Hardest email yet
How do you say good-bye to the best job you're ever likely to have?
Two months ago, I considered myself a second-year university student. I wasn't doing too well, but I didn't particularly hurt at the time. I had semi-resigned myself to that I was likely to get kicked out at the end of the year; I had been on academic probation since the previous semester, and I wasn't doing any better. In fact, I was doing worse, because I'd completely stopped caring; when you care, you hurt. It took me a few drives with tears streaming down my face, but I'd gotten used to the idea of completely failing out.
Note that I still considered myself a student at the time. I hadn't really thought things through, besides idly paging through the 'Help Wanted' section.
About midway through exams (which I had completely given up on, not even studying, and leaving after an hour or so), I had my registrar's appointment, to set up courses for next year. I'm not really certain how I managed to get through that. I found courses that I would like to take, and heard that I could appeal academic probation. I might be allowed back the next year. Let me tell you, it's things like that that hurt more than you would imagine. You know how people say something felt like their heart was torn out? That felt like my heart was shoved though my sternum without anaesthetic, back into my chest.
I can't remember whether the worst part came before or after that appointment, but it's irrelevant. I met Prof Marigold (*not her real name) in the hallway. For those who don't know -- which I guess is everyone except me -- I had been employed by her for a while, doing things I would have done for free; working for her, although it payed very little, was the best job I'm ever likely to have in my entire life. We talked for a bit, and she mentioned that a) there was a gift bag for me in the front office, and b) she was looking forward to working with me next year.
Normally, I am a terrible actor. My real feelings are written on my face, making it hard to fake other ones. However, there is one thing I excel at faking. I can keep my voice level, pretend that everything's all right; the sunglasses I habitually wear mean nobody can see tears welling up in my eyes, and as long as they don't slip out from under the concealment of the lenses, you'll never know.
The gift was a box of chocolates, along with a stuffed dog. There was also an envelope inside; a card, it feels like. I haven't been able to open it. I can't bear to.
This was something I had never thought about. Not coming back, means not working with her.
Another day, another meeting in the hallways. This happened multiple times, so I don't really have to worry about chronological order. I was semi-kinda-maybe in the computer science program; I'd taken every computers course available (four at that level), and had considered myself a comp sci person for a while, until I began to have doubts. Despite that, I genuinely liked the professor for those courses, Prof Spruce (*not his real name). He's a nice guy, knows his stuff, and we get along well. Pretty much outside of the first course[s], I've been the only girl in those classes. He likes to call me his "top female student", to which I reply that I'm his ONLY female student in that. Enough backstory; so I was walking, and he greeted me, and asked me my plans, for both summer and autumn. I managed something noncommittal, but that reminded me of another thing.
Prof Spruce would be disappointed in me. Everyone who had been in my computers classes would know I was gone. It's a small university, smaller sciences department, even smaller computer sciences department.
Fast forward to summer. I've been pretty much living in the basement (where my room is), sleeping in till 1500, staying on the internet for the hours I am awake, and not really thinking about anything. I received a letter from my university. Good news: it contained a checque for my mailbox key deposit (money I really needed). Not so good news: my GPA was lower than Mariana's Trench, I had been on academic probation and showed no signs of grade improvement; I couldn't come back next year. I could appeal the decision if I wanted, but there was a deadline.
I metaphorically sat on it for a while, trying to avoid thinking about it, but by the next day, I knew I wouldn't appeal. I couldn't, being who I am. There were a number of reasons, and more rationalizations, but what clinched it was that I couldn't stand to have Prof Spruce look at me. A failure.
There are a number of emotions that are hard to bear in other people. But at least when they hate you, you can tell yourself that it's them in the wrong, and you might be right. When they're disappointed in you... no matter what, it's a dull cold pain that hurts more than any number of obscenities.
Finally, we get to what I originally started writing about. I decided that I'd have to tell Prof Marigold eventually, and I was already on the internet, so I should. Took me half an hour to write one sentence: "I won't be going back in the autumn."
Click "Send", and make it real. Tell her. Make it public. Stop putting it off.
