Paging Doctor Freud.

I am taking a psychology class this semester. I'm just a few weeks into it and we're already learning about Freud. First we learned about research methods (to remind us that psychology is indeed a science) and then we moved on to biological psychology (to also remind us that psychology is indeed a science). Now we are learning about Freud and psychoanalysis. Unlike some intro psych classes that stick strictly to the textbook, we dive right in and read a primary source. Freud, probably for a variety of reasons, has a difficult style. Takes twelve words to say what could have been said in two. But I'm sloughing through, thanks to being able to read aloud to a seasoned student of psychology.

I am not taking this class because I plan to become a psychologist or a therapist or anything like that. I just thought that this would be a good way to kill off a pretty standard pre-requisite for a potential career change, if that were to ever interest me. Teaching, dental-hygiene, nursing, speech therapy, even counseling - all of these things appeal to me, and all of the additional schooling I would need in order to pursue these careers requires a psychology class. So. I'll have my bases covered.

In the meantime, it's fun to learn about the brain and about different theories of psychology. I'm learning that Freud was one whacked-out dude, but some of his overall themes I actually think are useful and relevant. Even the idea of the id, ego, and super-ego. The idea of the self, of me, trying to create and maintain a balance between the more basic, biological needs that are battling against the bloated conscience of the external world. I like that. Maybe this is why some days feel like a struggle.

Of course, now whenever I look at something I'm reminded of some kind of psychological ideal or theory that was briefly touched on in my class. I just went through the photos on my camera to dump those I wanted onto the computer and saw this one:

I immediately thought of Freud and the possibility of Tyrone unconsciously exhibiting repressed sexual tension towards my mother (one can see Freud in anything). And then I saw Sasha trying to bust into the bag of catnip that came with her new scratching post

and was reminded of those doctors, like good Doctor Freud, who experimented with the medical possibilities of cocaine, morphine, opium, heroin, and other narcotics, on themselves and wound up, in some cases, dope fiends.

So I'm enjoying this class. It's fun to learn again, to do homework assignments, to be forced to read things that I may not otherwise have read. But let's just see if I'm singing that same tune in a few weeks when I have my first mid-term exam in something like six years. I'll have to get my seasoned student of psychology to do some review sessions with me. It will be like UCONN all over again.

Postscript: A little more, a little less.

I owe my fair readers, my mother in particular, some additional, clarifying notes on my last completed post. I got an email from my mother when she read my post in which she stated, and I quote, "I can't figure out why you are always so unhappy in your jobs. You have had some very nice jobs. A lot of people would love your job." When I read that part of her email, I immediately wanted to call her up and exclaim, "I don't hate my job! I am not unhappy! No, no, no, you misunderstand!" But, in fact, is she misunderstanding? I believe I am at fault here. I believe I am putting out false impressions about my current mental state. And I believe that it deserves clarification.

Clarification: I do not hate my job. I repeat - I do not hate my job. I will even venture to go so far as to say that I like my job. Yes, that's right. I like my job. My job allows me to have a workable schedule. I like all the people with whom I work, even the ones who I feel have talents that are best suited to a different role and are maybe not appropriately matched to their position (that's my code for people who frustrate me and who I vent about (if I do actually vent, because I am doing that so, so much less now) when I come home to Doug). I feel less like a fish out of water in academia than I did in corporate finance, so I feel much more comfortable and confident when going to work each day. I am learning new things each day (different things than I learned in my research job, but still, my mind is being stimulated). I am not as sedentary in my new job. I can walk underground through a tunnel system directly into the stacks of one of the nation's most revered library collections and borrow whatever I want from it for a whole semester. I am lucky. I have a very good job. No job is perfect, but this job is closer to whatever professional perfection is for me than my last job. So please, yes, I do not hate my job. And I am not unhappy in my job.

I am beginning to think that I am just a perpetual "venter" (I hesitate to call myself a complainer, because I really don't feel like I am complaining when I talk about what I talk about. I am just getting my feelings and reactions to life out in the open.). Like I just said, I have a need to get my feelings and reactions to life out in the open and a forum for this is my blog. I am also opinionated, strangely enough, since if you have the pleasure of hanging out with me in person you may not really gather that. I tend to be more opinionated if I feel that the company I am keeping will be receptive to my opinions, and in the case of my blog, it is always receptive to my opinions. That's the great thing about a blog. So maybe that's why I tend to do a lot of venting here.

