The Truth

When I applied to graduate school three years ago, I applied only to PhD programs.  Not only did I know that I would need funding in order to make graduate study feasible, but also I truly believed that I wanted a PhD.  I was dissatisfied with my college career - I felt like my college years had been all about getting over (or, as the case may be, not getting over) my eating disorders, and I simply wasn't proud of the academic work I had done.  Sure, I had gotten good grades and worked hard - or, as hard as I was able at the time - but I still never felt as though I had immersed myself in study the way that high school Mary Frances had assumed I would.  (Spoiler alert: high school Mary Frances was kind of ridiculous.  Also annoying.  Ok.  Let's proceed.)

My tagline to my friends and family during the application process was that in graduate school I wanted to accomplish something about which I was proud on an academic level.  And what better way to do that than to write a dissertation?  Surely that would be enough, even for high school Mary Frances.  With a PhD under my belt, then I would really be worthy of happiness, right?  Then high school Mary Frances would undoubtedly stop being disappointed in the student I had become.

So I began my PhD program in the Fall of 2008 and discovered that - lo - graduate school is hard.  I cried a lot during that first semester, but survived it.  Every semester since has gotten gradually easier, in that I have felt progressively more confident as a writer, as a contributor to class discussion, and as a reader of scholarship.

This time last year, however, as I began therapy and started to look more closely at what I really wanted  - and less at what high school Mary Frances wanted - I started wondering if perhaps a career in graduate study was not for me.  After all, I truly hate writing papers and let's be honest, isn't that all academia is?  Sure, you teach a few classes here and there, but also, you publish articles and books for the rest of your life.  That meant I would be writing papers for THE REST OF MY LIFE.  Um, no thank you.  I'm just fine living without panic attacks about obscure topics of research.

When I shared these thoughts with my psychiatrist last fall, however, she warned me against making any major life decisions when I was still so seriously depressed; this made sense to me - depression, anorexia, and bulimia had dominated my life for years, and as I sought to unravel all of the threads that led to them last fall, my brain was quite a muddled place.  I mean, for real.  I wouldn't have trusted myself to put on two matching socks (totally serious - it was a rough year, people).

So I stayed on for a third year, making plans to truck on through the PhD, at the same time as I fell more in love with teaching (I was a TA last year).  Teaching felt right - more right than being a graduate student ever had - and I started to realize that maybe this was what I should be doing.  But I had accepted a PhD fellowship from my program, I told myself - wouldn't it be kind of a dick move to leave only after the MA?  Wouldn't that be like stealing their money?  Not following through?  Being a failure at school, life, and EVERYTHING AFTER?  (Another spoiler alert: I tend to overreact.)

So I didn't say anything to my advisors last spring, even when I was sure that teaching was the path I wanted to take; in addition to my guilt about leaving, I was still seriously traumatized from my first miscarriage, and, yet again, was in no position to make major life decisions.  Two weeks after I miscarried, I signed my contract for the following year.  I felt hollow and alone and couldn't consider doing anything else.

And then this fall I started teaching Middle School girls and immediately felt at home.  I became a part of a new community and realized that even if I left the familiarity of my small graduate program, I would find a community wherever I went: there are nice people (and, let's be honest, annoying people) everywhere.  As I had suspected it would from my experience last year, being in the classroom simply feels right - I feel like myself when I'm there, and I adore working with these students.

At the same time, however, having just finished a thirty-page seminar paper, I can confidently say that nothing quite compares to the satisfaction of diving headfirst into a paper, living it for weeks, and coming out on the other side.  It's like a runner's high - there's a certain amount of masochism, but oh my gosh.  It feels so good to have accomplished that goal.  And, of course, there's the fact that graduate school does work an area of my brain that teaching simply doesn't (and shouldn't - these are seventh graders - obviously there's going to be a difference in level of scholarship).

So where does that leave me?  Well, last week in my end-of-term meeting with the head of my department and the graduate advisor, I found out.  With four months of teaching under my belt, I finally felt confident (but still OH MY GOSH so nervous) in telling them that I wanted to apply for full-time teaching positions - that it's where I'm happiest, and that I'm not ready to give that up.  They know I'm pregnant, so they asked me where that left my graduate work.

I knew that they would ask me that question, and I had decided beforehand that I just needed to be honest with them.  So I was.  "I'm not really sure," I replied.  "I entered this program with the intention of completing the PhD, but obviously my life has changed - my priorities are different than they were when I began."  I told them that I knew that I couldn't do teaching, infant, and graduate school all at once next fall - that that just sounded wretched (they agreed).  I apologized for not telling them before now, and the head of the department (whom I adore) chucked and said with a smile, "Well this is your life Mary Frances.  You can do whatever you want."  And it struck me that he was right.  This was, to quote HIMYM, a truth fact.  It is my life.  I can't believe it's taken me over twenty-five years to realize that and to trust myself (and, ahem, not high school Mary Frances) to make the right decision, but there you have it.  This is my life.  Who knew?

My advisor suggested that I simply take a leave of absence - give myself a year to think about whether or not I wanted to proceed.  Not even aware that this was an option, I jumped at the opportunity.  And with that, friends, that's where I stand with graduate school.  After this coming semester (when I WILL receive my MA or else this baby is not allowed to come - and, um, I sense that that's not an option) I will apply for teaching positions for 2011-2012 and plan on taking a year entirely off from graduate work to focus on my teaching and our family.  I'll reevaluate the state of my graduate work this time next year.  I feel lucky and full and so excited for this year that I could burst.

Moral of the story: telling the truth - apparently that's a good strategy.  Noted.