Why is one button so hard to click?
Two months ago, I considered myself a second-year university student. I wasn't doing too well, but I didn't particularly hurt at the time. I had semi-resigned myself to that I was likely to get kicked out at the end of the year; I had been on academic probation since the previous semester, and I wasn't doing any better. In fact, I was doing worse, because I'd completely stopped caring; when you care, you hurt. It took me a few drives with tears streaming down my face, but I'd gotten used to the idea of completely failing out.
Note that I still considered myself a student at the time. I hadn't really thought things through, besides idly paging through the 'Help Wanted' section.
About midway through exams (which I had completely given up on, not even studying, and leaving after an hour or so), I had my registrar's appointment, to set up courses for next year. I'm not really certain how I managed to get through that. I found courses that I would like to take, and heard that I could appeal academic probation. I might be allowed back the next year. Let me tell you, it's things like that that hurt more than you would imagine. You know how people say something felt like their heart was torn out? That felt like my heart was shoved though my sternum without anaesthetic, back into my chest.
I can't remember whether the worst part came before or after that appointment, but it's irrelevant. I met Prof Marigold (*not her real name) in the hallway. For those who don't know -- which I guess is everyone except me -- I had been employed by her for a while, doing things I would have done for free; working for her, although it payed very little, was the best job I'm ever likely to have in my entire life. We talked for a bit, and she mentioned that a) there was a gift bag for me in the front office, and b) she was looking forward to working with me next year.
Normally, I am a terrible actor. My real feelings are written on my face, making it hard to fake other ones. However, there is one thing I excel at faking. I can keep my voice level, pretend that everything's all right; the sunglasses I habitually wear mean nobody can see tears welling up in my eyes, and as long as they don't slip out from under the concealment of the lenses, you'll never know.
The gift was a box of chocolates, along with a stuffed dog. There was also an envelope inside; a card, it feels like. I haven't been able to open it. I can't bear to.
This was something I had never thought about. Not coming back, means not working with her.
Another day, another meeting in the hallways. This happened multiple times, so I don't really have to worry about chronological order. I was semi-kinda-maybe in the computer science program; I'd taken every computers course available (four at that level), and had considered myself a comp sci person for a while, until I began to have doubts. Despite that, I genuinely liked the professor for those courses, Prof Spruce (*not his real name). He's a nice guy, knows his stuff, and we get along well. Pretty much outside of the first course[s], I've been the only girl in those classes. He likes to call me his "top female student", to which I reply that I'm his ONLY female student in that. Enough backstory; so I was walking, and he greeted me, and asked me my plans, for both summer and autumn. I managed something noncommittal, but that reminded me of another thing.
Prof Spruce would be disappointed in me. Everyone who had been in my computers classes would know I was gone. It's a small university, smaller sciences department, even smaller computer sciences department.
Fast forward to summer. I've been pretty much living in the basement (where my room is), sleeping in till 1500, staying on the internet for the hours I am awake, and not really thinking about anything. I received a letter from my university. Good news: it contained a checque for my mailbox key deposit (money I really needed). Not so good news: my GPA was lower than Mariana's Trench, I had been on academic probation and showed no signs of grade improvement; I couldn't come back next year. I could appeal the decision if I wanted, but there was a deadline.
I metaphorically sat on it for a while, trying to avoid thinking about it, but by the next day, I knew I wouldn't appeal. I couldn't, being who I am. There were a number of reasons, and more rationalizations, but what clinched it was that I couldn't stand to have Prof Spruce look at me. A failure.
There are a number of emotions that are hard to bear in other people. But at least when they hate you, you can tell yourself that it's them in the wrong, and you might be right. When they're disappointed in you... no matter what, it's a dull cold pain that hurts more than any number of obscenities.
Finally, we get to what I originally started writing about. I decided that I'd have to tell Prof Marigold eventually, and I was already on the internet, so I should. Took me half an hour to write one sentence: "I won't be going back in the autumn."
Click "Send", and make it real. Tell her. Make it public. Stop putting it off.
Why is one button so hard to click?