The GED is intended to be the same as a high school diploma. Many people with a GED may be embarrassed, because there certainly are people out there who do not believe it is as significant as a high school diploma. The standards for the test are usually set by a large groups of students who are soon to graduate; they are asked to take the test and the results are averaged, what is acceptable is determined, and then test-takers are compared to the previously set standards.

Some people are so scared they may be completely unwilling to begin the preparation to take the test, but I can say it really isn’t as bad as you may think. It’s not necessarily easy, but it isn’t all that hard. It does require substantial preparation: you have to know what to expect, because you will be expected to know. The test takes several hours to compete. The most successful students will spend many hours learning about the exam, what will be expected of them, and improving in areas needing improvement. This requires constant self-analysis, as well as practice test after practice test. It is best to overprepare, especially if you are nervous, because your nerves may come out during the test.

The good news about the GED is that you make an appointment to take the test–and that appointment will not be made until you are reasonably comfortable enough to take the test, so you should not allow your fears to interfere with your preparation. Once you have achieved a level of satisfactory preparation, it won’t be nearly as hard to make that jump to make the appointment and then all that’s left is taking the exam.

Only kidding. I highly doubt many previous readers are going to come running once they say this–that is, if they remember. I know some of the posts still receive some comments, although I have been negligent by never responding. :-/ I know there haven’t been all that many comments regarding the GED, but I’ve had some rather interesting feedback and realize that there are people who are still very anxious about taking the test. Perhaps I will be able to pick up where I left off and also help reduce some readers’ uncertainty regarding the test.

In other news, I am no longer 23. I am still in college but my GPA is no longer perfect, but it is not below 3.91. Other than that, not much else has changed. Probably not looking good for the blog.

It did not take much time to come to the conclusion that becoming a sheriff’s deputy was not for me, as the application process itself was so overwelming and scary that I simply did not know what to do with myself. Oh, how I wonder how I would have reacted with a gun pointed at me and little babies desperate for me to save them—I can’t even walk into the building to drop off an application!

Even after realizing that school was a much better route for me, I procrastinated and put it off for several weeks before I took any action. At the time, my boss was on vacation and, because we were short on staff, I had to work two weeks with only one day off. During this time, however, I finally found the courage to email one of the admissions advisors at the local university. The advisor I emailed was a good friend of both my mom and dad and my boss. On one hand, I was rather embarrassed of my situation and nervous about what her reaction would be, specifically because of the social circles we were both involved in. But I was also somewhat comforted with that knowledge as well.

Writing the email was relatively easy. I was as detailed and forthright as possible, because I figured that being honest and detailed would lead to an easy road to get into school. After sending the email, she responded by the next afternoon and her first words were, “THANK YOU very much for your detailed email. It helps me understand your situation much better.”

Her name is Donna, and she was my academic advisor and one of the primary reasons that I am in school. Her response consisted mostly of her encouraging me to come up and speak with her; I knew that would be a new hurdle I’d be forced to jump over. She also encouraged me to join a free, volunteer-based class that she and several other teachers offer during the summer. The program is to help acclimate students with college, build self-esteem, and to learn about managing time.

After several days, I again garnered the courage to call and make the appointment. The appointment was only a day or two later. I was incredibly nervous. I allocated several minutes in order to be able to enter into the building without turning around and deciding on a new endeavor, as well as to find her office. After finding the student services area on the small campus, I was asked to sit down. Donna came out several minutes and asked, “Are you my appointment? Come on back.” We walked back to her office and we sat down. She said, “Why are you here?” This question was a shock to me, because one of the main reasons I sent the email was so I could elaborate on my story through written communication rather than through oral, as my oral communication skills, at least at the time, were horrible, which was mostly due to the intense anxiety I still felt.

I explained that I had emailed her and she said, “Oooh, OK!” We had a brief conversation and she asked me some questions. It did not take long for me to realize that I really did not have much of a choice on whether I was going to go to school or not. Donna is an incredibly blunt person and did not “sugar-coat” anything (some may consider this a fault, but I consider it a positive characteristic). She, once again, encouraged me to join the summer class and explained it in relatively good detail. I told her I’d have to think about it, but it was starting in only a couple weeks.

