The Stress Monster

I think every college student has had an experience with feelings of overwhelming despair toward the end of the semester.  Long papers suddenly creep up out of nowhere.  Reading assignments that seemed manageable in September grown in size without any warning and sleep becomes nothing but a fond memory.  The temptation to crawl under a rock and hide until Christmas becomes incredibly desirable. 

 I’m in that place now.

As I swim through the piles of books and papers, I find myself wondering if my professors hate me. What other possible reason could they have for piling everything onto the last three weeks of school? But I like to think that human beings are generally good, caring creatures, so asking questions like that makes me sad.  Instead of wondering whether my professors are actually plotting to drown me in work, I prefer to place the blame on the Stress Monster. 

The Stress Monster is a sort of Muppet-esque creature that I created to attempt to make sense of the madness that is life close to exam time.   Please don't  be fooled by its seemingly benign appearance. It's actually responsible for all of the stressful things in life: 

 Tests

 Research Papers

Doctor's Visits

Missing Socks in the Dryer

At the beginning of the semester, the Stress Monster is relatively easy to take care of.  If you keep it well fed on a diet of occasional procrastination and forgotten homework, it behaves and stays relatively quiet.  

 Toward the end of the semester, though, the Stress Monster’s appetite seems to grow considerably. 

 Since it feeds on panic and frustration, when it finds itself faced with a lack of food, it sets out to cause situations that will bring about those feelings. I’m convinced that the stress monster is responsible for all of the papers, projects, tests and exams (and missing socks) that I will have between now and December.

 

The Stress Monster is crafty.  It survives by luring you into a false sense of security.  At the beginning of the semester as you look over your syllabus, the Stress Monster is the little voice in your head saying “this isn’t going to be so hard!”  It even lets you stay on top of your work for a month or two, to really cement the idea that you can do everything that needs to be done.  Then, when your thoughts are preoccupied with Thanksgiving and Christmas, it pounces.  First on you...

Then on your professors...

 

The trick is not to let the Stress Monster win. How? It hates responsibility and planning.  I would like it very much if I could be one of those responsible people who plans and fends off the Stress Monster with organized calendars and color coded day planners, but I’m not.  Instead of being inspired to fight back when the Stress Monster appears, my brain does the opposite.  It sees the gargantuan list of work to be done and goes into panic mode, which usually consists of naps, random internet browsing and lamenting how much I have to get done, all while doing very little of what actually has to be done.  It’s a devious spiral of despair.  I panic about the amount of work I have to do and am rendered virtually incapable of accomplishing anything.  Then I panic because I realize that I don’t have time to be incapable of doing anything.  This cycle repeats until I reach a breaking point and either do lots of work very rapidly, or collapse into anxiety-riddled depression. 

And that makes the Stress Monster happy. 

Pet Peeve #1: Bipolar Weather

Lately I’ve noticed lots of strange, little things that bother me. I think I probably have mild OCD, because usually I am incredibly bothered by insignificant things that somehow feel like mini-apocalypses to me. 

Mini-apocalypse #1: Bipolar Weather.

I love the rain. I also love sunshine. I’m okay with either one, as long as the temperature is bearable. I don’t like rain and sunshine at the same time.

Rain makes me feel like reading and drinking hot chocolate and taking naps. Since I love books and hot chocolate and naps, rain really isn’t a big issue for me like it is to some people. 

Sunshine makes me want to go outside and take pictures and get lots of work done because it gives me energy. I like both of those things, too. Maybe not as much as naps, but close. 

Rain and sunshine happening at the same time, though, is a problem. It shouldn’t be, considering the fact that I enjoy them both individually, but it is. It's a little bit like salami sandwiches and fruit smoothies. By themselves? Delicious treats. Together? A gag-inducing combination of flavor. That's about the way that rain and sunshine happening at the same time makes me feel. When I look at the sky and wonder "why is this happening?" the sun and the clouds seem to mock me and I'm suddenly filled with frustration/rage, both at the sky for behaving this way, and at the fact that I can't make the weather do what I want it to.

I think the problem is that seeing both things happening together confuses me. I like nice black and white boxes to put things in. Because of that, I think I feel that everyone else should also behave that way, including the weather. I have very different feelings that are brought on by rain than by sunshine. When I see them together, my brain goes into overload and can't choose the appropriate feelings, which leaves me feeling befuddled. Suddenly instead of "book, hot chocolate and nap" I'm forced to choose between "get lots of work done or take a nap".

