So, I’m in the midst of applying to get into a PTA program.
(That’s “Physical Therapist Assistant” – like a therapist without the grandiose title of “Dr.”)
I think I mentioned in an earlier article I might be doing this – and also worried that if I did, I’d lose my artsy, writer-y, creative side. Honestly, I thought (because of that fear) that it was going to end up another one of those things I just talk about pie-in-the-sky like and never actually go after. But somewhere along the way, that changed. I think it was around the time when I had the rhetorical realization: really, what’ve I got to lose? When you really, really ask yourself that – it becomes markedly less daunting. And indeed, now that I’m investing my all into getting in, it’s not so worrying anymore. Especially when I reflect on just how grave the nature of my “belief system hypocrisy” is right now.
You know? All those thing we suggest other people should do?
And don’t, like… actually do?
For me, the biggie is my chronic championing of “balance”.
I’ll tell you it’s good. And you can’t tell me – because I “know”. Yet, I have trouble forcing myself to go be around folk after a full day’a writing from home. Why bother? I done did my duty for the day. Right? Yet, when I do hit the auto-eject button from the seat of my domicile, I return refreshed. Less stressed in general and about writing. And I end up doing more writing. Insanity that I can’t just make myself leave home to procure this feeling for myself, yes? But I suppose it’s the same reason meditation or other intangible stuff that works gets back burnered. If I can’t see it, it’s not stimulating, there’s no immediate reward-feeling, and no one’s holding me accountable, then it’s not a priority. That’s huge. That last one. It’s like whatever I’m being held accountable to – is what I’ll make a top priority, and then fcck off everything else because… well, I’ve fulfilled my day’s main obligation, haven’t I? Plus, I like what I do. I like writing. I may not like the bad posture I end up with after a long day, but I love writing. Yet, as I said – balance is an issue.
So why not do both?
Why not make the I’m-being-held-accountable obligation something else I like (and have been told I was good at for the four and a half years I was doing it)? And something where I’m also fulfilling my be-around-and-help-other-people needs? And fulfill my money-I-now-really-need-to-replace-the-hole-in-my-roof-that-my-raised-rent-just-went-through-this-year requirements? It just makes sense. I’ve always liked having two jobs. Staying busy. Giving too much free think-time to someone with a head like mine is like asking a recovering alcoholic to taste test, slosh, and spit out winery samples (I’ve never gotten used to witnessing that practice; what a waste.) Rather, I end up swallowing and intoxicating myself with those awful thoughts that inevitably creep in, one after the other, like baton passing track stars.
So, that’s the plan. Mandatory balance.
Part of my day’ll be studying and clinical stuff and whatever.
The other part will be coming home and throwing shade at all the weirdos I’ve observed outside of my cave.
But before all’a these grandiose dreams, I’ve got one big barrier before I can traverse the bridge between isolation and helping body-heal the masses: Getting in. The application process. Convincing the powers that be that I’m an amazing investment they don’t wanna pass up. And if I were smarter, I’d have started by remembering how arduous the whole application process is (seeing as I’ve had to apply to more than one college in the past) and prepared technology-wise a bit better. Like, by buying one’a those printer/fax contraptions. But I’m not, so I’ve yet to replace my broken dust collecting, paper stamping artifact before I can pump out hard copies of the forms I hafta hand in for the pre-application process. (In the meantime, rest assured that that hateful machine’s long overdue to cash in a raincheck for imparting some inter-applicational stress relief. In a desolate field somewhere.)
It really is annoying – this pre-application process.
You’ve gotta order transcripts, dig up old passwords and IDs, wait on phone lines, attend information sessions in-person (seriously… who does that anymore? Just send it to me so I can read it on a cardio machine or a toilet or in a line at the store when the cashier stands there deliberating over how to handle an article of food without a barcode sticker on it) So, yesterday, by the time I finally reached my dad to ask him to print up my transcript evaluation request form (mouthful – but it just means “Hello, advisor; here’s a form asking you to read my other forms”), I was psychologically exhausted. I’d been maintaining tunnel vision focus on getting the bulk of my stuff sorted out ASAP and worrying that I might not even make it into the program (‘cause they only take 40 applicants). This is a concern that will continue to serve as thematic background brain static for the next several months. Fortunately for me, though, my father’s geeky sense of humor (obvi a dominant genetic trait, as you can see) offered some much needed comic relief. When I’m wrapped up in my head like I was yesterday, he and my mom both serve as worthy opponents for my perpetual need to temporary lapse into improvisational alter-reality:
Me: Dad, can you print these up please?
Him:
(Sad thing is, he probably wasn’t kidding. So I replied the following:)
And just like that, I’m already being reminded of how these two worlds don’t have to be mutually exclusive.
#IFuckingLoveMyParents