Again, clarification: I am not unhappy. I think that I may be bored, and I may have room in my life for more (more activity, more interesting-ness, more satisfaction), but I also may just have learned coping and protective habits during my development that cause my mind to run away with its thoughts. I'm overly-analytical. I think too much. And that causes a somewhat gray and swirling cloud to form above my head, not unlike that that trails Pigpen, that can be mistaken for unhappiness. I think that I have mistaken that cloud for unhappiness at times. At a lot of times. Like, fourteen years of my life. But it's not unhappiness. I enjoy my life. I like my house. I like my cats (depending on the day). I like to do my crafty hobbies, I like to read, I like to watch the movies and TV shows that I choose to watch, I like all of that. Of course there are things that I don't like, and of course there are things that I would like to change, but they are small. They are small and somewhat inconsequential, and they hardly constitute an unhappy life.

Let's just say that I am continually searching. I'm continually thinking and searching, trying to always live up to the standards that I have set for myself (and hoping that others will live up to the standards I have set for them). My mind is often tired from this, and many, many, many times I have wished that I could just have a quiet mind. That the thinking and searching could end. But it can't. I am who I am, really, and I can't change that. I can just learn how to cope with it. I suppose what you witness, either by reading this blog or my tweets or my emails or by talking with me and hanging out with me, what you witness is my learning process. Aren't you lucky?

Okay. Because I made you read through that long diatribe, let's show some more stimulating visual content. Stimulating visual content that show some of the things that make me happy.

Last Sunday I went to work at 2pm and I left work at 8am Monday morning. (Please note: I am not complaining, or even venting. Simply stating the facts). Before Doug went to bed he sent me this photo of him and Sherman to provide me with some distraction on my very long night.



I laughed out loud when I opened this photo. It made my night. Doug was so thoughtful to send me that.

And just today I opened up my email and found a series of photos from Uncle Jimmy that are documenting the progress on his house in New Hampshire. He is having some major construction done to it, including fixing up the porch and creating a second floor in the attic space. Here's a shot of the work so far:



I can't wait to see more photos!

A little more, a little less.

What's in my backpack?

I look at job ads all the time because I am still trying to figure out what one can do with a library degree. There are all kinds of jobs out there and they are all over the place. Berkeley, Middletown, CT, Maryland, everywhere. I just saw a posting the other day that made me say, "Cool!" Associate Archivist at Biltmore Estate in Asheville, NC. Of course, the job may not really be cool when you discover what it actually involves, but if I read the posting with my Antiques Roadshow goggles and think about being in Asheville, then I become very excited and I wish I had stayed in the archives program at Simmons so that I could have had a job like this. Wishes and regrets about my professional life I have plenty.

The job, you'll note, is in NC, which is not within commuting distance of my current home in Dedham, MA. The vast majority of the jobs that I see posted that make me go, "Hmmm...." are not within commuting distance of Dedham. This is a bit of a problem, since we own a home in Dedham and the market right now is pretty poor for house-selling. And, as I have said time and time again on this blog, we really like our house and we've grown used to Dedham. But this doesn't change the fact that our house ties us down. Weighs us down and keeps us in one place. Makes our backpacks very heavy.

What do we do about that? Not quite sure. We go back and forth on this topic each day. Sell or not to sell. Move or not to move. It's the same old, same old. Blah, blah. But Doug and I are in the process of lightening the load in our backpacks in other ways. Like going through our bookshelves and pulling books that we won't read or don't have any attachment to.



Doug's going through all of his pedals and is selling some. I have started a bag for clothes and shoes give-away. We are donating two chairs to Uncle Jimmy's house in New Hampshire for when the construction on his addition is completed. We have started a tag sale pile and have several things in it already, including some pots and pans that we haven't used once since we moved into this house. Things like that.

Our "Lightening the Load," our "Great Leap Forward," was side-tracked a bit while we were dealing with the aftermath of Hurricane Irene. A microburst went through our neighborhood and several extremely large and old trees met their maker because of it. Also because of it we spent four days with very limited power. No power to the main parts of our house meant that I spent a lot of time crafting. I finally made my new curtain for the kitchen:



Matching placemats:



A stupid sock creature:



What's ironic is that all of these things add weight to my backpack and so counteract what I am actually trying to do by getting rid of stuff. Because all of this is just more stuff. Now I have a spare set of curtains in storage, more placemats to store for use when the company I never invite over comes over, and a stuffed sock with button eyes that sits on the dining room table and collects cat hair. But all of it was fun to make, and I think the window looks much better with the new curtain. So maybe it's worth it to add to my backpack? Or maybe it's a balance. I can add to my backpack as long as I take more out than I am adding to it. Isn't that what life is about? Balancing the good with the bad? Yes, I think it is. And so the trial for me continues.