Pernicious memories from grad school

Why doesn't it die?

I'm tired right now. I think I'm getting a cold. I tutored a student for about 5 hours today in microeconomics. He did a fantastic job; I'm so proud of him right now. I wouldn't be surprised if his semester GPA ends up at least a full point higher. I worked on some revisions for this pdf guide for AP Physics C - Mechanics. I tried, and failed, to complete some statistical analysis looking at whether students really did run out of time on the third free response question. (I'll reexamine Turkey's test tomorrow if I think it's worth it. Right now it looks like the score for the first problem is significantly higher than the other two, but there is no significant difference between the second and third questions.)

And all of a sudden, the image comes flooding back from grad school. It's a story I don't think I told anyone else -- I try really, really hard not to speak ill of specific people from my professional past. But it bothers me enough to write it.

I think my mother and (future) stepfather had come to Cornell to visit. By then, my mental health was deteriorating... it was probably early 2007. There was snow on the ground. I reluctantly took them to Space Sciences. At that point, I hadn't stopped showing up to work, but I think it was clear by then that things weren't working out.

Just in front of the building, I saw my advisor rushing outward. I called to him. He looked up quickly, and kept on walking.

Maybe he didn't recognize me. Maybe he was busy.  I've invented a hundred different reasonable explanations why he didn't acknowledge my presence, or the presence of my family.

But right then, and right now, it's hard to hang onto that.

I don't remember if I took them into the building after that. If I did, it was for a very quick tour. Another grad student from my year and in my research group expressed some surprise that she hadn't had a chance to meet my parents when they were in town.

Several months later, another grad student, also in my year and in my research group, had his father (and possibly other relatives) come into town for a visit. My advisor talked with them, and they sat in the conference room for a lunch talk.

And then, as now, I couldn't help feeling resentment. I tried to think of a hundred reasons why this happened this way with them and why it worked out differently with my family. My mental health was bad, so I couldn't play host. The dad had a PhD, and therefore knew better how academia worked. His family just cared more about what he did, and where he worked.

Anything to avoid thinking that it was directly related to the fact that he was just a better grad student than I was.

Because that's the weird thing about depression. You start seeing things that could be innocuous, but add up to a giant conspiracy against your happiness. I brought in research money into the group with the NSF; neither of the other students had that, at the time. But they got the computer workstations, while I spent time alone in an empty computer lab. They got offices on the same floor as my advisor, while I remained in an office three floors up. They got to go to AAS, and so did I-- but only admission was covered, not my airfare.

Was this their fault? Or his? Not really. I could've asked about getting a second floor office, but I didn't. (Besides, I treasured my officemates -- they helped me keep what sanity and human-ness I had left.) I could've asked for more things. I could've transferred groups if it really was a problem. But at that point I had embraced the giant bullseye I imagined on my back.

He tried, I think, to be a good advisor. Maybe it was cultural/class -- his father had been a prominent diplomat, and on his wall hung proudly an invitation to a dinner with the Prime Minister. I think he tried to reach out to me, and I pushed him away, telling him that he already had one baby to take care of; he didn't need another.

So why do I still feel this pain? Why does it go away for a long period, and resurface? Why, after all the work I've done to rebuild my mind, my ego, to give myself perspective and distance, to generate new priorities?

Why do I still feel such pain? Not hatred, nor desire for another chance. But just pain?

Sleep will probably make me feel better. But I guess some have expressed questions as far as my time there. This is another peek. Were I a stronger or better man, I would've buried this along with the other bodies in my psychological backyard.

But it returns, unsummoned. And I have no way to deal with this, right now, other than to write, and hope, by writing, I can wake up unburdened by it.