Chapter 13

I got back to my apartment late Sunday night, and seriously considered skipping all of my Monday classes to catch up on the work I had put off. Going home had only confused matters, and I came back without the feeling of resolution that I had hoped for.

What was I looking for? In the end, it comes down to that. It had been easy to do things when you were out to please someone other than yourself. And that was the whole problem. I had spent so much time doing the things that I knew other people would approve of. It made things simple for me. Do what you know other people expect, and you don’t have to consider yourself.

The lack of interest in my running own life was a glaring dilemma. I had made it through twenty-four years of my life without ever once making a decision by myself, for myself. College plans, career plans – they had all been laid out with that singular goal of pleasing my father, of fulfilling that promise to be everything I thought he wanted me to be. With him gone, without him there to provide that subtle approval, I realized how little my own opinions influenced the decisions I made.

What did I really want? Did I really want the house, yard, two kids and a dog? Did I want the white collar job with the respectability of a title and abbreviations? Did I want the life that I had grown up in? These were all things I had taken to be givens. They would just be a part of my eventual life. No question, no consideration of something different. As I saw it, my sister had followed along, fit the model, and was quite happy with the outcome. Why couldn’t I be? More importantly, why hadn’t I already started?

Out of habit, I turned on my computer to check my email, though it was quickly turning into early Monday morning. Once an addict, always an addict. I scanned through the twenty or so messages that had come in. Mostly junk, of course, with the various subject titles asking me if I was okay with my size, or if I was keeping up with my pharmacy prescriptions. I carelessly began deleting, annoyed that my inbox was filling with nothing but waste and wallowing in a little self-pity over the fact that I had nothing important to deal with.

I came to the last email, and out of habit, went to hit the delete button. The message title was generic; like other junk mail that attempt to conceal themselves, the subject line read “Everything Ok?” I was about to press the expunge button on my email account when I glanced at the addressee column, and realized that I recognized the address. What the hell did Mr. Becker want now?

I hesitated. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to deal with whatever he wanted to say, either about our meeting at the coffee shop, or the fact that I missed a class. Any additional “comments” would likely put me into a deeper funk, meaning another sleepless night. But, to be honest, I knew that, if left unopened, I would probably obsess over it, and would end up sleepless as well. So, I guess, either way, I wasn’t sleeping tonight. I opened the message:

++++,

Generally, I don’t bother students if they miss class. It is, in my mind, their prerogative, as they are adults. But after our meeting, I wanted to see if there was a correlation between today’s absence and your abrupt departure. If there was, then I’d like to clarify myself. Your paper is excellent. My comments were made in hopes of assisting you on key points that can only strengthen your work. Regardless, your paper is already better than most final papers I receive. To that end, if your final grade is an issue for you, feel confident that you are receiving an A for the semester. Therefore, as you work towards a final draft, please make it a personal exploration, one that allows you to develop and flush out any ideas that interest you. If you have any questions, then contact me. I am more than happy to help.

Mr. Becker

It seemed so shallow, but I reveled in a sense of vindication as I read Mr. Becker’s message. Validation. It is what I always looked for, always waited for, always searched for. And here it was, delivered to me in a nice and compact message. Even better, I was pretty much done with the course. How much better could it get than that?

It was a good moment…hell, a great moment. But it was fleeting. So I had reached my goal – I had gotten his attention with might worked, proved that I was an above-average researcher/writer. What was the real point? How did Mr. Becker’s approval of my work really benefit me? Why did I want it so much?

I stared at my computer screen. And for a quick moment I realized something. Maybe, approval wasn’t the real reason. Maybe the attention was the whole point. And that realization was more disconcerting.