Law school. I went. I’m here. I’m here right now, in fact, and I just made myself cry in the middle of the student center reading my last post. Something needs to be done, and since I don’t quite want to obliterate this blog (yet?), it’s going to be a new post.
I do this. I visit occasionally, look at things I used to think and read, and I say to myself, I am a whole person. And what I mean by that is: there is a person outside the covers of this Torts book. It may not be obvious to me at the moment, or to my Torts book, or to anyone for that matter. But it doesn’t change the fact that I existed before law school, I will exist after law school, and my personhood is not bound by whether or not my Civil Procedure outline is done. (And thank God for small mercies.)
This all probably seems extremely hyperbolic to you non-lawyers. And to you, I say two things:
1. Count yourself lucky.
2. Everything they say about law school is true.
Anyway, as I was saying, I’m a whole person. And I’m kind of joking about the whole Stephen King metaphor. Nobody has tried to break my legs. Only my back is in jeopardy. And that’s partly my fault, because I won’t buy one of those rolling backpacks. They make me sad. Sadder than a back stiff from carrying Torts books et al.
Two things have happened recently that are inspiring current action. One, I just cried, in public, over my own blog. (Embarrassment is so motivating.) Two, more than one law school peer has mentioned to me that she has found my blog (I mean, I left it there, right on my facebook, so obviously they’d find it with mild stalking), and kind of liked it. Which makes me feel like a whole person! A writer! Something other than a law student! And this feeling is good. I like it. I want more.
BUT. But, I hate that I make myself cry. Of course, writing about Nutmeg is very real. She was real, my grief was real – it’s still very real, which is why I cry when I read my own description of her paws. So I hate that I can make myself cry, and I hate that it’s the first thing that happens when I revisit this blog. I also hate that new people are discovering this little interwebbed corner of my mind and finding it…sad. So this new new post about my new new 1L life is my cure. This is also, conveniently-incidentally, a great way to avoid outlining for another hour or so. And that is the best news I have had all day.
Here’s what 1L is like, for those of you who are not in school with me. (For those of you who are, and are facebook stalking me right now, I expect you to nod your heads sagely. Or correct me in Torts tomorrow.) Law school is like mental boot camp, plus hazing for a frat (I imagine), plus general insane busy-ness plus…plus…oh God, am I at a loss for words? It’s a teeny little world, from which there are few escapes. And these escapes narrow as 1L progresses. It’s not an all-bad world. There are moments when, and I won’t name any names, maybe your Torts professor tells you that you got something exactly right, and maybe you feel like you are The Queen of Everything. Then there are those moments when you think you will die cackling, because someone who you spend roughly 23 hours a day with and knows your deepest, darkest secrets (or at least your most effective procrastination habits) has just said something that, while you will not be able to remember it while you are blogging later, makes you want to pee your pants. You invent one thousand acronyms, construct one hundred ongoing inside jokes, and know each other inside-out pretty freakishly quick. But this, too, has its odd comfort. For your 1L friends, you develop the kind of fondness you have for that pair of pajamas that you wore during that hospital stay when you had surgery, or the stuffed animal that your parents bought you when you broke your leg. They are The Things That Got You Through. It’s a rough-and-tumble love, that. Sticks.
This stuck, insane monkeylove is actually pretty magical. In fact, apart from that one time in Torts that may or may not have really happened, it’s the best part of law school. As much as I hate that I never, ever feel done with work, that I make my butt numb sitting too long on the chairs in the student center, and drive myself insane wondering what on earth my outline is supposed to be like, I heart heart heart that there is always someone who knows. Exactly. How. That. Feels. And will probably give me a big ol’ hug to crush the crazies right out of me, because that someone needs that same exact hug. That’s purdy magical, I don’t care what Kathy Bates throws at me. Or my Government Processes professor. Or whoever. I’m just saying. It’s…kind of…nice.