On Advising

Here I lay, flat on a Twin XL Bed, lined with two sheets. Beside me, a box of tissues accumulating into a small pile dampened with tears. The walls are bare and white, and the room is empty, save for me, the campus furniture, and a fruit cup to last me the night.

I am reminded of exactly one year ago. I was...

excited by the new job and its prospects,

sad in the ending of my first year in college,

worried about the entrance in a new relationship over the summer,

yet tickled by the thought of my new boyfriend,

nervous about what the summer at home would be like,

anxious and impatient for my floor, and my residents.

It's funny how during my previous schooling, I loved the arrival of summer.

This only made me nervous.

Flash forward to September 4.

I moved in to Morrill Tower,

in a rush, unpacked all my clothes, which I had stuffed in a rather large hockey bag,

and placed every item in its rightful location.

One hour later, I was skipping to the Fisher School of Business, excited by the very thought that Chris was no longer 3 hours away, but minutes.

That very first day, we spent eight hours, lying in this same bed, talking,

just. talking.

This year, this year has been the journey of a lifetime,

and as I sit here, sorry, lay here,

I can't help but think of

1. What I expected from this job,

2. What I received.

2 weeks of training could never have prepared me for what I would go through,

yes, I knew policy, yes I learned about drugs and suicide, yes I learned about enhancing student life and creating community,

but what I,

what I got was not solely a community on a single floor, or free residency, or a nice single room,

no, I got something much much much better.

I think it began Autumn quarter.

My residents scared me, 57:1 ratio was intimidating, and to know all 57 names was a challenge I felt impossible. It was incredibly difficult to see myself as a role model. To take my opinion of myself, and to envision that I was a role model. As far as I knew, I had nothing to offer, but a pretty face and a nice smile.

I struggled to match each name with each face. Not to mention having the courage to walk into every room and just start conversations with people who were taller, skinnier, prettier, more athletic, more intellectual, more attractive that I am.

To them, i was the person to get them in trouble, I was the eyes of the university,

the authority figure to poke fun at and play pranks on.

To me, I was just one person they would go to if they needed.

I took the first ones for granted. I was surprised they approached me with their issues, and I heard it all, I heard it all from suicide, to homosexuality, to girls, to sex, to materiality, to slasher films and vampire obsessions. It didn't occur to me that they came to me because they wanted to, because they trusted me and I was a loyal ear.

The arrival of winter quarter brought with it thoughts I had never encountered before. I felt punished, like I was life's pitiful playtoy.

I had small bites that appeared every night, which worried me not only because something was happening to me, but because as the weeks wore on, the bites got worse.

Then I found out they weren't bites. Chris didn't have them, so what were they?

They erupted every night, behind my knees, my inner thighs, my arms, my neck, my stomach, my back, and they would start with one small circular red bump, and become clumps of swollen red skin that stained my entire inner thigh.

What was happening to me?

I would cry in the showers, scrubbing at my skin hoping the itching would stop, hoping the swelling would go back down, turning the temperature higher to burn it off.

And for some reason, Chris still found me as pretty as ever. He'd sit with me, and keep me calm, keep my mind off of the pain and off the thoughts that loomed repeatedly in my head.

Each morning I would wake up next to him,

but I would not realize it. Waking up meant a whole new day I had to face, and I didn't want to face it. Waking up would mean I would have to go to class, I would have to do work, I would have to face all my tasks, I would have to be awake.

So I missed a few classes. As I missed class, I would work on my assignment to turn in on time. And finally, I would turn it it, but witness the judgmental views of my classmates and my teacher... my imagination roared, "I wonder why she missed class?" "What's wrong with her?" "Does she do her own work..."

I failed the class.

I remember receiving the email and feeling as if my life weren't worth it. As if I were less than the dust bunnies on the floor beneath my bed. As if there were no point to living.

And I could see it, I could see images, not only images, but desires,

desires to walk out in front of a truck, just so that I wouldn't have to face life.

Blessed, I am so blessed that Chris sat with me, not knowing anything that just happened, but clutched my shaking body as my tears soaked his shorts.

For him, and for him only did I reject my desire to commit suicide. But my my was I so close.

Walking into my room the next morning, I heard the crunch of paper beneath my feet.

A hate letter from an anonymous resident of mine.

Was it ever going to end? Was this torture? Is someone finding this funny?

Why am I a role model?

Is there anything to me, anything to my existence?

By living, am I enhancing somebody's life?

I cried so many nights. Each morning my eyes were bloodshot, my lids puffy, and my nails bitten so low it hurt to put pressure.

The letter was right. I didn't deserve this job, I was no good, and I didn't do shit for my residents.

And somehow I found some unknown strength. To this day, I don't know what that motivation was, but I found it. No, not a person, not my design path or my family, or friends, not even Chris.

I hate to say it, but I think it was God.

I accepted my responsibility for my failure, I spoke to my residents to better the situation, and sought a doctor regarding the hives.

Here I am, the last left on the floor,

smiling at the friends I made, at the impressions I had left on the people of the 16th floor.

Despite all the tears and the late nights, despite the thoughts and the letter,

I'm alive, and I'm a different person.

I have made friends from residents,

I have made purpose from my trials,

I have passed my classes,

I have secured my position for next year,

I have made impressions on the other RA's,

and I am deeply in love with the man I will spend the rest of my life with.

Here's to 2010-2011 and a new Katrina.