Grad school, first year

I will say that this was likely the worst year of my life. Inside the span from August of 2001 to July of 2002, I was deeply depressed – to the point of being nonfunctional, physically ill as often as not, desperate to escape a situation that, for the first time in my life, left me feeling inadequate, stupid and unable to learn quickly or perform well enough. Not such good times. However, hindsight softens some of that and allows the good memories to shine through. I can now look back, and after a shudder of recalled pain, think that it wasn’t quite so bad after all.

The beginning of the year wasn’t too bad. Classes had allowed escape from being ignored in Group B, and the schedule seemed pretty tame. Three courses, two with labs, and a seminar. Not a problem for someone who had consistently taken 18 credit hours in undergrad, maxing out at 21 for a single semester by adding a chemistry course at the local community college. That same semester, by the way, I worked an internship at an environmental laboratory, so it’s not as if I had no mental toughness.

I had always done well though. At no point in my academic career could I recall feeling inadequate. (Well, there was one, but that was a mistake!) So after getting our very first exams back, I sat in a room with my peers and realized that I was near the bottom of those scores placed on the board. Only three people scored lower than I, and that was shocking and painful and wrong. I had considered myself prepared, but my “I’ll figure something out when I get there” strategy had failed me against the sheer studying effort of these students. Reeling from the blow to my ego, which is relatively fragile, I tried to pull it together.

Our first lab report was due shortly after. It was a measurement lab – the diameter and width of a penny was on it, among other discipline specific measurements. Simple enough, certainly, which is why we all put it off until the night before in favor of doing required reading, research and social activities.

I broke around 3AM, never having completed an all-nighter. Sleep deprivation is not good for me – I don’t tolerate it to any degree. But I continued to stubbornly battle Excel, and did propogation of error problems that were poetically full of errors. I called M until she said she was going to bed – her report was finished enough, she declared, finally tiring of my tantrums and whining, I think. Then the guys started calling me, and I took some comfort in their identical struggles and tirades until I too grew weary.

I can’t do this, I remember thinking. My tiny apartment closed in on me. The loveseat tucked under the counter that lead into the kitchen. I was ever so proud that my living space was separate from the cooking area. I’d visited rooms where the sink and stove were simply located along one wall of a room, and frowned with confusion and horror. My apartment, 420 precious square feet that was more expensive than I can bear to admit, had a kitchen that opened into a small living space. My bed pressed against my desk, which overlooked a small window. I stared out the window that night – into the dark courtyard where people slowly came and went, even in the early morning hours. Too tired to cry, too crushed to sleep, too frightened to pack and go home – I didn’t think I’d come back and failure was foreign to me. I just sat – completely lost. I let the next call go to voice mail, the first time of many that I’d ignore that ring. I couldn’t help them, I remember thinking. I can’t even figure this out for myself.

I didn’t sleep that night, going to class the next morning in sweats and my glasses – the only time in grad school I’d wear them – and not speaking to anyone. I waited in line to turn in my lab report, and snapped viciously at the TA – a friend – and I can still remember how surprised he looked. It’s not like me to be mean.

I went to the Greek Letters afterward, stealing the chair from the desk that was not yet mine, and scooting over to talk to β.

“Doing OK?” She asked lightly, and her face twisted in sympathy when I shook my head. She patted my shoulder until I pulled away, horrified at the thought of crying in front of these people I admired so much.

χ swiveled his chair around and sighed. “Did I tell you my story?” He asked in his slight Southern drawl, and I shook my head, staring at him pathetically, wide-eyed and nearly broken by a single exam and lab report.

“Flunked out of my first program.” He said easily, and shrugged when I cocked my head in surprise. He’s brilliant. While I enjoy complimenting people, I can say with complete confidence that I’ve met fewer people smarter than he.

“I always forget that.” α remarked, turning from his work with a smile that fell quickly into concern as he looked at me for the first time. “It’s hard.” He said simply, and β and α offered quick agreement. “I kept waiting for them to send me home.” He continued, “Kept expecting someone to realize they made a mistake and that I didn’t belong here.”

“Don’t cry, sweetheart.” β whispered and handed me a Kleenex. Because these people belonged here, I thought, but couldn’t speak as I tried to hold back tears, letting only a couple escape. I had the same thoughts – I couldn’t do this, didn’t belong, had no idea what I was going to say to everyone who knew I’d begun grad school when I left with nothing but a sense of useless failure. But I was right – this wasn’t going to work for me. I simply wasn't good enough. As she patted and soothed, α went to the corner to flip through files and χ pulled a pile of papers down from his shelf.

I thought they were uncomfortable with my display of emotion, and berated myself for not holding it together. But in one of the more exquisite moments of my academic career, they each placed folders in my lap. Their own work from first year. Old exams, lab reports, homework assignments.

“It won’t all be the same for you,” α said softly. “But you say you work best from examples, so here you go.”

“Plus,” χ said, kindly trying to coax me into a smile, “it’ll show you we didn’t know what we were talking about half the time. But we made it. You’ll make it too.

“Sometimes it’s just showing up. Turning something in. Asking for help, then giving it a shot. Don’t worry if you get the very lowest score.”

“Well, don’t get the lowest score,” α interrupted. “If it’s that bad, come get me and we’ll work problems.”

“How is that helpful?!” β glared at him and patted me a bit harder in her agitation. “I got the lowest score a lot and I’m still here!”

“Well… look at you though.” He teased and she continued to glare.

“Listen to χ.” She advised me.

So he continued. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. There are going to be days where this really sucks.” They all nodded. “But you can do it. We all did it, and I’d tell you if I thought you didn’t belong here. But it’s a daily struggle. Go to class and lab. Study. Write lab reports that don’t really matter all that much. Sleep. Go out. Whine and complain when it helps. You’ll be fine.”

He was right – they all were. In some strange way, I did belong there, I think. And if not, I made myself fit. Poring over their work so I could do my own, concepts eventually became clear. That test was an aberration – I did consistently well on exams. I realized that the lab was a small section of the overall grade, and losing sleep over 0.5% of the grade (M and I calculated it after that first report) was asinine. So I decided that some days I’d just show up – put in some effort and not worry so very much. It wasn’t always a success – I spent more nights than I’d like to admit huddled in my bathroom listening to the shower run, fighting back sick panic over failing.

Overall though, I think grad school is like many things in life. You show up. You do what you can. Sometimes it all makes sense and other times it’s horrifically difficult. You get through it because it’s what you do – you make it through today, then the day after.

On Memorial Day, it’s nice to remember that other people show up and do something that I consider to be far more difficult and profound. It’s difficult for me to understand how they do it – I’m pretty sure I couldn’t – but my appreciation is deep. I'm proud that we have people - past and present - showing up, and doing far more besides.