ultradian cycling. I was sobbing, then I'd be ok and able to concentrate, my mom able to divert my attention, then I'd sob again, then I talked to Guy, then I chatted with Pastor Dave, then I'd sob more, text with Meg, up and down and up and down. 

The worst case scenario is that, in the unlikely either the professor or the next step-up, the VP of the school (who'd have a third-party read and grade the paper) still deem me a psychofailure, I have to repeat the course next summer. 

The prospect of band this weekend lifted my spirits, and Friday, I had a meeting with my academic advisor at school, who did, quite honestly, ease my fears considerably, after which I came home and cried yet a little more, but out of relief. Essentially, it's all documented, and I can prove to the committee (who I doubt will be dressed in Roman war gear), as corroborated by my advisor, that I had major extenuating medical circumstances which led to the delay of the handing in of the final paper and that, as my advisor said, I'm not being put on trial for any conduct or behavioral misdoing (my snarky email notwithstanding). I'm still nervous as hell, and will prepare some bullet point statements, but am relieved that said professor will *not* be at the hearing, that it is a formality of the school for anyone who fails a class, and I have to remember that when it ends, and it will end fairly (I am certain), that they really, really need to let Financial Aid know so I can get my living stipend on time (seeing as I'm pretty much dead-ass broke).

Had a real-life "Do You Realize?" moment on Friday as I was leaving school. God bless the tirelessly positive receptionist, Ivy. She's amazing. We were both tired, and she said she couldn't wait to hit the bed that night. I told her I had to drum the next 2 nights, "But it's for Jesus, so it's ok!" I said. She said, "I've been meaning to tell you how beautiful you look since you put on some weight!" (I was anorexic. Now I'm....meh...slightly between average and chubby.) She said I look so much better "since my face filled out a little" (how gaunt WAS I?) and she said, "I've always thought...I remember the first day you came to visit the school, that you had such a beautiful face!" (OK...people don't routinely tell me I have a beautiful face. This was a humbling and sweet surprise.) Made my day.

Band turned out pretty well, having roused the congregation to at least stand up and clap along to the last song, and when they get pumped, we get pumped. The round of applause at the end was unwarranted but appreciated. I played the djembe for the entire set, but got the bright idea (alright, borrowed) to play my crash cymbals with my hands, which did augment things quite a bit. My left hand is bruised, but for art, one must suffer, right?

So wish me luck Tuesday. The more virtual hugs and forehead kisses, the better, as I try to wrangle Guy for one in person. All in favor, say "I!" ("I!")