As One Door Closes

When I went to University, it was to do a Bachelor of Science degree with a Psychology major.

It was never my intention to become a clinical psychologist. God, can you imagine? Someone with my shyness and social anxiety choosing a career that involved talking to people all day? Even back then, when I was young and stupid, I had the sense to know that this would not be sensible career choice for me.

Psychology always interested me, though. As I navigated my own childhood of developmental delays and learning disabilities, followed by my years of intense teen angst, I was fascinated with the question of what makes people tick. Whenever I saw a perceived injustice, the question burning in my mind was always, “What made this person do that?”

And so my intention, when I went to University, was to get into a career that would allow me to explore that question. I was going to get my Bachelors degree, and then work my way through the honors, masters, and doctoral programs. This would lead me into the world of psychology research, a world that I wanted to inhabit. Here, I would be able to do work that would potentially help other people, while satisfying my curiosity about the workings of the human mind.

In the beginning, everything was great. Although I did form some friendships, I was never the kind of student who parties hard. So in my first year, while my friends spent a lot of weekend time nursing hangovers, I was doing coursework or studying for tests. Consequently, I sailed through first year with good grades.

My second year started well. Even after I met S and got into that relationship that was doomed from the start, I was able to channel my energy into my studies. Towards the end of that year, though, the stress I was going through in my personal life was starting to take its toll. I finished out the year with good grades in most courses, but I failed second year economics. While this did not stop me from passing the year, it did mean that I had an extra credit to make up in my third and final year.

In my third year, the burden on my shoulders was just too much for me. I started skipping classes because of the bruises, and I fell further and further behind in my coursework. Having an extra credit to make up did not help. Neither did S, who told me over and over that I was pursuing this degree for nothing, that I would never be able to do anything useful anyway.

I never stopped trying, though. From time to time during that year, I made concerted, focused efforts to get caught up again. It was hard, though. At one point, I was asked to leave the university due to my poor showing at classes, but I begged them to allow me to stay. Swayed by my good performance over the previous two years, they relented. The message was clear, though. I was being watched.

By the time classes were winding up, my academic performance had picked up somewhat. I had improved my attendance record to levels that were only just acceptable, I had written every test, I had turned in every assignment. My grades, which had sunk to dismal levels during the course of the year, had improved. All I had to do now was get through final exams.

Once classes for the year were over, I had about three weeks to prepare for my exams. It should have been enough time. Under normal circumstances, it would have been enough time. But my circumstances were anything but normal.

During the first two of those three weeks, the beatings administered by S ramped up to a frightening level. He knew that I didn’t have to go anywhere or see anyone. Because I was sequestering myself in my apartment with my nose deep in my books, he didn’t have to worry about whether anyone would see the finger marks around my neck, my face with bruises and a split lip, or the fact that the violent sexual encounters left me unable to walk without a limp.

It made it kind of hard for me to focus on exam preparation.

In the last week before my exams, the beatings abruptly stopped. All of a sudden, S was coming home with lotions and ointments to put on the scars. He was encouraging me to take baths with special bath products he had bought that were supposed to soothe and relax. He cooked me nutritious meals, made sure I was getting enough water, and told me to get enough sleep. When I went to bed, I did not have to endure sex, violent or otherwise.

For that week, S didn’t lay a finger on me. He treated me almost like a normal person.

He said he was doing all of this so that I could go into my exams feeling refreshed and relaxed. But I knew better. He was doing all of this so I could go into my exams without bruises or cuts or a visible limp. Not that I wasn’t grateful. After almost two years of abuse, a full week of not being beaten felt like Christmas, whatever the reasoning behind it.

I clearly remember the rainy, windswept day when final grades were posted. I cried twice that day.

I cried for the first time when I realized that despite everything that had been happening to me, and despite those two terrible, frightening weeks, I had passed all of my courses and earned the right to graduate.

I cried for the second time when I realized that my grades were not good enough to get me into the honors program. Which meant that I was not going to be able to pursue the career I had always wanted. As I stood there, I felt more of my life crumbling around me, and I felt almost completely without hope.

Almost, but not completely.

Against all odds, I had gotten myself a university degree. And that achievement lit a tiny flame of – something – within me.

I was never able to go after my dream career, but that flame has never gone out, and it is now starting to grow, to fuel a fire within me to follow a new, different dream.

There is always hope.