After I got home, and because I was unable to articulate my thoughts and questions at the time, I emailed her several more questions and asked some questions about the volunteer class. I asked if I could just decide on the day of the class if I wanted to come and she said that was fine, but she seemed rather unhappy with that question.

As soon as my boss arrived back in town, I delightfully told her about my progress. She, too, encouraged me to go to the volunteer class, but I still wasn’t sure. I actually had another friend who would also be starting school, and she was going to go with me to the class. At that point, I was ready—that, in and of itself, really changed my perspectives on going to school. HOWEVER, she moved out of state like a week before the class started. I was obviously pissed and upset, so my apprehension about going to school quickly returned.

The night before the class was to begin, I was rather nervous and I did not believe I would really go, although I told everyone I would. As the time drew nearer, I have no doubt that my neighbors could feel my nervous shacking—it must have been like an earthquake. But, again, I garnered the courage and began my new journey. I arrived at the school with really no idea what to expect: more specifically, what my reactions would be, if I would throw up or start crying, or any other of the negative possibilities I could think of. I arrived about 10 minutes early and found the room. The door was open, the lights were off, and no one was there, so I grabbed a seat outside of the room and just sat there. When the class was about to start and no one was there, I slowly walked back out to my car to double check the room number and realized that I was waiting outside the wrong room.

Now, not only was I going to have to enter into a class room after about 10 years, but I was going to have to enter into a class room with a bunch of people I did not know about ten minutes late. I walked into the class room and sat down, and she quickly made an example of me. Essentially, she said how she would like people to arrive on time. Surprisingly, I blurted out that I was at the wrong room and apologized for being late. Then, she further made an example of me and said, “Oh, that’s OK. How did you find out what room we were in?” And went on to explain to the other students that the information desk had all of the information for the campus.

During the entire two hour discussion and lecture, I was nervous. I am positive that any color my skin had, even after not being in the sun much for the last couple years, disappeared. Afterward, she asked to speak to me, so we went to her office. I was visibly nervous and we talked some more about degree requirements such as math, as I had not even applied to the university yet. I asked if I placed into MATH 101, “Would I have to take 3 math classes?” She said “yes,” and I knew a couple tears must have come down my face, or she knew they were about to. Being that she is a psychologist, she is academically trained to watch people and their reactions. She told me to take three deep breaths and she animately showed me how to do it. It was actually rather funny.

After leaving, I went home and went back to bed. I probably slept for much of the rest of the day. The “volunteer” class actually had numerous requirements. One of the requirements was to write a one page paper after reading a chapter of the book. This one requirement was about to kill me. I was so scared and clueless about how to write an academic paper–and even then I loved to write. I told everyone how nervous I was about a one page paper and how stupid it was for me to be so nervous about it; most people agreed.

In the end, I made it through the class and actually had fun. Believe it or not, I was the most vocal of all of the students in the class—yes, the one with severe social anxiety disorder spoke more than anyone else in the class. The papers became easier and easier, and she was able to give me some specific feedback on areas that I’d need to work on for academic papers. The transition from my casual writing to that required in academic was actually not difficult at all. In the end, it has made me a better writer.

This post is outrageously long, I’m sure, and it’s rather late. I’m tired and I forced myself to write this, as it has been weeks since I’ve updated. I know it did not turn out the way I wanted, but I hope it’s at least coherent. Next post, I’ll describe my first quarter in college and the experiences it provided. Thanks for reading!

I had created a myriad of responses to the question. One of the more common and most simple was, “No, not yet. I’m waiting until I’m ready. Soon.” I rarely discussed my past educational “difficulties” and my serious anxiety issues, as, many times, these were perfect strangers.

The responses ranged from “that’s smart” to the more condescending, “If you don’t go to school, then what are you going to do with your life? You have to go to school!”

My boss was the person who nagged (err..encouraged) me the most about going to school. It was uncommon for a single day to pass that we would not discuss my educational aspirations.

After several years of having my low-paying but reasonable job, I decided that I was ready for a change. A friend of mine had become a dispatcher at the sheriff’s department. It had always been a dream of mine to become a police officer, although I was fully aware that I would have some serious explaining to do. I started talking to him about my prospects and what he could do to help me. I was excited now because it appeared that I had an “in” at the department.

