How I got Tricked into Attending Grad School

The woman who got this whole ball rolling, and the Providential Typo one year later.

Wheaton College, IL... The Chapel steps where I explained my budget to God.

My induction to grad school was a surprise to everyone, most of all myself.

I graduated from Bloomsburg University of Pennsylvania with a Bachelors degree in American Sign Language/English Interpretation in 2015. Our last week of school the head of our department sat us in a circle and asked, if we were to begin graduate school for a Masters and Doctorate, what would it be in? Everyone had an answer. I laughed hysterically because I hated college. I had Senioritis when I was a Freshman and was only here because a degree was required to be an interpreter. My teacher asked me to put that thought aside for a moment and just suppose if there was anything else I might like to do. I thought for a moment and off-handedly said I might like to do something with self-harm and cutting. To be clear I wouldn’t. But that’s what it would be. Madly in love with my job and fueled with an impassioned hatred for the classroom, I graduated with absolutely NO desire to pursue even higher education.

Daddy was pursuing his own doctorate at the time and finished his dissertation shortly after I came home from college. Fueled with educational zeal, he suggested I take some Masters courses at the university he worked (free tuition!) and again I laughed. I was now in a job I loved and had no reason to go back to an environment I disliked for a career I had no interest in. I was volunteering at my church’s youth group, I was making a place for myself in Pittsburgh. “There’s absolutely nothing I can think of that would make me WANT to go back to school!” I declared.

June, 2017

I go to Chicago with the youth group as a chaperone. We spend three days at Wheaton College for a conference. Halfway through out stay, the youth attendees join in a campus-wide game of “aliens,” a sort of tag played in the dark. I’m an EMT among other things and always bring my first aid kit to trips. Tracey the director of youth ministries at our conference asks me to be medic and I enjoy a semi-quiet evening with the occasional teen coming to me for bandaids after scuffles outside. A young woman approaches me. She looks to be about 20, I quickly recognize her as a volunteer for another youth group, though I don’t know her name.

“Can I have a bandaid?” She asks shortly.

“What for?” My hand is already reaching for the proper pocket in my kit.

“I just need a bandaid. Can I have one?” There’s something in her voice that makes me stop.

“I’ll need to see it.” I say shrugging.

“You can’t just give it to me?”

“Nope. Them’s the rules.” My rules but hey, my kit.

“You’re a medic right?” She asks guardedly. “That means whatever I show you you legally can’t tell anyone, right?”

“Well, let’s see what you’ve got.” I respond, not answering the question. Anytime someone says that, it’s almost guaranteed to be followed by something I’m legally obligated to report. She looks around. Everyone in the gym is ignoring us. She rolls up her sleeve and my stomach lurches.

“Let’s sit down.” I gently take her arm and pull her to a bench. I’ve closed my kit and set it behind me.

“So can I have a bandaid?” She asks.

“Nope.”

“NO?! Why not?!”

“You and I both know it’s too late for a bandaid.” I say, gently running a hand across the cuts. “You and I both know these are a couple days old. And.” My fingers stop at one or two cuts in particular. “You and I both know the significance of cuts in this direction.” She flinches.

“How do you know?” She demands.

“My arms healed nicely, but I still limp.” I say simply. I pause only long enough for the implications of what I’ve said to sink in. “What’s your name, and which youth group are you with?”

We’ll call her Sarah. The next afternoon she and I find a table in the back dining room. The other leaders of her youth group find us. All they’ve been told is Sarah has been struggling with an addiction and she’s brought “an expert on the subject” to help the conversation along. One by one the others arrive. “Pastor John” who is the youth group leader, runs a safe house for women with substance abuse issues, and has known Sarah since she was a child. His wife “Joy” who is a social worker. “Justin” and “Jeremy” who are fellow volunteers and good friends of Sarah. Collectively they have known her for over fifteen years. Because she’s in her early 20s we’re not legally obligated to call her mother, and later on in the meeting it’s established it’s probably for the best.

