I had a really shitty time in grad school. I was very, very ill at the time. Not only was my ulcerative colitis in constant flare up, I was also battling a years long eating disorder.
I had two very sick in the head female professors who actually ENCOURAGED my eating disorder and actually gave me shit and DISCOURAGED me to get help and recover.
This one creative writing professor, who I think has eating issues herself praised my work in this autobiography class I took. She said that my anorexia made me a brilliant writer and “It’s more important to feed your mind than your body.” She also claimed to be a feminist. Can you say hypocrite?
This batshit crazy Victorian lit professor LOVED my proposal about the anorexic motifs of Christina Rossetti’s poem “The Goblin Market.” When I changed it to a topic about Oscar Wilde because the assignment was interfering with my recovery, she actually angrily lectured me and also repeated the it’s more important to feed your intellect than your body.
I spent two weeks in the hospital because of complications of ulcerative colitis and anorexia/bulmia. I had a high A going in a class I really really liked. This professor gave me a D because of it, even though I had medical documentation and three different doctors chewed his ass out.
Are all English departments this batshit crazy and toxic or is it just IPFW? I know others who are in English grad programs who shared similar stories.
I tried to to a NaNoWriMo about a girl with problems with addiction and eating disorders. I wound up with horrible nightmares and dangerous triggers, so I had to abandon it.
My poems had a confessional bend to them kind of like Anne Sexton or Sylvia Plath. I got A’s in my creative writing classes, but the expense was that I became so very, very ill.
I even had my ribs broken and my sternum cracked when somebody panicked and did CPR on me when I collapsed and they couldn’t feel a pulse.
When I sit down to write, I can’t write anything without this bitchy voice in my head telling me it’s all stupid.
I would like to be able to write stories again and finish a novel, but I just have such a hard time doing so.
It’s odd that a hobby that was always secondary–visual art is pulling through and getting itself expressed than the primary hobby I had for most of my life.
I can’t let the sick fucks in that program win and kill my writing muse forever.