My boss was supportive of me trying to become a deputy. She offered to help me with my application, references, and anything else she could do to help. Even after talking to my boss, my friends, and the new dispatcher, it took several weeks before I was even able to go to the sheriff’s department to “shadow” him in his job. I felt this was a necessary step, as it would allow me to become more comfortable with the environment and meet some of the people I may potentially work with.

Even after shadowing him while he dispatched, it took several more weeks before I was able to develop the strength to pick up an application. I was an absolute nervous-wreck about this step alone and I was genuinely curious how I would be able to handle the application process.

After picking up the application, I went straight to work to talk with my boss and show her what I had done. I asked for the information I’d need and asked her if I would be able to send her the finished product before I submitted it. After several days of eagerly awaiting her responses, and trying my best to prepare mentally to drop off the application, I was ready.

I did not sleep at all the night before; I was incredibly nervous. Instead of going to the sheriff’s department, I went to work to get my application “finalized” by my boss. She was encouraging about applying and she was still ready to help in anyway she could, as she knew how much I wanted it to become a reality.

After leaving, I went to get $20 out of the ATM and got gas in my car, in preparation of driving to the sheiff’s department. As I pulled up to find a parking spot at the sheriff’s department, it seemed as if I had been hit by the largest bus imaginable. My heart was racing, I was sweating, and I was sure that I was going to vomit at any moment.

I got out of my car and walked up to the department. As I was passing all of the windows of the law complex, and after becoming more and more nervous, I literally said, out loud, “Fuck it. I’ll go to school instead” (please pardon my language). I promptly turned around, walked as fast as I could to my car, hopped in, and drove away.

I drove back to work and walked in. My boss asked, “Did you do it?” … “No, I was too nervous.” She was visibly disappointed, but she did not seem angry. Regardless, I was obviously not ready for such a position, so I felt incredibly relieved.

The next day, I went to pick up some dinner. As I checked my wallet to ensure I had money, I realized that I had $20 in there. I thought, “No WAY. NO WAY!” I went to my dad and told him that I thought I’d driven away from the gas station without paying for my gas.

I immediately called the gas station and explained the situation. They told me that they did not see anything about me driving away without paying and told me not to worry about it, but worried I was. I picked up my dinner and then decided to stop by the gas station—just to double check. I explained to the woman working the window and she literally laughed at me. An older gentleman came to the window and said, “Yeah, you did drive away.” He took the $10 and gave me a receipt, but I still requested that he meet me in the back. I asked him if he had filed a police report or anything; he had not.

My nervousness lead me to drive away from the gas station without paying for my gas on my way to drop off an application to become a deputy. I cannot even imagine what I would have said had I been pulled over. What do you think the reaction of the police officer would have been when I said, “I’m actually on my way to drop off my application to become a deputy?”

Now that the holiday season has arrived and passed, it is time to clean up the mess that it undoubtedly leaves behind. For my mom, this means she must clean the oven.

This morning, barely awake from a long night’s sleep, I hear my mom shuffle to the stairs and yell, “(my dad), I just called the fire department; I think there’s a fire in the wall!”

She did not worry that I was upstairs, perhaps still in bed and sleeping soundly.

My father and I meet at the stairs and yell, “What?”

She responds, “I don’t know what happened. I was cleaning the oven and I heard a “pop.” I think there is a fire in the wall.” The smoke alarm had already gone off previously, but we figured that was due to the inordinate amount of smoke from the caked-on potatoes within the oven.

I walk over to the oven and turn the light on. I see no fire, so I try to open the oven. The “lock” light was on, but I was still able to open the oven. My mom was in utter shock, “It says locked!”

My father says, “They’re COMING! I better get the dog” and grabs him and runs him upstairs. In most families, if there is a risk of fire, it is usually suggested that you remove yourself from the building. In my family, however, we all gather around where we believe the fire is, lock our animals on the second floor, and ponder.

My dad feels the wall upstairs and yells, “I don’t feel any heat!” He grabs a screwdriver and takes off the intercom cover in order to look into the wall: there was no fire in that wall.

He runs upstairs to take the screwdriver up there, because he did not know what the firefighters were going to do when they arrived. We all expected them to bring in massive axes and start hammering away at our walls, even though we had already determined there was no fire. My mom picks up the phone and asks if she should call them back. We did not know the number and I told her it would not be a good idea to just call 911 back. My dad pipes in, “Well, they’re already on their way, so they might as well come.”