The beginning of the meeting is tense and uncomfortable. As the others join us I can feel them discreetly looking me up and down, rightly wondering who on earth I am. I look incredibly young and given that we’re working at a youth convention it’s apparent their instinctive concern is that Sarah has brought in a teenager. What addiction was Sarah struggling with, how had this baby-faced ‘expert’ gotten tangled-up in this? We eat our dinner mostly in silence. Pastor John asks which youth group I’m in and I tell him I’m one of the (adult) volunteers from Pittsburgh. The youth track’s Emcee? The British chap, Alex? He’s our leader. We make polite small talk for about five minutes but the confused tension is building and I offer to just start. There’s a collective sigh of relief that I acknowledged the awkwardness and we begin.

“Before I explain who I am,” I begin. “I think it would be best for Sarah to tell us all why we’re here.” Faces turn to her and she flushes.

“I thought you were gonna tell them.” She mutters.

“They should hear it from you.” She gulps.

“It’s ok, sweetheart.” Joy says. “You know you can tell us anything.”

“I... uh... I’ve been cutting myself for awhile. On my arms and legs and stuff.” Around the table there’s a collective intake of breath. “Kelsey, she said if I didn’t tell you she was legally obligated to call 911.”

“I’m glad she did.” Pastor John says fervently before turning to me. “Who are you? How did you know?” Sarah is about to vanish beneath the table and with this confession to the table at large perhaps it’s best to give her a breather.

“I have a background of failed suicide attempts, an eating disorder, and cutting.” I begin. “I first started cutting at 16 and by the time I was 19 I cut myself into a wheelchair. I had to learn how to walk again and now, 7 years later (at 26-years-old), I still limp a little. That’s my personal history. But I’ve also done a lot of research on self-harm. There weren’t a lot of helpful books when I was cutting, so I spent a lot of time online, trying to understand what was happening to me and why. I spent a lot of time on chat sites talking to other cutters, eventually I began interviewing them. This past decade or so I’ve probably interviewed dozens if not over a hundred self-harmers. I’m saying that because I think it’s important you understand I’m not just speaking from my own experience. There’s research to back me up.” I see Joy running my unofficial credentials through her head before nodding. The Social Worker is ready to trust me.

“And you recovered how?” Pastor John asks, openly scrutinizing me.

“It’s a long story.” I say. “But my church banded together and one priest in particular got me into counseling. Drying out was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, as I’m sure you know.” Only recovering addict priests open up half-way houses for other recovering addicts.

“Fair enough.” He nods. “But how did you find our Sarah?” I briefly tell the story from the night before and turn to her.

“Your cuts recently have changed direction, yes?” I prompt.

“Yeah, they have.” She continues to stare at her plate.

“And what’s the significance of the new direction?”

“Before they were just, you know, just normal cuts. But last week they were longways.”

“And that means?”

“... Suicidal cuts.”

It’s one of the strangest conversations I’ve ever had. Pastor John sits beside me and as Sarah talks I write notes, guess motivation and causation, and he sees over my shoulder me predicting virtually everything Sarah is about to say. At one point I discern an underlying fear and write it out, hoping Pastor John will see it and roll with it. I write out a single line and circle it, wondering if he’ll say the swearword. Instinctively I think it’s important. Sarah is talking more freely than she seems to have in weeks. She’s talking about changes in her life, how she feels overwhelming pressure to be perfect, to not let these people down. And how she feels trapped, knowing she’s one mistake away from being hated forever. Pastor John takes one last surreptitious glance at my prompt before looking her in the eye.

“Sarah, you f***ed up,” The priest says. “but we still like you. And love you.” The table gapes at his vulgarity. His face doesn’t waiver. He says it again. “You f***ed up big time. And we. Love. You.”

Sarah bursts into tears. The table rises and crowd around her, holding her as she sobs, and I back away slightly so they can have this moment. Cutters don’t cry. It’s one of the first things to go. The first cry is one of the biggest. She clutches them as Joy whispers prayers in her ear, as Pastor John strokes her hair, as Justin and Jeremy pat her on the back, as all four of them reaffirm what John already said... though, none of them use that exact wordage again.

