This semester has been a bit tumultuous. I slunk back to school after a long break (it’s been over two years with one failed attempt in between). I jumped into the endeavor without any sensible precautions as to what I could reasonably take on. It seemed like a breeze. I was riding high on the fact that I had aced every test and paper, and it seemed perfectly manageable for a while. To my shy embarrassment, I was the student my teachers were making exemplary examples of (although I was unintentionally acing some of their tests while on cocaine, for which I meekly apologize now). I thought that if I could just keep going a little longer, I would have the semester successfully bagged. I lost control a couple of weeks ago, and now I’m scrambling to keep my head afloat. I hope I prove to be more bouyant than I feel.
I almost forgot to show up for a test when I was high. Still moderately high, I walked in thirty minutes late and felt pressure to catch up so the rest of the class wouldn’t be waiting on me before all the tests were in and the lecture could begin. I almost certainly set a new record for speed writing while on heroin. [A word to the wise: if you find yourself taking a test while mentally compromised, use a pencil. I did not.] As it turned out, I flew through the damn thing and turned it in before half the class did. I get that test back tomorrow. It goes without saying that my hopes are gloomy. I should rightfully be failed based simply on the number of times I scratched out my tell-all, ink-etched sentences and started over.
Tuesday is Judgment Day. I have an hour-long presentation to give on a project that was assigned in early October, but that I’ve conveniently adjourned from my thoughts until this week. Hmm. It should be a disaster of colossal proportions, but in light of the worst case scenario, I’m game for offering my classmates an hour of spirited entertainment.
I seem to be at least the second generation in my family to embody this trend. Well…I’ve dipped to new lows, but I’m not the first to dabble in scholastic debauchery. My dad was the first that I know of. He survived high school, college, and law school with perhaps the highest grades and lowest median average of sobriety of any student. He was voted most outstanding senior by the junior class. He was elected the head of a straight-laced and straight-faced pre-med fraternity that promptly became suspended after it rapidly deteriorated to the most scandalous party fraternity on campus. To be fair, he put his nose to the grindstone in law school by working daily and attending classes nightly, but his weekends never lent themselves entirely to studying.
The fundamental difference between my dad and I is that he was drinking then, and I’m doing drugs now. However much I laugh at my situation, I cannot possibly continue for long like this. Heroin and education are fundamentally opposed, not least because of the fact that I hardly remember portions of my life for the last two years. Even if I continue to grasp course material, memorization is impossible, and I am therefore doomed to fail if I can’t quit. I don’t think I will fail any classes this semester, which I consider that a bona fide miracle, but I can’t ask to get by on another semester of lucky breaks. The question now is whether to enroll for any classes next semester or forget about school once again.