Second Year: Halting and Hard

Second Year – Halting and Hard

I don’t have an entirely clear view of what I thought PhD students did before I became one myself. I’m unsure I know when I even learned what a PhD student was. Probably around the time I was ten and listening to Ross in Friends tell everyone he was a doctor, but just one of dinosaur bones. Either way, I am now over a year into my journey, and it does not feel smooth, nor do I feel filled with the cool and collected sensation I unconsciously associated with satchels, university lanyards and suit sets paired with brogues. Potentially that says more about me and my tendency to buy into aesthetic over reality, but that’s a topic for another day. I find myself wondering, exasperatedly, how I can have found myself here again, shocked, once more, that I don’t have it all figured out. Once again, I am learning that older does not necessarily mean wiser and that the world's doctors, lawyers, and scientists are just as likely to be guessers, chancers, and rogues as the rest of us.

All this is to say that I had hoped that by the beginning of my second year, I would feel stronger in my research and more certain of the road ahead – the road to the thesis and life beyond. Instead, I am enjoying my research and writing. I don’t think I could ever not enjoy writing both creatively and academically, but I am unsure if I truly want an academic life. Recently, I changed jobs, and my new role is also working with disabled people but in a much more varied manner than I had previously experienced. It’s in a university, but it isn’t an academic role. My world has opened, and with such broadening has come the realisation that there are so many pockets of society that I have yet to connect with. In contrast to this, I cannot help but find myself viewing an academic’s life as potentially cloistered. Closed off. Of course, in their research, academics connect with a whole host of different people, but always in the context of the outside coming into the internal world of academics. I want to be the one leaping outside, bringing my internal knowledge beyond myself. I cannot make big decisions now, nor do I want to. I love my professional, academic, and creative work, and for now, that’s enough. My life’s path is unlikely to be decided by a single choice.

I am about to switch tracks in my work, moving away slightly from academic research and focusing on the creative aspect of my thesis over the upcoming Christmas break. This is both exciting and scary, as I believe I had become very safe within the little research bubble I created. In contrast, creative writing will always ask more of me – I must put my work out there and in doing so, I am declaring it good in my eyes and worth another’s attention. If the whole world down to the last ant doesn’t agree that what I have to say matters, then my chest crushes inward and for a while, I cease to be a person. I become a blob of abject, dramatic failure. Then, of course, I get over myself and move on. So, that’s what I’ll do. Create a new bubble and delve into that and remind myself why I write. I do not write to be read, but to unlock feelings in myself. To work out the knots of tension in my existence in life. To find the peace that others might have been born with naturally.

So far, I am still working full-time whilst studying. This has been the name of the game since I did my first postgrad degree – if I didn’t work, I didn’t eat. I didn’t grow up with money. My parents sacrificed greatly to put my sister and I through college. They couldn’t have done it twice so we always knew we had one shot at an undergrad and after that, it was ours to figure out. I think working and studying suits the part of my brain that is so incredibly full of ADHD. Without pressure, would I ever do anything? The remainder (and admittedly larger part) of my brain that is autistic knows I would – I stick to self-imposed deadlines well, but this is the hand I’ve been dealt thus far, and I’m damn well going to play it.

This year is also different for a whole new reason too. This is the first time I will ever have studied and been healthy. My stilted and stumbling chronic illness journey began during my last year of secondary school, so I became a fresher while I could barely stand against a strong breeze. That all changed during the first year of my PhD. A problem in my pituitary was finally uncovered, and a diagnosis of adrenal insufficiency followed. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still trying to figure out how to balance my medication and some days are rough but most mornings, I wake up and I feel strong. This has impacted the speed at which I can complete my PhD work but also the quality of my ideas, and how I make connections between the fiction I am writing and the research I am reading. I know that there is a real chance that I will complete these PhD programme whilst still trying to figure out what my version of healthy looks like and at that point, I’ll be close to fifteen years in third level education. But I’m trying not to think about that – I’m trying to live for now.

This year hasn’t gotten off to a flawless start, admittedly. I’ve had issues with the grant that covers my fees, and had a hard time communicating with some faculty (not my supervisors – they’re exceptional). On days like this, when I get home from work and know that I have to study and write, it all feels a little bit more bleak. Those are the days I am most likely to see my friends’ Instagram stories and wonder what the hell I’m bloody doing handcuffing myself to this degree. These are the days I need to connect with my research and writing the most, or else I am at risk for becoming utterly despondent.

There is an isolation that comes with doing a PhD whilst working full-time. I don’t have the ability or capacity to connect with my cohort as much as I’d like, or to take part in university events. On the other hand, my friends from home don’t understand why I’m putting myself through a PhD and mostly, they don’t ask about how I’m doing. They don’t mention it at all, really. Except to say that I’m impressive or something equally untrue. They don’t realise that their compliments, whilst well-meaning, only service to isolate me further from myself. The gap between who I am in reality and who I am when I face the rest of the world seems to stretch and tug.

Well, that’s a close on year two, semester one. Not that it ever really closes, or the work ever really stops. Maybe that’s what I love. The only thing in my life that’s as consistent as myself is the relentless, comforting wave of work.

Until next time,

Jens x