I walk outside and see the fire chief coming down the street. He was soon followed by an ambulance, a firetruck, and a police officer, as well as some other personnel. Nevermind the response time; it had already been a good 7 minutes. If it is true that a fire doubles every second, our entire house would be engulfed.

I wait until they gather and begin coming up to the door and I yell,“It’s OK! There is no fire. IT’S THE EGGNOG! SHE HAD TOO MUCH EGGNOG.”

The fire chief enters and asks what happened. They all come to the oven and look around, ensuring we had some doors open to allow the smoke to dissipate. No one wants to suffer smoke inhalation from potato left-overs.

They, too, quickly determined there was no fire. They tell us it was better to be safe than sorry.

My mom offered them a cookie, but they declined. My mom told them what we’d had for dinner last night and one of the firemen said, “And NOW you call us,” and they all walked out the door.

I may call them back tomorrow, because that was exciting, albeit rather embarrassing. And, tomorrow, I may ask them to investigate the noises in my wall. That’s their job, right?

For some unknown reason, I expected my recently-earned GED would earn me some prestigious position somewhere without even trying. However, that expectation was quickly shattered, as my job was hardly prestigious. In fact, it was miserable and lacked any fun qualities, but it was the job perfect for me.

In brief, my job was to take care of several clay tennis courts. You see, clay tennis courts are a complete pain and require extensive maintenance. I became a Clay Court Technician, and, if I may say so myself, I was the best technician in my field to ever exist.

Originally, I would be required to go in two times per day to perform a series of tasks: roll and brush the tennis courts, which entailed driving a loud-as-hell riding lawnmower over the courts, and then water (flood) them. At the beginning, I was going in two times each day to perform those tasks; however, once the pool opened and I refused to perform my responsibilities while the pool was open and there were dozens of people staring at me, I started going in only at night, after the pool had closed and most patrons had left.

There was supposed to be another kid going in during the middle of the day to perform the same tasks, but he only went in three or four times before his irresponsibility got the best of him and he just simply quit doing it. Even though he quit doing the courts and never told anyone, he continued to put his hours into the payroll book.

Someday, I hope to have such integrity and honesty.

Six days each week for the entire summer, I went in at around 9 p.m. in order to take care of the courts. I received numerous compliments on my work, as the courts were the best they had been in many years. While hardly “proud” of my work, I gained much needed confidence from the position.

After the summer ended, and thus my position, I was offered another job. I was asked to sweep the indoor courts once a week, as the same, aforementioned kid with all of the integrity of the world had quit doing them. It only takes approximately 40 minutes to clean the courts, but I was (and still am) paid $25 per cleaning. Although boring and, again, not prestiguous, I still have not missed a single week of cleaning the courts.

As the next summer approached, I was offered another job, still at the same facility. The position was that of a “Pool Snackbar Moron” and would require much more social interaction than my two previous positions. I reluctantly accepted the offer.

Working that snackbar at the pool was utterly miserable. I hated every minute of it and could not wait for the summer to end. Something about having to cook and prepare food for people and being burned constantly by the oven while in 100 degree weather caused me some serious turmoil.

Even though I made my disdain for my “job” rather clear to the manager, I was still offered yet another job. This one was to work the front desk.

The manager was aware of my cynical and sarcastic nature, and she made her worries clear to me. She was geniunely worried that I was going to offend people and run them out of the club. And she made me promise not to tell the members to “die.” I’m sure she is very thankful that she was wrong.

I currently hold the same position at the front desk. Again, it is not a “prestigious” job; however, it has allowed me to gain confidence and learn important social and communication skills. I can honestly say that if it were not for these opportunities and my current job, there is no way I would be where I am today. Plus, it was my manager who was the most adamant and influential about me going to college.

From my various positions, I have learned to be more humble. I have learned that nothing comes for “free” and you have to work for everything you have. Even when miserable and upset about how measly my jobs have been, I still bettered myself in many ways. Each of the jobs has taught me important life skills, and each of the jobs have helped me become the person that I am today.

Instead of being full of disdain, I am thankful for those low-paying and miserable jobs, for they have taught me what other jobs cannot.

In some ways, I believe that blogging has, in fact, been cathartic. In other ways, however, I believe it may have backfired.

