I don’t know why I thought this would work.
It was a pipe dream. I’m too old. I don’t have enough time. I don’t have enough money. I should have done more research into the financial side of things. I shouldn’t have told anyone I was even thinking about it. There’s no way I can win.
Some of you may remember a little over a month ago when I wrote about my decision to return to college to pursue a degree in psychology. You may also remember how shortly after I wrote about how I was freaking out a little over how I was going to pay for classes. After sizing up the situation, it would seem to make more sense for me to begin classes in the Spring 2015 semester than in the Fall 2014 session. Finances would be better, more time to plan a schedule, etc., etc.
For starters, I signed up for the Fall semester. I had eyes on it, so that’s what I planned to do. Then I had to open my big mouth and tell people I was going back in the Fall, so now I have to explain why that’s not happening. That explanation includes my not being aware of financial aid options for post-baccalaureate students, so I have to basically say I didn’t know what the heck I was doing. Worst of all, though, is the feeling that this is just another one of those big plans I had that will never work out.
My chances of being able to begin in the Spring semester are actually looking quite good, however. As with anything in life, though, some measure of doubt still exists, and I hate that. It makes me want to stop talking about it altogether, but, well, since I had to mention it here…
Earlier this month, I ruminated on the dangers of self-diagnosis and the mental disorder known as Borderline Personality Disorder. I mentioned finding a book on the subject titled “I Hate You – Don’t Leave Me,” by Jerold J. Kreisman and Hal Straus, at the local library. I finally got brave enough to check it out a couple of weeks ago and concluded after reading just a couple of chapters that I did not suffer from this particular disorder. Particular aspects of it, however, seemed to fit me to a T. Here’s a brief passage on how those who suffer from BPD assess risks:
Unwilling to play the hand that is dealt her, the borderline keeps folding every time, losing the ante, waiting to be dealt four aces. If she cannot be assured of winning, she won’t play out her the hand. Improvement comes when she learns to accept the hand for what it is, and recognize that, skillfully played, she can still win.
I find myself guilty right now of wanting those four aces. I keep thinking of all these reasons that if this doesn’t work out perfectly, it won’t work out at all, when, in reality, an amended plan (or possibly something altogether different) might work just as well. It’s change, though, and change just doesn’t feel right sometimes. It feels like failing.
I am regrouping, but you might not see me mention much about college for a while. I may not be able to pull together the perfect hand, but I think I’ll at least wait for a winning one before I say much more. It’s just so hard to talk about winning sometimes, though, when you feel as if you’re losing.