After my initial complete meltdown, I’m settling back into some sort of normal routine. I’m trying a battery of things to deal with keeping my mental/physical state in some sort of manageable place (therapy, exercise, acupuncture, eating more vegetables, deep breaths, looking at internet pictures of kittens, etc. etc. etc.) and trying to just plow through the next couple of months.
A draft is written, I’ve got the nausea-inducing pile of advisorial comments (received several months after I initially sent them in, but hey, who’s counting), so now I’ve just got to jump through my advisor’s hoops of editing and revision to get this thing finally finished. I’m trying to get my 100th or whatever wind to get some energy for this thing, but mostly I sit down and listlessly work on it.
I had planned to graduate this semester. In order to get my paperwork in on time, I quite literally had to trudge through the snow in order to turn in the paperwork. When I told my advisor that I was turning in the forms, the first thing ze said was, “well, what happens if you don’t finish this semester?” which I should have realized was code for “if I haven’t bothered to read your dissertation up to now, what makes you think I will read it in the next few months?” So now, I am beginning to see my initial deadlines float by me as I continue to work on this worthless piece of crap. The deadline for turning in preliminary drafts, for having my defense, for turning in the final draft, for the oh-so-sweet returning of all my library books. Watching those dates go by hurts.
So does sitting here at 9:45 on a Sunday night, when I know that I have to get some more work done on this thing in order to stay on my revision schedule. I remember a time when I would have seen the clock hit 10 pm, and I would have been motivated to blast through the end of a paper, doing obscene amounts of work in tiny amounts of time to hit the next day deadline. Now I see 10 pm come on my clock, and I really just want to read and go to bed with my husband. The husband has one of these real office-y type jobs that pays our rent, our grocery bill, and gives us some really enviable health insurance. It also means that it keeps him on a regular schedule. 10 pm on a Sunday means it is time to eke out a little more weekend free time, then get into bed. 10 pm for me means you-have-to-keep-working-you-loser-because-you-went-out-to-breakfast-and-went-to-the-gym-which-means-you’re-behind-and-if-you-go-to-bed-now-you-will-feel-like-today-was-a-failure.
Needless to say, I am really sick of measuring my days by how much work on the dissertation I got done, and then using that as a yardstick for my self-worth. This is all to say, that I have to get back to work now. Le sigh.