Stats: Read chapters five and six, do exercises on ANOVA and regressions.

Child Psychopathology: locate three different journals, read assigned articles, write critique.

Research topic: begin outline for publication submission.

And on it goes. Two other classes just like that as well.

There it is: all this work. It's an endless road and a treacherous journey.

The ringing phone breaks the silence I find myself drowning in. "Some of us are going to the blues club tonight, downtown, wanna come?"

Did I mention I have to prepare lecture materials for the undergrad class I am teaching? Class is tomorrow; and I haven't gotten to it yet. This is my life. I chose it this way. Ph.D. candidate. Scholarship. Research assistant. Undergraduate instructor. I chose, but did I really have an alternative? An undergrad degree in psychology and a masters in clinical psychology doesn't open any doors in my world, so I continue down the hallway towards the next doorway (where's the magical world of Narnia when you need it anyway?).

. . . "Oh, yeah. Sounds good. Like I was just going to hang out tonight anyway, or like I've got nothing to do." Yeah, right.

Outside, I hear the crescendo of a lawnmower -- can't focus on my stats. I'm looking out the window, now. There's Dad and our neighbor John killing time. How nice for them that they can hang out in the middle of the day and chit chat. I guess that's what free time is like. Dad's got it easy. Cushy job. Nice house. Nice car. Sure, he works hard, I know, but at least he's done with college and not being swallowed by this black hole called graduate school . . .

---

"Hi!" John shouts over the roar.

"Hullo," Frank inaudible walking back from the end of his driveway.

Kills the lawn mower. "What's on tap for today?" Then, "Hey, Frank, who died?"

Stops himself, turns on the driveway. "Goin' to the parkn' just sit for a little while. Tired of my job, feel trapped by my life. Just gotta get away from the wife and kids for a while and stop thinking about work. This is just not the way I thought it would be."

Putz. "What do'ya mean? You have no reason to be down! You've got a beautiful wife, great kids, a good job. What more could you ask for? Sure, go into some corner and pout. This is the nineties. Be a man!"

Yeah, right. Thanks for your concern, asshole.

"Like on the freeway yesterday evening, the Friday rush horror. You've heard of that, haven't you? I play pedalpush and think, 'What'm I doing . . . rush to get up, rush to the freeway, caught up in the office routine and politics, rush to the freeway and home, taxi-rush the kids to play soccer'. Sick and tired of this whole routine, John. I want a change. The nineties, hell. As far as I'm concerned, this is the Dark Age, not the Age of Enlightenment."

He turns and surveys his domain, a 175' by 175' lot. His house, with a 76% mortgage, his two cars, his kids playing in the back yard, his hedge, the second story window where his oldest daughter from his first marriage is studying for grad school . . .

---

I don't usually cry in the middle of the day. Crying to me is an admission to the forces of weakness and despair that they can walk right over me and set up camp. And I don't particularly like to camp, let me just tell you that. Mostly, I attempt to fight off feelings of futility that tend to lead to a sense of decreased control. Personal control. That's really the issue. If I loose control I start to get that feeling in my throat. You know. Tense. Then I blink ten times more often than normal in order to hold back the inevitable tears in my eyes and avoid their spilling down my cheeks. But of course that doesn't work, and they drip down my face, and my nose gets stuffy, and I can't breathe.

There, there. You'll feel better after a good cry. It's OK. Everyone goes through this one time or another.

Do they? I mean, not everyone cries. Look at Dad. Standing out there, talking away. Everything's great for him. He never cries.

---

This guy makes everything complicated!

"Why not take a class? Or see a shrink? There're lotta things you can do instead of just moping. Crying never solved anything, man. It's for sissies."

John had the good, full life of a career bachelor. Traveling salesman, runner, cross-trainer, pretty good bettor at football. Ate lots of healthy microwave entrees . . .

Oh boy, more sympathy thought Frank. About what you'd expect from a guy who's idea of sympathy is to let up a little on his racquetball serve.

"Come off it, John. When'm I going to get the chance to take a class, with two kids and a management job."

That's right. Roll your eyes to the heavens -- that's supportive . . .

"What d'you think'd happen at the office if they knew I was using my mental health benefits? I'm trapped, and I know it. It may be a comfortable trap, but it's a trap nonetheless."

Damn, is this guy feeling sorry for himself or what? He's not even acting like a man these days. He's 86'ed from my next poker party as of right now.

