CC Fiction: Chasing Chastity — Part 1

Many years ago, I decided to make a major career change, and, oddly it was just when I finally began my career as a professor. At the same time, two life major events happened. First, my mother suddenly passed from away colon cancer – the deadliest of cancers. She was diagnosed and died three months later, marking the exact day of the doctor’s discovery.

On top of that, and, as the cliché goes, my big “3-0” was right around the corner. Like most vain woman, the mere thought of turning thirty made me frantic, and despite my youthful appearance (I was still lucky enough to be carded for cigarettes!), I was resigned to the idea that Botox would soon be part of my regular regime for maintaining my present natural beauty.

At least I could claim to be happily married, a rare gift that I possess to this day, so I knew there were other qualities besides my looks that I had going for me. And, despite my looks, I am not the most exciting lover. Nevertheless, I knew that my new job, that of being a junior professor, meant that I’d be drowning in more work than I had had previously.

I was in the first stages of becoming a young scholar, but given my mournful state, which was becoming an ever increasing strain on my personal life, I had serious doubts about this chosen career path. Up until that time I had always planned on becoming a scholar. After all, my own mother had been a leading scholar in feminist studies, and she had made it clear that I too was destined to become a professor, just like her. She was my goddess, so why would I have ever doubted this plan that she’d laid out for me?

Naturally, I went through a type of grief that most people experience when they lose a beloved parent. Her death was like a cosmic vacuum, permeating all aspects of my life. It made me realize that I needed to reconsider my personal and professional goals.

The usual bookish and somewhat dry dinner conversations with my husband (to whom I had been married for five years) turned to larger, rhetorical questions about life. I began asking myself over and over again, “is this gig as a scholar really worth it?” I was overwhelmed by the pressure to succeed, having just been hired at an Ivy League (Yale as a matter of fact). Not only was I teaching three courses that upcoming semester, but was frantically working on my next book. In just one year, I had finally finished my Ph.D. in German Literature, landed a fantastic job, was working on my next big book, and lost my mother!

Since I was paying off enormous school debts and my husband was starting law school, the mere thought, even a fleeting fantasy, of a vacation caused anxiety and guilt. It was early August, and I had already had countless committee meetings with my new colleagues; it was all a blur of conversations about the load of courses I would be teaching as a junior faculty member, the talk about who was and wasn’t published (put bluntly, which colleague was an “It” professor), as well as the usual sordid gossip about everyone’s personal lives. To say I was overwhelmed would be putting it lightly. I knew for a fact that I my psyche teetered on the edge of a devastating nervous breakdown.

We had just moved to this new college campus, and while my colleagues had initially been very sympathetic about my recent loss, those congenial conversations that had taken place on warm summer evenings over cocktails at casual garden parties, all but disappeared when the students began creeping back into our offices and appearing in ever increasing numbers on campus.

Apparently my mournful attitude was regarded as an illness, and one that was my own fault. It therefore justified unsolicited advice from my colleagues. Most often their sentiments were expressed through e-mails, a means of communication that give people free rein to indulge in a variety of indiscretions (I’d later learn that lust and outright hatred were the two most common sentiments expressed through this form of correspondence). In this case, personal criticism that would have otherwise been sugar-coated in face-to-face conversations was unduly harsh. I rebuked for my obvious “depression,” “lack of enthusiasm at staff meetings,” and “failure to meet departmental deadlines,” all of which, as one colleague informed me, was reason for serious concern about my future as a scholar and teacher there. (I later learned that this particular colleague and supposed confident was using our private conversations against me in meetings with influential members at my work).

As my husband prepared to head off to law school, leaving behind a good career, I found myself increasingly more paralyzed by grief. With my husband back in school, it was now my turn to “step up to the plate” and become the sole breadwinner. How could I do that, I thought, when I find it impossible to just brush my teeth or take a shower?

With just two weeks before the first day of classes, I hadn’t drawn up any lesson plans, and the department had assigned me to three introductory courses. To make matters worse, since my new colleagues had quickly (and in frightening unison) turned their backs on me, no one was willing to share their previous lesson plans for these core courses. To make matters worse, I began drinking heavily, skipped out on workouts at the gym with my husband, and started sleeping during the day. My personal hygiene, or lack thereof, was a disaster unto itself – I swear, at one point my Juicy sweatpants were nearly caked to my body. (At night, I stayed up, slugging back Grey Goose vodka while watching infomercials).

But this behavior was spiraling out of control, and I knew it even more than my husband did.