Growing Up, and the Status Quo

I knew I wanted to be a writer when I was nine years old and read "Stranger in a Strange Land" by Robert Heinlein. (I was heavily into science fiction back then.) Although I didn't understand a lot of the book - the sex Heinlein seemed so obsessed with was way over my head then - I found some of the other themes it contained very thought-provoking. It became one of the first (of many) books I read over and over. As I write this, I'm thinking I'll reread it again, because I'm sure I'll look at parts of it differently now.

By the time I was in high school I had two teachers who had a profound impact on me: Mrs. Hite, who taught mostly History and English, and Miss Charter, who taught grammar (which I hated) and creative writing (which I loved.) Mrs. Hite told me when I was a sophomore that I should seriously consider becoming a writer when I "grew up".

I ran excitedly all the way home, astonished that someone thought something I had done was worthy of praise. That's not to say I didn't get praise at home; I did, but only about things like whether I had cleaned my room or passed my math test or not. I guess my parents' philosophy was to encourage me in the things I struggled with, knowing that I'd naturally persist in the things I enjoyed.

My mother was not impressed with my plans to become an English major when I went to college.

"What are you going to do with an English degree?" she asked. "Teach?"

I was appalled at the thought of teaching; my idea had been to sit in a cottage with a fire at my feet and a cup of tea at my elbow and write like Austen or Dumas, Dickens or... well, Heinlein. When I told my mother that, however, she was somewhat less than supportive. She asked me what I would do for money while I was writing. How was I going to support myself until my work began to sell? (If it DID sell?)

Perhaps it would be better, she said, if I pursued another career field and wrote in my spare time.

I followed my mother's advice when it came to what I should do when I "grew up"; I attended college to pursue a Bachelor of Science in Nursing. I made it through about a year and a half. I loved Anatomy and Physiology, Intro to Psychology, Chemistry I, and especially Pharmacology; unfortunately, I also had Creative Writing.

When I was in college, I was a lot more interested in extracurricular activities than I was in my studies. I had to work at the science courses - I found them interesting and learned a lot, but was more interested in partying. The Creative Writing was another story.

I attended the first Creative Writing class and learned how the professor was going to run the class and what was expected of the students. When the prof told us that 75 - 80% of our final grade would be the essay exam at the end of the year, that's all I had to hear.

I never went back until the day of the final exam. That's how confident I was.

The final exam was an essay. I don't remember the subject; the professor wrote it on the board right before the exam started and told us to write so many words on that subject.

I got an A in the course, the only A I got that year.

Needless to say, college didn't work out; I wasn't prepared for the commitment it entailed. I liked nursing academically, but I couldn't handle actually working with patients. I knew that death was a big part of that profession intellectually, but I never realized the emotional impact it would have on me until I was working with a patient with Lou Gehrig's disease, and watched him die by infinitesimal degrees over the course of six months. I snapped; I couldn't handle it.

I admitted defeat and returned home at the advanced age of nineteen, convinced I was a failure.

After living at home and working as a waitress for six months, I decided to enter the Navy.

I did what my parents expected of me; I got a job, earned a wage, contributed to society.

The Navy was very easy for me. I loved travelling, loved meeting new people, and liked my job well enough. The problem was, the Navy was too easy. It didn't challenge me, really. All I had to do was follow orders and do my job. I didn't even have to do it particularly well if I didn't want to; it just meant I wouldn't get promoted as quickly. The Navy was pretty much a pushbutton career. Even when doing a semi-lackadaisical job, I went from paygrade E1 to E6 within five years. After that is when my attitude toward the Navy bogged me down. Up until E7, all that was required to be upwardly mobile was to have a good record, and score well enough on the advancement examinations to get promoted. Going up for Chief Petty Officer, though, required that my service record be screened by a selection board in Washington, D.C.

Only the very best, the most committed, the most top-notch, gung-ho sailors made Chief.

The selection board wasn't interested in lackadaisical.

So I did what I did best - I just maintained the status quo. I did my job. I wasn't brilliant or inspired; I just did what I had to do. I would have continued to do just that until my twenty years was up, but at my sixteenth year in I began to have health problems.

That's another story, in another blog.

In 2001 I was finally beginning to feel better after four years of physical hell, and then my mother died. It left me rudderless.

You see, she was the one who had taken care of me through all my medical issues; five surgeries and about 90 days hospitalization in a year. I had gone home when the Navy retired me and was living less than a mile from my mother's house (my dad had died in 1994). I was still so bemused at having survived that my life plan was to keep on keepin' on until it was my turn to care for my mother.

I didn't expect my mother to be diagnosed with leukemia and die ten days later of pneumonia.

My mother died on June 10, 2001. On September 11th, that horrible day when the twin towers fell, I dialed my mother's number to tell her what had happened in New York, and it wasn't until that dispassionate electronic voice told me that number was no longer in service that I remembered she was dead. I loved her very, very much, and still miss her and think of her every single day.
Her death left me determined to DO something with my life, so I moved further north to be closer to the university I had originally attended some 24 years before, and enrolled in fall classes... again. This time I decided I wanted to be a Wildlife Biologist, despite the fact that I couldn't walk more than 200 feet at a time (Wildlife Biologists typically spend days at a time in the field). I went to the first day of classes (it took me 45 minutes to walk from my car to my first class) and was so exhausted I gave up. Again.

I was beginning to see a pattern emerging here. (Duh.)

When I moved north I had joined a local veteran's organization and became very involved with some of their fundraising efforts and community activities. The ladies of the Auxiliary seemed so determined to hook me up with the Post Commander, who was single, that I suppose what eventually happened was inevitable.

I married him.

Now, don't get me wrong, I love my husband very much. He's my best friend. We're together twenty-four hours a day, and although we do get on each other's nerves occasionally, all in all it's a very loving, very committed relationship.

The problem is, I've recently begun to realize that I had ended up doing what I've done my whole life... the status quo. I got married to avoid having to DO anything with my life.

I took a good, long look at my life, at what I've learned and what I've accomplished, and realized that it's more than time I satisfied myself, instead of everyone else. My pension keeps me in food and shelter, so I don't have to work. Now that I'm feeling better, I've become very dissatisfied with getting up in the morning, plopping in a chair with a book or watching TV until after the evening news, then going to bed, only to get up the next morning and do it all over again.

I want more. I need more. I want to write. I think about it constantly.

When I read a book, I'm paying more attention to the author's prose, style and plot construction than I am to the story. When I watch TV I'm constructing sentences in my head.

I'm 47 years old, and I've finally decided what I want to be when I "grow up".

I don't have a destination anymore; now the journey itself is my goal, and I'm going to write about it every step of the way.