grad school blues

It's that time of year. Well, yes; it's the time of year when Santa posters appear in bodega windows and the radio plays Trans-Siberian Orchestra's version of "Carol of the Bells", which sounds like it belongs on the soundtrack of The Bourne Identity. But it's also the time of year when grad school really starts sneaking up on you.

I have not gotten my hair cut since September, and it is a streak that will remain unbroken into 2010. My room, usually neat, was an unholy mess when I left it last night to meet up with my boyfriend. My wallet is a quagmire of tickets, receipts, and business cards that will only with diligent searching give up a dollar bill. I am unsure when, how, and indeed if my Christmas shopping will get done. The scenario is this: I have class Mondays, clinical Tuesdays and Wednesdays, and work Thursdays and Fridays. I also occasionally have clinical on Saturday and am at work for a few hours every Sunday. Don't get me wrong; my life is great. I am finishing up a program that leads to a great career, I am working part time as I do it, and I still have the opportunity to maintain great relationships with friends/boyfriend/family/roommates. But all this comes at a cost: the little shit is not getting done.

I doubt I'm the only one who feels this way, as I doubt I am the only one who cannot justify her disproportionate crankiness about things like this. After all, what does it matter that I just dragged 20 lbs of laundry across the street because I couldn't get my act together before it weighed as much as a small child? That I haven't blogged in forever? (Although this blog obviously a collection of seminal insights into public health, I know everyone who reads it and they've all got better things to do than wait around for a post.) Why do I care that the bottom of my backpack is littered with...litter? Or that before dragging them off today, the last time I washed my sheets was...was...hmmm...

Anyway, it does matter. It does. Not because any one of these things is in and of itself important, but because these are the things that make me feel like I'm in charge, instead of my schedule. Like I am on top of things, instead of buried under a pile of incomplete tasks. Simply put: taking care of the little shit is how I maintain my illusion of control. And that illusion is fading.

I console myself with this thought: less than three more weeks. Time will handly what I evidently cannot. On December 14, I will have my final final. On December 19, I will complete my last clinical hour. And then, in all likelihood, I will go home and take a nap. Before getting up and washing my sheets.