Whining: Anger coming out a really small hole

At last I can move on to writing the dissertation proposal. Yay, I guess. Now that I have my marching orders from my dissertation chairperson (expand the Literature Review first, then work on the Introduction, and then do the Methodology chapter), I find myself strangely reluctant to dive back into this project. Maybe it's not so strange. The path to earning a Ph.D. is littered with the hopes of the ones who gave up in the home stretch. That could be me, if it weren't for my pride and my nagging desire not to disappoint my mother. It could still be me. I make no promises. Daily I consider heading for the hills.

I called my chairperson last week to find out next steps. I recognized her speaking style after nine years of teaching adults. She spoke slowly and carefully, as if to a two-year-old, with frequent insertions of phrases like, “Does that make sense?” I reined in my inclination to be myself and tried to meet her where she was. I tried not to interrupt. I kept my sentences short. I let her finish the checklist I am sure was on her desk in front of her: Describe process. Check. Ask for understanding. Check. Encourage continued progress. Check. Probe for warning signs. Check. I let her go through her process, but I really just wanted her to talk with me without the affectation, without condescension. She sounds much younger than me. I have no doubt I am much older.

We are having a short-lived heat wave here in the Portland area. It's 51°, according to the gadget on my desktop. In January! Wow! Lest you suggest I get out the sandals, know that it won't last. I heard cold air is moving in on Wednesday, bringing the possibility of snow. That makes me want to go back to bed. My heart sags in the winter. My blood slows down. I could hibernate with no problem. Sleep seems the only way through it. Oh, now it's 49°. We are sinking back into the cold black hole. Oh, great. I just heard my neighbor's wretched dog barking out back, which means I will have little stinky offerings to dodge in the dark when I leave for work in the morning. We were doing so well. For a few weeks, I thought she was at last doing her part to be a good neighbor. But sadly, last week I narrowly missed stepping in some dog poop left on the path. True to my chronically malcontented passive aggressive nature, I scooped it up and deposited it on her back steps. I'm not sure she could have known it was me and not her infernal dog that put it there. Maybe she knew. Later she turned her music up so loud I couldn't hear my own music over the pounding of her bass. I fear the Love Shack is now a war zone.

And now I have this new writing project, which is just more of the old writing project, the same old topic I am thoroughly sick of. No wonder people give up. They are bored to tears, picking away at the scabs of a topic that used to be marginally interesting and which now oozes blood, shredded by too many reviewers chasing APA errors, alignment failures, and critical thinking lapses. Give me a break. Nobody cares about this topic, least of all me. I was warned this would happen. Is this this the academic equivalent of waterboarding, designed to break the spirit in the name of building character? Don't I have enough character already, with all my years of failures large and small?

The next couple months look like they might be dreary. The weather, the job, the neighbor, the studies... I am sure I can find other things to whine about. My car. My bowels. Guns and ammo. You name it, I can make it all about me. Once again, faced with my ever present resentment, uncertainty, and fear, I resort to whining, which as my friend says, is just anger coming out a really small hole.