My dear friend Marie mentioned something interesting in the comments of my thirty-sixth-and-a-half post, in reference to an informal poll I’d created: I can see the scientist growing in you! It probably comes as no surprise to anyone who’s been reading my blog that I am quite the nostalgic…so although it appeared at face value as simply a very nice compliment, Marie’s statement actually also brought to mind a very specific childhood desire. I’ve been trying to refrain from overarching statements of circumspection, but…oh well. Here goes:
Little Chris very much wanted to become a scientist — not that he knew exactly what that meant. Coupled under lamination with this photo from the fourth grade is the following text that he wrote (with great effort to keep within the lines) describing himself:
This was a kind of secret: Little Chris into Little Christian into Christian really just kept it to himself. When high school came around, and he grew to accept the story of Math & Science as an overwhelming and frustrating bore, he turned to art, towards which he was naturally inclined, quietly snuffing out his feelings for that other, more difficult path.
But this was not done without guilt, even though no one else had known or cared about Christian’s change in decision. He would always remember the vow he’d made as a kid: I will make life easier. How would he do that as an artist? He might make life more pleasant for others, but the only person’s life he was aiming to make easier was his own. To him, the words he had scribed all those years ago still stood as a contract — and a promise — unfulfilled.
So art school happened. Or it didn’t, really…three years after high school, Christian was done with the art world. He’d hoped for a different academic paradigm, but didn’t find it. He’d hoped for like-minds, but had been too closed-off to allow it. He wanted to live a real adult life, with a job and a girlfriend and his own apartment, and the time that art school demanded gave him no reward that was worth sacrificing those things. And that was that.
Christian got that job that he wanted, and spent time with that girlfriend he had, and moved into that apartment that represented his independence. Then he just sort of…floated. He’d allowed himself to release two dreams — both his initial one and his backup — and as such, an aimless quality had developed within him.
But on the advice of his brilliant mother, Christian decided that he’d at least set himself towards finishing his degree. He finagled his way into a job at Harvard University, and resumed classes at its Extension School as soon as his union would allow. Aside from the commandment, thou shalt get thine degree, he had no idea what he was doing…until one of many pleasant conversations with his lovely friend, Laura, who offhandedly mentioned, as a result of their interactions, that he should become a therapist.
And that, for so many reasons, made prefect sense to Christian. He’d always done well with one-on-one interactions. He had plenty of experience dealing with the less-than-sane. He liked helping people find solutions to their problems. It seemed so clear that he’d wondered how he’d the notion had previously eluded him.
This of course meant that he was in for significantly more schooling than previously planned, however. But the purpose and drive of a real plan — something that surely hadn’t existed when he wanted to be a professional artist — gave Christian motivation that he didn’t know was in him. It was ridiculously simple in comparison to his previous efforts: get an ALB; get a PhD; get licensed; get to work.
None of this was what Little Chris had envisioned, naturally — how could he have? But Psychology is a science, however soft; psychologists do invent things, however ethereal; and therapists make life easier for those that they treat. Christian couldn’t help but think that life was pretty amusing.
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