My area of relative academic expertise is psychology. I say “relative” because I haven’t put this expertise to actual use since I graduated from UF. I didn’t go on to earn any advanced degrees, and it seems like it’s been a really, really long freaking time since I graduated.
Living through my own psychological thriller (of sorts) has given me cause to look back on my psych classes and see them for what they were: a collosal waste of money. Notice I didn’t say my “education” was a waste; it was anything but. I learned so much about life, other cultures, and the world in school that its staggering vaule is impossible to calculate.
This morning I wasn’t feeling terribly well so I stayed home. At some point while I was sitting in my family room, my eyes wandered over to one of our many bookselves, and I caught sight of one of my old psychology text books. I thought of my mother, sitting in a hospital that I’ve been afraid to visit (lest my surpressed immune system betray me again), and I got angry.
I scowered the house. I left no shelf undisturbed, no cabinet unopened. I gathered up my books on personality, social psychology, behaviorism, Meyers, Skinner, abnormal pyschology, counseling. I almost tore up my book on the psychology of aging and gerontology. And while I was at it I grabbed my sociology books too. I stacked them all up by our garage door… the one that’s closest to our garbage cans outside… and I gave them a cathartic toss… one at a time. I put them right where they belong: with Adam’s dirty diapers and the rest of yesterday’s trash.
Tomorrow I may wish I hadn’t, but today I feel a little better.