I have spent much of my first several weeks of blogging “setting the foundation” of my life. Doing so has required that I remember details and situations from the past. As you may know, my “past” wasn’t great. By writing those posts, I remembered many details I never would have “remembered” otherwise. And many of those memories are depressing. I suppose, though, that the memories still existed and I will never be able to “get over it” unless I finally deal with it. Perhaps it is time.

Being that I am a business student, I have learned an interesting philosophy: “What you measure will almost always improve.” I want people to read my blog. I want to know that I have the opportunity to help others—to give hope. Because of that aforementioned “philosophy,” I will check many times each day to see how many people have viewed my blog. When I’ve had very few visitors, I become somewhat “upset.” In reality, I realize that this is rather silly. I realize there are millions upon millions of other blogs. I realize my blog is new. Finally, I realize the odds are seriously against me in terms of becoming a successful blogger.

I never, ever want blogging to feel like a job. I really enjoy writing for my blog. I love knowing that others are reading what I write. I love having this outlet to vent my frustrations and to tell my story. However, in a way, I already feel pressure to post, as I know that is the best way to gain new readers and retain the old ones.

None of this to say that I will not continue blogging; I am just in a bit of a “rut” right now—not only in blogging, but in life. In terms of blogging, however, I’m not sure what to write about next. I can tell you about my first job that lead to my current position, but I fear it is not interesting. I feel I need to tell that story before I can begin to write about college, though.

Expect another post soon! I know this one is simply grasping at straws…

In other news, I have started a “new” blog on Blogger: http://idroppedout.blogger.com. It’s actually the exact same as this blog. On one hand, I really like the simplicity of WordPress.com. On the other hand, however, I dislike the limitations. Don’t fret, though, because I will continue writing for this one and cross post to that one!

I’m just experimenting.

Before anxiety took control of me, socializing was not a problem for me. In fact, I was as “social butterfly.” I enjoyed meeting new people, talking to people, and having friends. I enjoyed going places, trying new activities, and being around other people. I did not constantly fear being judged by others. I was never afraid to “be myself” and speak my mind.

When I began to leave my house again, even with family, I would have serious issues even talking. I could not articulate a full sentence. I would stutter. The words I needed to say did not seem to exist. I have no doubt that others believed I had the vocabulary of your average turtle.

Even after my anxiety began to subside, it took me ages before I was able to enter stores and actually purchase something. Eating in a restaurant was a seemingly impossible task. Even when I would go into a restaurant, I would require someone else to order for me.

Not having friends never really bothered me until more recently. Although I would become bored, many of my friends resided online—usually thousands upon thousands of miles away. I could spend hours talking to these people. Whenever I felt I was being judged, I could simply hit “ignore” on my messenger client or leave the chat room. I spoke with these people on a daily basis.

Today, however, I long for friendship and camaraderie—in real life! When I become bored, lonely, or sad, I wish I had someone—anyone—I could call to talk to. Without being judged and without fearing their reactions. Without them laughing at me.

I’m envious of people who were able to go to high school, experience the “high school life,” and to build those life-long cliques and friendships that only seem possible in high school. When I’m around people who have recently graduated high school who are with their large group of friends, I often feel disdain and contempt. I wonder why I could not have the same experience; why I had to be so unlucky and make such bad decisions.

I fear that it’s too late to develop those friendships, because building friendships is incredibly difficult—at least for me. It seems I have so many acquaintances, but taking that relationship to the next level seems impossible. I do not know how. And I don’t know where to learn.

While I have been on break this past several weeks, I have created a challenge for myself: try out new activities and try to build rapports with people, even just as an experiment.

It started out well, but it has turned into a disaster. And now I don’t know if friends are all they are cracked up to be.

Besides my goal of writing a book, becoming a billionaire, beating the odds, and becoming the President of the United States of America, I have one more goal and, right now, it seems the most far-fetched: I want friends. Good ones. Friends who won’t judge me, laugh at me, or betray me.

(Admittedly, this did not turn out to be what I wanted it to be. It did not go where I wanted it to go. For some reason, I am unable to articulate my emotions without being too specific. Perhaps it’s not time yet… But I’ll post it anyway)

At random intervals, I hear these noises. They come from one of two walls and the noises are never simultaneous.

You know that sound when a person with long hair flicks their hair back and its hits a wall? In one wall, it sounds something like that. Now, in the other wall, it sounds like someone, or something, is having a seizure and convulsing. It is loud.

