Status Update

I’m inching towards the finish line on my thesis (slowly, somewhat mindfully at times, and accompanied by my “study buddies” at others). But still. Progress is being made, and I can look at some of my writing without wondering what the hell I was thinking and wanting to puke at sight of my own supposed scholarly inadequacy.  When I read through a few of the passages in my text, I sort of half-smile while wishing I had a bit more time to develop my thoughts.  That might not count for much to some people, but if in the process of evaluating work I don’t experience nausea and simply wish to do more, I know I’m getting somewhere (this means that I’m essentially thinking, “my work doesn’t suck as badly as it used to! Hooray!” Yes, I’m discussing my feelings of inadequacy and sense of self as “mediocre” in therapy).

Moreover, for anyone in the audience who is familiar with Steven Pressfield’s concept of “resistance,” I do believe I kicked its ass soundly today. I know it’ll still be there ringing in my ears tomorrow, but maybe when I sit down to write then, I’ll be like an action-flick heroine; I’ll be well aware that it wants to do me in, and I’ll give it its due. But I’ll also soar into the ring on a happy cloud made up of my previous successes, perform a 35+ move combo and a killer finishing move, and run its ass into the ground. That will happen. But now I’m going to bed.

The Twilight of My Thesis

Ugh. I hate the fact that I can’t type the word “twilight” without images of sparkly vampires coming to mind. I’ve never seen the movies or read the books of the same name, but I know they’re awful because all of the real goths I know, as well as the ones on the internet, as well as legions of feminists and anti-racist thinkers, and lovers of literature everywhere have all denounced the series.  The only groups of people who seem to enjoy it are young girls and women, and nobody cares what they think [/sarcasm].  Since I don’t have the time or the inclination to read the series myself, I’ve let the opinions of the learned among us inform my own.  So it follows that the series of books/movies of the same name have ruined what was once a lovely word for me (in case I’ve lost anyone in the course of my ramblings, I’ll repeat the word here: twilight).  However, I decided to go with the phrase “The Twilight of my Thesis” anyways, because it seemed more optimistic than the first one that came to my mind: “The Dying Days of My Thesis.”  Look at me trying to re-frame things in a positive light and all.

So, that was a tangent; I’m not entirely sure what I came here to write about. Oh yeah: I miss being in contact with humans, particularly in the context of that “real world” I keep hearing so much about. You know, the one outside my head, outside of my bedroom/office even – that flesh-and-blood world which is occupied by humans that go outside and catch some of the light of the evil day star and have conversations and hold hands and kiss and fight and all of that. I can only voyeuristically participate in real life by observing the encounters of people who walk outside of my second floor window for so long before I start feeling creepy and well, kinda pathetic.

The funny thing is, I live with my sister and my fiance, two people who would (presumably) want to spend time with me if I arose from my thesis-chamber and engaged them.  So one would think that I could easily solve this problem, and I concur. However, I’m all about bitching about problems over the internet as a means of thinking through how I actually want to go about solving the problem before I do anything. And in any event, they’re usually working too, so although we all live together, we don’t actually get to socialize all that often. It’s a lonely business, this thing of trying to be a respectable adult who tries to earn their keep on this planet.

I keep telling myself that I only have a few more days of this before I absolutely have to hand in my thesis, and then I have one more paper to write before I get to enjoy my summer. And I’m pretty stoked about this, because I haven’t had a Real Summer in years. By “Real Summer”, I mean one in which I’m not struggling with unstable living situations, the depths of poverty and despair, and doing schoolwork on top of it all.  Over the past couple of years, at least three out of four of those conditions have been met; if all goes well this year, the only thing I’ll still be somewhat worried about is money.  If a full time position opens at work, I’ll be all over that shit and not even money will be much of an issue anymore.

Whenever I realize that I do have a desire for my life to be a little bit easier, my inner critic steals the show and tells me that I sure am one lazy, spoiled motherfucker for wanting such a thing.  Fortunately, almost immediately after that bitch has her say, a montage of every psychologist and doctor I’ve spoken to over the past couple of years runs through my mind, and they’re all saying pretty much the same thing (if not quite the way I’m about to put it): I’ve had a lot of shit to deal with over the past few years, and most people would have cracked under the weight of it all.  It’s not unreasonable to want a little bit of security, happiness, and hell, even fun in one’s life.  And although I haven’t pinpointed exactly what I see myself doing in my post-undergrad years, I know I don’t want to be scraping by financially and taking fistfuls of meds every day to keep myself sane; I want security,  contentment bourne from the circumstances of my life and my awesome coping skills, rather than pills that prevent the re-uptake of seretonin in my brainmeats, as well as fun, adventure, and new experiences.  I want to travel and not give a shit for a while (and somehow, I’ll still have money and a stable place to come home to; on second thought, I might have to compromise on the “not giving a shit” part of that). I want to have found a way to remove the last few shards of the stick I’ve had in my ass all my life, care less about what others think, and live whatever life I’m meant to live out on this planet, now that I’ve done what I thought I was supposed to do (ie, get the degree). I want be like one of the 30-something friends I looked up to in my twenties, who did the real-world thing, decided it wasn’t for them, and then found their own way in life based on life experience and self-awareness (rather than rejecting “the System” outright due to lowered expectations disguised in a cloak of idealism, which is what I feel I would have been doing if I had either decided against going to university, or dropped out; so as much as I complain about school, I’m glad I gave it an honest shot).

