Well, I’m done, although I’m still finding myself needing to fall asleep on the couch to the tune of the Discovery ID channel (this, if you didn’t know, was essentially the only way I could sleep during the last four months– otherwise known as the big Push [to get the dissertation done]). The last three weeks since I finished have been strange, though. The thought “You need to write, woman!” still comes at me at weird moments (like, in the garbage bag aisle at the grocery store), but I’m learning to mentally respond with a “Pfftt. No I don’t, bitch. Back off.” That’s sort of nice.

I lie.

It’s actually really, really freakin’ nice.

Since I don’t feel like writing much in the Bin at the moment, allow me to offer you a photo essay that covers my final gimp-run to PhD-dom. I’ve probably got a few academically-inclined posts in me somewhere, but I’m hoping that, when I do feel like writing here, it will concern only nonsense. I feel I’m due some nonsense for a good month or so, at least.

In early January, Lil’ Dickens and I began working on the half-written, free-write-lovin’, no citation-givin’ draft of a dissertation I managed to slap together over the course of three or so years.

Because I (a) took so long to get to the point of finishing the diss or (b) my subject was driving me nuts or (c) both, compounded by depression, a seriously rainy winter, and general self-loathing over how I managed to become a first-class passenger on the Hot Mess Express, I hadz the sad though the whole damn process. And looked like this most of the time, but not in a funny way:

I documented the move toward the defense draft as part of my Photo365 project for this year. This is a random sampling, but from the looks of the whole collection, I killed a lot of trees this semester, as I can only do thorough editing / revising work in hard copy. Sorry, trees.

And I drank a lot of stuff. And tried aromatherapy (to stimulate the brain function, but also to try and relax enough to get my shoulders outta my ears).

Plenty of coffee was had, because it makes me smart, and then there was the Jameson. I seriously considered thanking Jameson Irish Whisky in my acknowledgements.

The Gray Matter Batter kept me functioning most nights, (although I think my continuous sniffing of minty pungency nearly ruined my sense of smell for good).

The following, combined with a playlist full of really bad 80s pop music, also got me through. What? You write to classical music? Good for you, bougie-pants. I don’t.

After the furious balancing of coffee, Jameson, minty pungency, Iggy Pop, and daily attempts to appear a tad more than merely vertical and breathing in front of my composition students, I finally made it to the defense week. Although in the back of my mind I knew it would be fine, I still felt like poor Calvin here going in:

The defense was, as is often noted by PhD-ers, the easiest part of the process. My long-suffering boyfriend made me this sign to wear around my neck at dinner that night (if you’re not a Dr. Who fan, this will be lost on you):

Then I went into the formatting /proofreading stage, which was really the “catching up on the mountain of grading I’ve gotten behind on” stage. I don’t have a photo to represent that (thankfully — I’d like to burn it from my memory if I can), but I do have a photo of the roller skates I bought myself as a “hey, you’re almost done” present.

Fast forward a few weeks, and I submit my revised dissertation to the graduate school. Lil’ Dickens and I have a mini-celebration.

After a harrowing two days of ping-pong emails between the poor person in the graduate school who has to work with our formatting issues and myself, I finally get the long-awaited Congratulations email.

I didn’t do “big” graduation, but I was able to receive my blank diploma holder (um, someone didn’t pay her graduation fee before this, and they were holding her, er, my diploma hostage — still are. Because I still haven’t paid it. Oops) at our department’s grad recognition ceremony. Guy there shaking my hand was who I call my “phantom” committee member, as he was a reader for me, but we’ve said  maybe two whole sentences to each other in my entire PhD career. One of them is “hey, aren’t you on my committee?” [Or, for him, “hey, aren’t I on your committee?”] He was saying it to me here.

At the reception my diss director held for me and some other graduates that afternoon (one committee member on the left, my director on the right). I haven’t looked that happy since 1989.

The cherry on top: getting rid of all those library books.

Well. That was fun. Ahem.