The Plea of Jeckyll and Hyde

I write here my first journal entry (out of perhaps many) that will hopefully purge my bottled up secret. The mind can only take secrecy so much. The darkest places in our hearts must be visited, else they will grow lonely. By reading this letter then, you put my heart to an easier rest.

A notice to my fellow readers: I have a shocking condition that might disturb and even frighten. So I ask that you read with caution and tolerance. And now, without further ado, let me begin my dreadful tale.

My English studies began on Tuesday, the 19th of August. It was a field unfamiliar to me; and although I did not share a passion for reading and writing as my colleagues, I still felt drawn by the incredible energy that was English. Putting my doubts behind me, however, I followed my powerful gut -- a choice that I may end up regretting for the rest of my life.

I was a gentleman and a scholar. I took home with me my first text to study, entitled: Falling into Theory. It was a beast if it weren't a demon! Its complexity would scare off the most astute scholars; but I cut through those pages like vegetation. I was an explorer of literature to say the least. I was, what they call, on fire! My pencil fluttered from page to page marking to and fro. By Jove! I could have been a master (my picture shown above). The satisfaction that followed my studies was palpable. I could feel the surge of accomplishment rushing through my veins. How glorious it was; and how short lived it was...

The next day, I was assigned another reading from the beast. Strangely enough, however, I felt as if my energy had disappeared. I was not as thrilled as I was before. I mistakenly accepted the challenge. I was over confident; I was, perhaps, not the scholar I thought I was. For that night, in the quiet of my studies, I came across a passage so vile, so horrifying, that I almost dispensed waste in my pants. It read, "It is precisely within the interrelated dynamics of a discourse of commitment, self critique and indeterminacy that pedagogy can offer educators, students, and others the possibility for embracing higher education as a critical public sphere while simultaneously guarding against the paralyzing orthodoxies that close down rather than expand democratic public life" (24). I sat with my mouth agape, silent.

What happened next was miraculously horrifying! The veins in my head began to throb. My temples were fiery hot, and my fingers almost crushed the pencil in my hand. I was boiling in frustration; I could feel steam! I was no longer a gentleman nor a scholar -- I was a beast! I could no longer concentrate on the material. The words on the page were scribbles and I hated them! I had transformed into something horrible; my roommate was a witness to it. I no longer felt any desire for English studies!

I woke up the next morning with my work unfinished. I was disheveled -- a different man! It was as if I had two men living inside me! One that loved, and one that hated the work I chose to follow. I shouted to the skies above, cursing the Gods for my fate... and waking up my roommate in the process.

My plea: I find myself going through the transformation every day. One night I'm a scholar, the next a frustrated creature. I am cursed; and I ask that if anyone understands or shares my condition, that they step up and help me find a cure! I am desperate; I need help. But I shall go on. Because no matter what state my mind may be in, I know I will find myself again. I will find MY path.