Angry Hormones

I haven't written much because I'm experience a bloggers crisis.

There is a lot that I want to talk about. My class is making me feel re-energized about psychology and decisions and environmentalism. I have a lot of strong words to use regarding this idea that it's alright to force women to undergo medically unnecessisary ultrasounds in order to get an abortion. I'm back in therapy, as I've mentioned, so I have a lot of thoughts on family and anxiety and confrontation and relationships.

But I also have this fetus.

I promised myself that I wouldn't become one of those women who became 100% babycentric. And I don't think I am, or will be. Mum was looking through a book the other day and coo'd at a (admitedly adorable) baby picture. "I'm just not gushy over babies," I remarked. To which she responded, "Oh thank god, neither am I. It just feels like the thing you're expected to do, though."

So it's not so much that I'm oozing baby all over the place, and am avoiding blogging about it in order to not induce mass vomitting. It's that I am oozing pregnancy.

I have big things to say about mandatory ultrasounds, but then I get sidetracked bitching about how they make you fill your bladder up in order to get one and how do they expect you to hold that much pee when you have a grapefruit sitting on your already unreliable bladder?!

My psychology class is enlightening and I think I'm really clicking with my professor. But I had to miss a bunch of the lecture to dash outside and dry heave for 15 minutes. And then I sat through the midterm with a headcold-from-hell because my immune system is lowered so my body doesn't reject the parasite growing within.

And the rage. Oh baby, the rage.

I had this mental image of overly hormonal pregnant women bursting into tears at the sight of a puppy, or picking inane arguments with their partners because they forgot to buy milk and obviously that means the love in their relationship is dead. I'm not prone generally to bursting into tears or picking inane fights, but I was braced for it. I carry klenex in my pockets. I was ready. What I did not expect was that my particular brand of pregnancy hormones would manifest itself into sudden, violent spurts of rage, emerging from a baseline level of crankiness.

A cashier messed up my change this morning after buying a tea, and I lived a mental scene in which their head fit beautifully into the cash register. It was brief, and sanity restored itself before I could act, but it was there. It was real. My patience is at an all time low, and my desire to pick a fight is at an all time high.

I imagine hormones as fat little devils floating around my blood stream, randomly attaching themselves onto situations to incite violence and mayhem.

There's a part of me that appreciates this as a good thing. Anger is always easier to deal with then squishy emotional subjects, like trauma and feelings. I appreciate anger and the comforting barrier is provides. There are things that frustrate me, but rarely to the point of actual anger. I let things slide a lot. Like my Dad. And from watching that particular parental role model, I understand the benefits and detriments of being someone who "lets things slide".

These days, my fuse is so close to the fire that if I let anything slide, it would tumble straight into a powder keg of pregnant woman rage.

Oh, that makes me smile.

On Hope and Learning

I'm taking an incredibly interesting social psychology class. It's not so much the subject matter as the professor.

He's one of those rare profs that are truly passionate about their subject. They have this love and breadth of knowledge that they are dying to pass on, and it shines through into their style of teaching and discourse. It's a beautiful and refreshing change after umpteenth years of jaded, boring, dry profs.

I went to his office to ask him something and there was another student waiting to speak with him. We got to talking, and I spent half an hour with this bright eyed 20 year old. At first I was excited that this professor, whose passion I was desperately hoping wasn't wasted on the glass eyed masses in class, had inspired someone. This boy talked about how our prof had really made him examine himself and question what he wanted to do with his life. At 20, I think that's an incredibly healthy thing to do, and told him so.

He told me about his parents, about the pressure they're putting on him. About his childhood, about school and how he felt. About the paths that led him here, to this moment, outside the professor's office, talking to a stranger. It was apparent that these were Big Issues, this was a pivotal moment of grand importance where you see your life stretched out behind you, and you stare into the abyss going forward and wonder: What the hell am I doing?

I listened to him. I asked questions. I told him my honest opinion, that as much as he may feel under a landslide of pressure, it was never too late (as I stood there at 27 having only recently returned to school to start a whole new career). That his parents undoubtedly loved him, but his life was his own and they would love him even if he disappointed them. That he shouldn't disappoint himself.

We never exchanged names. He poured his heart and soul out, to a complete stranger, for half an hour. It was such a small slice of time, but when we parted ways I felt that something important had happened. That this professor had irrevocably touched another human being, had challenged him to challenge himself. That this boy had felt the need to divulge his soul to a stranger, to say thing he admitted he could not say to his own parents. That fate or timing or coincidence had brought me to that place at that time to listen and help and listen some more to another soul in pain.

It left me feeling oddly calm and content. It left me feeling hopeful. As much as I grieved with him for the pain of his immediate choices, that he was willing to look them head on and make them was inspiring.

I hope I helped.