There's also the issue of how to dress/prepare for weather. Where normally I would simply grab my backpack and run out the door, I have to agonize over what to wear. Jacket or no jacket? Umbrella or sunglasses? Flip flops or rubber boots? 

Should this frustrate me? Probably not. Is it silly? Most definitely. But it does bother me. Because a 50/50 decision should not be so difficult. Yet no matter which one I choose, it's always wrong.

That part frustrates me most of all.

Why I Love the Elderly

I was fortunate enough as a child to grown up having known 7 out of 8 of my great grandparents, and all 4 of my grandparents. I know that it’s rare to have even met one or two, so I feel very lucky. From a very young age, I became accustom to spending time at nursing homes thanks to regular visits with my great grandfather, Grandpop. I think on some level, I felt more at home there than I did with children my own age. As an only child, I probably spent more time hanging out with my grandparents than I did with my peers. Of course it probably helped that every time we went to see my great-grandfather, I became the star of the nursing home. Little old ladies knitted me dresses for my dolls and slipped me candy when my grandmother was preoccupied. I was “the cutest thing you’ve ever seen” and I knew it.

Even after Grandpop died, I felt at home in nursing homes when I went to Christmas carol or visit on school chorus trips. Other kids hated the smell and the way the old people just sat around and sometimes yelled at them. To me, it was just another day.

The notion that old people liked me and enjoyed my presence stayed with me even as I got older and at some point I became convinced that every old person did, or at least should, like me. This became difficult when I began spending time with my mom’s grandfather, Big Granddaddy. Big Granddaddy did not like me. I don’t think it was me, per say, but children in general. I don’t think he quite knew what to do with them, especially when they did things like cry, laugh, or display any outward signs of affection. This was a problem, because I was (and still am) an affectionate person. I like to give hugs and make sure to tell the people close to me that I love them. This made Big Granddaddy uncomfortable. It was easy to see, by the way that he tensed up and made incoherent growling noises when I approached him, but looking back, I think that was part of the appeal. Every old person I had met loved me, so Big Granddaddy presented a challenge. While most of my family had written off displaying any sort of affection toward him, I felt that it was my personal mission in life to break his gruff shell. I would make him like me, whether he wanted to or not. I began devising ways to break him:

          I tried valiantly to win him over, but every attempt seemed to make him more and more convinced that he wanted nothing to do with small children. Eventually, he passed away, and I was left with the bleak understanding that I had given my best effort and still failed. Several years later, my grandfather told me that Big Granddaddy really did like me, and had even gone so far as to call me cute on one occasion. While I felt vindicated, something inside me still felt like I had failed.

         It was around that time that I began to notice other grouchy old men who reminded me in some way of Big Granddaddy. They might have looked like him, or acted like him, or simply chewed on toothpicks for hours on end. Whatever the reason, I was drawn to these men and saw a need to succeed in making them like me to somehow compensate for my previous failure. My new “Projects” have consisted of church members and family friends. I estimate an 86% success rate (Okay, I just picked 86 out of the air, but I do feel like I’ve had some major successes. Maybe not 86%, but it’s still fairly high).

     

       Now that I’m in college, I have a more difficult time even meeting, or striking up friendships with old people. Part of the problem is that there simply aren’t large numbers of old people roaming college campuses.  And my old tactics have probably lost most of their effectiveness. At some point, a person stops being “the cutest thing you’ve ever seen” and starts being a creep if they don't change their methods. 

       So now I find myself in an awkward place where I’m afraid of crossing that line and yet still plagued by my desire to build friendships with the elderly. Three years ago when I first came to Longwood, I noticed an elderly man who ate in the dining hall for almost every meal. He was very old and slowly shuffled along as he walked. His back was slightly hunched and it made his head poke out of his jacket in a manner reminiscent of a turtle. 

He looked a little bit like Big Granddaddy. Needless to say, I was hooked. I’ve seen this man for three years now, eating alone at every meal, and lately the urge to talk to him has become overwhelming. He seems lonely, a little bit like a puppy who wanders into your yard and looks at you with sad puppy eyes, silently begging you to throw a stick for him. 

      I see this man every morning at breakfast, and I think “one of these days, I’m going to go and sit with him, and introduce myself and he’ll tell me lots of stories about when he was my age, and then we’ll be breakfast buddies”. And then I think, “what if he doesn’t want a breakfast buddy? What if he sits by himself because he doesn’t like people? Or what if no one sits by him because he’s grouchy and they’re afraid of him? Or what if he thinks that I’m crazy because I have no better reason for sitting next to him than “You look lonely and since I think old people are adorable, we should be friends!"

No...I don't see that going over well at all...