“With a passion,” I say, grabbing the box of toys before the boys rip it open again.
“Fried chicken for dinner it is!” she says primly. Gosh, I love her.
I cackle with enjoyment at her audacity and let Duncan know I’ll get back to him before hoisting the box of toys over my shoulder and heading upstairs.
The job is Adjunct Professor in the Psychology Department, with rotations at the campus clinic.
I scroll through the department website, noting faculty members I recognize and new faces I would get to work alongside. As I review the curriculum, I am filled with a surge of exhilaration over the potential to teach and shape young minds in the field—an ever changing and adapting field.
A field I could have a major impact in if I were to take this job.
The job is more than intriguing . . . it’s perfect.
It’s everything I could have ever imagined in my dream job.
I immediately began jotting down information on my pad, doodles throughout.
As I scan the website I venture to other departments, taking note of what other avenues Columbia offers. I had never looked at other options before, it was always psychology. I jot down a few interesting undergraduate programs to share with Sarah Kim at her next session. Then I go to sports, something so uninteresting to me that I’m afraid I’m being possessed as I look at it. I naturally start comparing the football stats of major players to Devon and Garrett. Then to baseball, thinking about Charlie and his tryouts coming up. And much to my dismay, I actually look at the cheerleading team and think of Birdie.
Glendale is bleeding over into my Columbia thoughts.
What is happening? I can’t get these kids out of my head.
The picture perfect life I had envisioned in New York was within my grasp . . . but somehow, it is now distorted and out of focus.
Irrational anger creeps in and my doodles are becoming large, scratchy blobs as I scribble over the job notes I had taken.
Why is my dream all of a sudden not satisfying?
I have planned my entire life around New York and Psychology and the ability to make an impact in the field, and the fact that it felt less than stellar right now is infuriating. What’s the point of planning out your life if your mind is just going to change at any given moment?
I groan as I slam my laptop shut and shove it on the ground, not really caring if I crack the screen. I want to just be irritated and angry and let it all out. For just one moment, I want to put the knowledge I have about the neuroplasticity of the brain on the backburner.
I want to throw a fit.
So I do.
A big one.
I kick and scream on my bed. I jump out of my bed to scream more. I take my purse and chuck it across the room—wallet, keys, and hand sanitizer bursting out on impact. I take a moving box packed with winter clothes and toss it at the wall—coats and sweaters toppling to the floor. I stomp on the clothes and scream into one of the huge overcoats I wore constantly in New York. My Glendale backpack filled with paperwork and notebooks is kicked repeatedly, doodled sticky notes scattering the floor. In anger, I crumple them up, shoving them in my trashcan.
I try to convince myself that my behavior and reactions are warranted as I throw a toddler-level temper tantrum.
I refuse to evaluate my choice of coping mechanism for one solitary moment.
I refuse to accept that our brains change and adapt due to our experiences, and the life I was experiencing right now was creating a lasting impact that would forever change my brain chemistry.
I refuse to embrace the change my brain was going through.
Out of breath from the kicking and screaming, I throw myself onto the floor—panting and heart racing, sweat drenching my face and hair.
Truth and fact penetrate through my emotions, forcing me to reflect on the unhealthy and immature reaction I just had. I throw my arms over my head, utterly embarrassed for what I just did, and drift off to sleep.
I feel something tickling my foot, jolting me awake as I go into defense mode.
“Don’t go any further!” I yell, jerking my legs up into my chest as I flutter my eyes open.
A deep, familiar laugh greets me as I sit up. Benny is crouched down where my feet had been, holding a bouquet of flowers. His smile is striking, and even though I feel this may be a dream, I smile back. He’s wearing a black cashmere sweater and pleated khaki pants, while his hair is a perfect blend of neat and messy as it swoops over to one side. He’s freshly shaven and smells like a mix of coconut and spearmint—a glorious sight to see right after waking from an emotional coma.
