Today was a terror.

I awoke at 6, arrived at 7, attended from 8 until 9, and stayed until 5. There is no greater inner Hell than the blood of desperation; love is too forgiving and loss too understandable. I stand or sit in a stuppor, remembering everything but the key element in front of me, forgetting something, pawing at it, clawing, wondering constantly if he noticed--if his opinion suddenly changed, or perhaps deepened in the furrows of whatever secrets he possesses; of whatever he clutches.

I am reborn in moments of abject clarity brought on by fear.

I tried to focus, to think about one task in front of the other; like feet, you know. Yet there I was, on the verge of though compulsion, a torrentnear unchecked while vanquishing reason and emotion alike. I was struck in abject poverty. It's normal for me to become excited whenever he sounds remotely encouraging, as if I'd found the key to him after searching so long. Likewise, what must seem like normal inflections and body language are swamp seas and black downpours.

I had borrowed money from Scott. I paid for a stuffed sausage and pepperoni pizza at 11. It was an irridescent angel, merciful in how it looked at me. I'd thought about it ever since I'd driven there in the car. It stayed with me through the continuing headache, the nervousness, the wondering over if Dr. Zivago even paid attention to what felt like sins of forgetfulness.

I was still hungry. It was all I could afford. I have to ask them almost every day now for money. Even mother's face betrays a tick of exasperation, not for me but the man who is using me--the man whom I am using but to a very unequal degree.

I then came home, had a short early dinner and spoke with a friend, one in a very similar situation to my own. She spoke of charred flesh piled haphazardly, one ragged scrap oozing on top of another. Was the situation I'm in worse than I thought? Or merely a shared delusion brought on by too much disease?

----

It makes me wonder: Why this? Why this journey and this constant misery for a discipline that gives so goddamned little? I work with a man whose reseach and funding has stopped dead due to gross irresponsibility and egoism, I grant you, but shouldn't I allegedly still LOVE psychology? Shouldn't every orifice burst into song at the mere thought of what I volunteer to do? Do you ever feel this way about your job?

On the one hand I am in a sexual position which few people belong in. Dr. Zivago pays me nothing, has no research going (but many, many practice sessions run by the senior staff to train people to DO research), and doesn't seem to appreciate that I need--require--positive encouragement to understand what I should and shouldn't do. Are my feelings about it unreasonable? Yes, to a degree I agree. However, this man's opinion of me is extremely important in applying to graduate schools.

On the other hand, when you tear away the multi-tiered reams of festering horseshit and all the bows and ribbons festooned around it--I like the idea of studying what it is that this man does. Ideally I'd throw away the man and just do research. I'm looking into ways to do that as I type this.

My one consolation is that I know that one professor from U. Wisconsin genuinely believes in me. It is not just a case of another Dr. Zivago saying "I wouldn't be writing the letter if it weren't good". This man spoke with me, asked me hard questions about what I wanted, why I wanted it. I'm not entirely sure his research is a perfect match--but it is a solid opportunity, and all my qualifications make it fairly certain I can get in.

That one consolation tells me that what I'm deciding to pursue right now might be the correct choice. But then, how do you define correct? By what feels right you'd say, maybe? I think that makes sense, but right now I'm so unsure.

The only good part of today is that it's nearly over. I'm tempted to take a shower and weep, but it's just been an overwhelmingly anxious day.

Photography

Seaside parking lot Comment: See description on site.

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