And it is unnerving, especially when you are trying to fall asleep and something has a seizure right above your head.

I don’t think there are ghosts. And, because no one ever lived in this house before us, I’m rather certain that the previous family did not hide a baby in the wall.

I’ve wondered if there are actually two creatures in the wall and they are using these sounds a way of communicating. And it sounds sexual.

It is possible that I have schizophrenia and these sounds do not really exist at all. Or it is possible that the electrical outlets are preparing to start me on fire. Either way, it is starting to really get on my nerves.

Truth is, I don’t know if I should call an exterminator, a psychiatrist, or an electrician.

Any advice?

I had the expectation that receiving a GED after studying for a mere four months and after dropping out of school in the sixth grade would garner the respect of those around me—at least the same amount of respect I would have had I actually gone to middle and high school. I thought everyone else would see how remarkable my accomplishment was, but I was wrong. Or perhaps it was not as much of an accomplishment I believed it was.

While preparing for the GED examination, I received my driver’s permit. I practiced often, but, because my fear of the police and my fear of killing someone persisted, I forced myself to learn how to drive on dangerous country roads. On these country roads, there are few other drivers and rarely do you ever see law enforcement.

Several months after receiving my GED, and now 19 years old, I finally had the confidence and perceived preparedness to take the test!

In Ohio, you are required to do a maneuverability test. This test requires you to maneuver your vehicle through a group of cones. You are required to do this in both forward and reverse. The entire purpose of this test is to replicate parallel parking (without sacrificing other vehicles), and it is considered the most difficult portion of the exam by most test-takers.

Because I was over 18 when I received my permit, I was not required to go through a driver’s education program. In driver’s education programs, they prepare you for the maneuverability portion of the exam rather extensively.

Some may consider it a downfall, but I feel it is necessary to “over-prepare” for everything—especially tests. And this was a test. However, it is nearly impossible to practice “the cones” unless you are in a driver’s education program, so I asked one of my brothers to grab several cones and we’d try to set up something at least similar to what would be required on the exam. This actually ended up being a disaster, because I made the mistake of informing my brother that Ohio State Highway Patrolman are required to do this at high speeds. He simply had to try it, so we spent a majority of our time trying to repair broken cones that he’d run over in his effort to be amazing.

The day prior to taking my driver’s license examination, I started to learn the techniques needed to pass the maneuverability exam. In reality, the only “technique” I devised was to go as slow as the car possibly could—and usually slower. The “idling speed” was simply not slow enough, so I’d ride the brake. In fact, if my speed actually measured on the speedometer, that was entirely too fast.

I arrived to take the test the next day. My nervousness was evident to everyone, as I had several people ask me why I was so nervous. I was irritable and angry, and I could have snapped at anything.

I was not a licensed driver, so I needed my brother to be in the vehicle with me when it was my time to take the test, because I was required to move the vehicle up to the cones. After arriving, he exited the vehicle and the examiner entered after doing a series of safety checks on the vehicle I was in (you never know when you’ll need your horn). I told her, up front, that I was incredibly nervous and she told me not to be. She was actually apathetic.

The first thing she had me do was the maneuverability test. I could see my brother watching, but I ignored him and continued my trek through the cones even slower than snail’s pace. I was bound and determined, but my confidence was dwindling, as I’d seen the previous examinee hit four cones.

I was on a mission and I succeeded: I passed. But I was not done yet. Still required was the actual driving portion of the exam, in which I would be asked to drive on one of our community’s busiest and most congested streets.

I performed incredibly well until I nearly hit a pedestrian (it was his fault). My good fortune allowed me to miss the moron. If I had hit him, I would have surely received a “failing” grade on the exam!

In the end, I received a 100% on the test. I was incredibly proud and instantly felt more independent and less like a prisoner.

Later that day, I stole my mother’s car for my first independent drive. I was nervous, and, because of my nervousness, my foot was shaking so much that it was impossible to apply consistent pressure to the accelerator, so the vehicle would speed up and then slow down at a rapid pace. I nearly developed motion sickness. Plus, I got lost in an area I’d been a thousand times before—and there’s really only one road.

I got my first job the very weekend after receiving my driver’s license. It was this job that allowed me to turn over a near leaf. But that’s a story for another day.