I guess what I really want, when I imagine my life in my thirties, is to be rid of the overwhelming amounts of stress and chaos I experienced in my 20’s, without becoming a boring, happy-sunshiney motherfucker with kids and a house, who has another breakdown when she’s pushing 40 because she doesn’t recognize herself anymore either.  I haven’t given up on the possibility of grad school yet either, I just know it’s something I’m not prepared to do right now (emotionally or financially).

Right. My thesis. I wanted to do this first to warm-up my writing muscles, and to remind myself of why I’m doing this. I’m doing this because it’s on my bucket list; it’s this thing I wanted to create and give to the world outside of all of the circumstances (outside of me, and in my head) that made it take a lot longer to complete than it was ever supposed to. It was so much harder than I ever thought it would be; however, I decided not to think of all the work involved from the outset, because I know if I did I’d scare myself and I’d back out.  I’m not going to lie; it was a lot of work! But I’d probably do it again, were I to travel back in time and be asked to make that decision, knowing what I do now.

Anyways, back to my motivations. Getting the “Honours” designation on my degree is kind of neat (and I do want to get a decent grade on this), but those were never my main reasons for taking this on. I just wanted to prove to myself that I could do it, and I’m almost there. A few more lonely days with my nose to the grindstone really isn’t a big deal, considering all the work that’s behind me and the sense of personal statisfaction I know I’ll feel when I finish this (didn’t my mom mention that a few days ago? Yeah, she did).

Okay, my writing muscles have been engaged. Let’s get on with this.

Feminist Philosophers

Suppose the problem really is in the environment, but you can medicate your child to help them cope. A lot of people may medicate themselves to help them through a bad situation. Facing an MRI in a closed machine (i.e., you’re in the clanging tunnel for possibly an hour)? Xanax can seem reasonable if you are claustrophobic. A wedding with your most difficult relatives? Maybe xanax there too, or a martini or whatever. How about a bad work situation? A pill a day to keep anger away?

For myself I’d say absolutely not in the last case (clarification added in light of comment one). For a healthy child with a poor school environment that makes concentration and learning really too hard? C/D unmedicated, A/B on pills. I feel fortunate not to have to decide this one. Some people do have tO choose between these alternatives:

CANTON, Ga. — When Dr…

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Feminist Philosophers

Here’s an intriguing answer: no one would play or produce works by women:

But the main reason, I think, that there were so few female composers during the glory centuries of classical music is that composers depend on performing musicians and ensembles to play their works, and until relatively recent times, musicians, ensembles and musical institutions were overwhelmingly male.

There were a significant number of female novelists, poets and painters in earlier times. But if you were a Jane Austen, you could sit at home and write your novels. As long as you found a sympathetic publisher, you could get your books distributed and be acknowledged. Compare this to the situation facing Clara Schumann, one of the most celebrated pianists of the 19th century. She was also a gifted composer, though she mostly wrote piano pieces, songs, chamber works: things that she and a circle of musician friends could perform…

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Feminist Philosophers

First, the good news: the feminist classic has been listed as one of 88 books that shaped America by the Library of Congress.

Now the bad news. They’re facing financial difficulties, and as a result have got in touch with us to spread the word. They’ve got some fabulous campaigns going, like Our Bodies Our Votes. So please do consider giving them whatever help you can (which you can do here).

(Thanks, S!)

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Feminist Philosophers

From here.

“As trans people become more visible, our stories have narrowed into a neat narrative arc: born in the wrong body, pushed to the brink of suicide/sanity/society, the agonized decision to begin hormone treatment/surgeries for the reward of ending up ourselves and looking “normal,” which ends in a lesson about the tenacity of the human spirit, triumph of believing in yourself.”

This “traditional” narrative is false for many (perhaps most) trans* people, including myself. But our, and their, stories aren’t typically told. Everyone’s transition story is markedly different, and I’d like our readers to understand that. So I hope that this article becomes widely shared, and deeply thought about.

The pervasiveness of the “traditional” narrative has health care implications for trans* persons. For example, doctors and mental health professionals (who are the primary gatekeepers to medical interventions) are often misinformed and expect to have patients tell them the “traditional…

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