Fuck. in Candy Caned (December 2019)

Still fighting the dean of students. I feel as though she’s threatening me. I sent her an email detailing my reactions to the discussion we had Wednesday and how I felt she had demeaned me by saying that grabbing one of my kids to read aloud to me so I could cook and clean was easy. Yep. She said that. Because (she knew about the ADHD) getting my ADHD, 2nd-grade-Lexile-score daughter to read university-level legal, social work and English class material was an easy solution. And even though I live cheek and jowl with the Beast, Crown Princess of Autism, she worried I can’t handle a client in distress. I don’t know, can they hit me repeatedly? Because she sure has - before I put in the years and years of work to become her trusted person and learn to support her IN DISTRESS.

I don’t have any idea what’s going on. I thought we were meeting to talk resources. She brought my dean and my advisor. Now I have to see two more people every term or so who have watched me cry while feeling personally attacked. I think, maybe, that the entirety of the issue is how I dress. And this is university! I am sitting less than ten feet from a guy with a dog indoors and two people in pajama pants (and one in yoga pants!) Yesterday, I watched a grown adult human walk through a building in footy pajamas with a unicorn hood.

And we wanna discuss my jeans and sweater? Maybe whether or not I have a bra on? Okay, and the crap teeth, and the broken glasses. That’s what I’m being yelled at in front of my dean (but only the one, I guess, small mercy?) for? I have at least a very high B average. Can we not assume that I know I need to fix some things about my appearance before I try to get a job/internship? Can we just have a bit of faith in me that I know I’m representing my school and that I am not supposed to shame them? I already told her I’m broke until I get my loans, in January. I cannot fix anything now. I can never fix anything now. Always waiting.

That’s what being broke is like. There’s no safety net. And I’m dancing as fast as I can.

Best self, she says. Be your best self.

Right now, my best self is at least a high B average in a ratty hoodie and six year old jeans. That’s what I’ve got. And my best self is pretty damn mad at you for embarrassing her like that in front of people who aren’t going to forget how much her life went boom in the middle of term.

I have a plan. Just let me try my plan. Same as the kid in pajamas.