ACCOZZAGLIA

It became apparent to me today — while discovering and coming to terms that my six-year-old tower server’s system hardware has bit the dust — that I applied to university later than I should have. If not that, then I started looking at financial aid late. In the less than probable likelihood that I hear from UofT in the next couple of weeks with an invitation to admission, I learned today that I am probably three months too late to receive any kind of meaningful awards package.

What this means is, unless there are gaping holes in my understanding this (and let’s face it: I didn’t have a guidance counselor helping me far back in high school, showing me when to apply for what, and through what channels I was supposed to follow), which there probably are, then I will not be able to afford tuition and housing costs for 2005-06 undergraduate 2nd year admission. My prelude to panic could be unfounded, because I am clearly not wise in these matters. There might be grants I’m not aware of, but I’m not holding my breath.

[sidebar: I realize that my onset of depression in mid-October was unfortunate, since that was when I was in the middle of assembling as much information as I could for applying for next academic year. I lost three months due to that alone. Is depression an illness, or is it an excuse? Can someone really will themselves out of it? Because if there is, then no one told me the secret.]

That digression is beside the point.

It means that if this doesn’t prevail in my favour, then for the second (1996) third (1998) fourth (2002) fifth (2003) sixth (2005) time in my life, either poor planning, completely unusual and detrimental circumstances, misguided advice, self-stupidity or being in the worst place at the wrong time could thwart my life goal of participating in an activity which so many of those who surround (and have always surrounded) me have taken for granted in their own lives: attending post-secondary school.

I understand how some people were pushed into university by demanding parents. I understand that some people found the experience less to their liking, provoking a withdrawl. I understand that some people had to pay dearly for it by sacrificing other things to get there. This, however, was something I have wanted.

But what do I have? I have two bank accounts. As of this week, for I think the first time in my life, both account balances show $0.00. It would be laughable for a little schadenfreude were it someone I didn’t know or someone I especially disliked.

I don’t have a lot else. That four-year human rights litigation not only drained all the money I’d ever saved, but it also shattered my career. I think, speaking from a position of having felt everything from isolation, alienation, deflation, embitterment, regret, anger, self-abusiveness to disillusionment, the very idea of being noble, of being idealistic, of thinking that “doing the right thing” would be rewarded with virtue and respect by those who were afraid to pursue after it themselves, was a mistake I made. Being brave wins you nothing. Being a cowrd might leave you with a guilt-riddled complex, but at least you can get other things accomplished quietly, right? It was a mistake for which I have had the most impossible time reconciling, accepting, and letting go.

I haven’t forgiven myself. I don’t know how. I castigate myself often for it, even some three years and change later, under the auspice of thinking that I deserve this. I think about all those useless and wasteful “what if” alternatives. I wonder if I too would be living comfortably like my colleague at the place where my career was vandalized and then exploded. I wonder just how much of this is me “having a victim mentality”, “being dramatic”, “living in the past” or “experiencing self-delusion”.

It humbles me to think about life in a greater sense. I know of people who have found a way to get joy out of their life, even though their body is a ticking time bomb for death. While everyone dies eventually, I find a double cruelness in watching people who have been declared terminal by their practitioners to have so much more life to live, yet won’t be able to. If I could, I’d give them my body’s health.

But it makes no sense to me when — despite this great health of mine to suggest I could live for many years still — I cannot help but wonder just how many “access denied” responses I must experience before exclaiming, “Enough! I can’t take it any longer!”? Because I’m very close to that, and I’m not sure whether I’m scared or resigned.

I tell myself not to cry, because I’ve got to be strong. I’ve got to get through this. But what is this? What is this? Nobody seems to know! I can’t keep holding out for a nebulous and doubtful sunny day. I have little evidence suggesting there is one.

This university thing has been a dream of mine, and it could be lost. Dreams are all I have, really, and I don’t have may of them anymore. Most of them died. If this one goes, do I really have anything left?