"Look, Frank, when I'm bummed, I reassess myself and my life. I grab the problem by the throat, look it in the eye, spin it around and kick its ass. Just handle it."

"You've got it real fine, John, no kids, no wife, and just your work to attend to. But, ya'know, you've really got it the same as I do, we are adrift in the same sea. When did you ever write the great novel, solve the great problem, or even think the great thought? While you were taking a dump?" At least if 'I can't handle it', I can pass some of it around to share with my neighbor.

"Not so, I've changed. I wasn't entirely happy with my approach to life. Sure, I had my act together. But I got with the times. This is the nineties . . ."

Here's a guy talking about mid-life crisis like it was the second coming, and like he invented it!

"The nineties . . . You just don't have the frustration of not being able to do anything about your living condition or life style. When you get tired of it all, you just go away for a long weekend; or help yourself out at a singles bar; that doesn't solve anything. That's only a diversion ---"

Walks back now to John's lawnmower, on a roll ---

"Suppose you really 'update your outlook' by - say - going back to school, or taking up some pagan religion, radically changing your mode of dress - even. How long d'ya think a family or your job would be stable after that? No, pal, your life won't stand for it, no matter how far into the nineties we are. This is the middle class, and you're an adult professional, UniStatsian male. Keep your cool and don't break down. Don't ever, ever let them see you cry. You'd never live that down."

"Frank, look around at your neighbors and co-workers! There just isn't any more than this for us. This is life, and that is that. Don't be a crybaby --"

"Yeah, you're right. Besides, I've gotta do the trash before it gets too late. I guess my lark in the park will just have to wait."

Now John's also in a big hurry: "Uh, Frank, let's talk more when you feel like it. I gotta make hay while the sun shines! Catch ya' later." Hand now on the starter lever.

"Thanks, John, I guess so." Turns to the garage to attend to the trash.

"Don't mention it. That's what neighbors are for! Mower away!"

---

Well, there's that lawnmower again. I guess they've finished talking.

Like I said before, I am the maker of my own bed. No one made me uproot myself from a good job and a nice apartment. No one made me move back home to save money for four years while I'm in school. No one but me. So I suppose when Dr. Snodgrass (pseudonym, can you tell?) informed me casually yesterday afternoon that all doctoral students in the psychology program were expected to attend the entire divisional conference all next week to represent the university professionally, I could have had no other response than to acquiesce. I intended to work this week like a hermit, now I have to prepare remarks for the conference. Work, work, work. Why? To get ahead, for a very good reason. Get ahead so that I can take two days off next weekend. Two days. That's all I want. It wouldn't be that important to me except that I haven't had an entire weekend off since I started this program, three months ago.

And right then I could see my weekend off had come and gone. Poof. Right before my eyes.

Its 2:35 p.m., Saturday afternoon in the middle of November. I am alone in my room. Dog at my feet. 80 million chapters to read in the next four days. Boyfriend out of town. All my friends have managed to get their work done so they can go out tonight. I want to do something to make myself feel better. I try to take my mind off this tremendous pressure they call doctoral candidacy. Dr., Dr., Dr. Will I ever get there? I can't even make it through this week.

And so I weep. Yep. I just start to cry. I cry in the middle of the day to purge myself of this utter sense of hopelessness. If it were easy, everyone would do it. You'll be so proud of yourself when you're done and you have that coveted degree.

The crying puts it all in perspective, I guess. It is a moment of ultimate release. It is a time when I admit to my mind and body, "You know what? You win. I give in. This is hard." I have cried from anger. I have cried out of despair. But never have I cried out of futility and lack of control. I want to do many things other than feel frustration grow inside me like a cancer but I can't. And like a cancer, the frustration metastasizes and I realize (falsely) that everything else: work, romantic life, friends . . . everything is precisely the way I don't want it. If I could only quit every commitment I have. I would tell the professor I work for that I don't have the time to do his extra work. I would tell Snodgrass I can't make the conference. And then I would tell my boyfriend to come home, I need him here. But the gripping hold of social norms and "no pain no gain" strangle this fleeting idea and I return to my tears. Fortunately though, tears flood this motivation vacuum and help restore faith in myself. The tears are like rain that washes the debris from hillsides and reflects the slowly emerging light rays. So there is hope. I've found the Kleenex.

---

Two men and a young woman struggling with life. One deals with it by hiding his feelings and denying them. One can't figure out what to do, and can't discuss his problems at a deep level. One actually can and does cry in the middle of the day.