On Hate

I hate grad school.
I hate almost everything about it.

I hate that I don't love my teachers.
I hate that I'm afraid to be honest with them, just in case it comes back to bite me.

I hate the turmoil and political bullshit in my department.
I hate that I feel insignificant.

I hate teaching.
I hate the stress of lesson planning.
I hate the cold I feel almost every moment of the day.
I hate being nervous, feeling unprepared, lost, and judged.
I hate my fear of public speaking, my tremors--the exposure.

I hate the physical and mental and emotional toll this is taking on my body.

In a way, I even hate my classes.
I don't like what I read.
I hate that I have to make things up about what I read in order to have something to say.
I hate that I'd rather clean my toilet than write a paper.

I hate that I don't have anything good to say about grad school when people ask how it's going.
I hate that part of me thinks that my freshmen year of college was a cake walk compared to this.

I hate tutoring, and I feel relief when sessions get cancelled, and I hope that they go poorly so students don't come back to work with me.

***

I hate that I hate grad school.
I hate myself for hating it.
I hate myself for feeling like a failure when all I've done so far is succeed.
I hate myself for wanting to quit.

I hate that walking away from a fight (what we're all taught to do as kids) means losing.
Because no matter what I do, I lose.

If I stay, I lose years. I might lose my love of learning. I could lose my health. I imagine I will lose my belief in the worth of education. But I gain a credential.

If I go, I lose my faith in my own ability. I may gain perspective. Sanity, even. But what of that?