A plan is made. They ask me what would be the most helpful and I talk about accountability, about finding a counselor. I talk about 12 Step Programs and the importance of doing it immediately, striking while the iron is hot. At the end of 4 hours we set Sarah in a chair and pray over her and these next weeks that will be hell, if she fully commits to healing. I kneel at her feet, praying over her ankles which should have had stitches a week or two ago. A hand squeezes my shoulder and Joy smiles down at me as tears run down her cheeks. As we all break to find our respective youth groups she pulls me to the side and hugs me. She’s crying, saying how Sarah has always been like a daughter to her and John... how they had noticed something was ‘off’ about her these past few weeks, and how it was an answer to prayer: this dinner where she was finally able to tell them. We all head to the chapel where everyone else of the conference is attending an evening service. I text Alex and tell him I’m outside. He knew I had an ‘urgent meeting’ and said to find us when I was done.

I sit outside the chapel journalling so any urge to cut again can be headed off. I’ve always avoided seeing self-inflicted wounds because the triggers can be painful and tempting, so some private prayer journaling seems like a good idea. Alex comes out of the service to make sure I’m fine and listens to me vent for awhile, before returning to the youth, saying I can have as much time as I need. I ask God where He’s going with this. This isn’t the first cutter He’s led me to. But this... this was different. This was more involved. More serious. Something was happening, though I wasn’t sure what. As I’m writing these questions out, He writes back loudly and clearly:

GRADUATE SCHOOL.

Oh hell no.

I respond indignantly with a budget plan HE would need to fill. I had always told myself: No higher education until my loans were paid off from my bachelors degree. I was a full-time interpreter and just making ends meet, how the heck did He expect me to also be a full-time student? There was no such thing as majoring in self-harm, what did He propose? And the triggers! I had avoided sites, pictures and movies because it was UNSAFE for me to see. How on earth was I supposed to do any of this stuff while staying safe from my own desire to cut again? Answer THAT ONE, God!

I text my friend and mentor, Jack. He was the priest who I called during my final relapse. He was the one who I trusted more than myself, the one I promised I would do whatever he suggested, I had to END this addiction before I wound up in the hospital. I text him about the conversation God and I are having, and how if God wants me to pursue this, HE’S going to have to pay for it. Jack texts back almost immediately, agreeing with me. Given my history with self-harm, there’s no way I’m going to school to research it unless it’s very clearly commissioned by God.

Just as I’m about to go inside, God writes back a final promise:

SIT BACK, AND WATCH WHAT I CAN DO.

February 15, 2018.

I tour Trinity School for Ministry in Ambridge. I’m not really interested, but a few people heard about the incident in Chicago and suggested I go to their open house. I go, and it seems pretty obvious they don’t have anything to offer me... Trinity is the place to go if you want to be a priest. And if there’s anything I’m sure of, it’s that I’m NOT being called to be clergy. Marry one, sure. Become one? No. I’m about to leave when I run into Father Jay, the parent of a childhood friend. He’s a big name in the addiction world, and I’m pretty sure most of the AA groups in Pittsburgh exist because of him. I tell him briefly what I’m doing and he tells me there’s a seminary in Pittsburgh that offers 150% scholarships and are infinitely more flexible than Trinity. I ask where it is and he says it’s less than a quarter mile from my apartment. Who knew?

March 15, 2018.

I tour the university as a reluctant M.Div/Social Worker major. They have a joint program with University of Pittsburgh and this seems to be the closest thing that could vaguely serve my need to research self-harm. I sit in the office of a professor who turns to me, smiling and asks:

“Now, Kelsey. Why do you feel called to be a priest?”

I open my mouth and vaguely think ‘Well, I tried’ before letting lose:

“I don’t. I have no interest. Really I don’t want to go to school. But God asked me to look into it. I have no interest in higher education, I see learning Hebrew as a necessary evil because I would much rather learn Spanish. But I’m here because it seems like God’s asking me to pursue researching self-harm. All I really wanna do is interview self-harmers and put their stories onto Youtube but there’s no college in the world that offers a major in self-harm research. But they have a huge scholarship program and the only way I’d be able to do this is if the school paid for it and this was just the next step in obeying Him.” I pause to catch my breath as Derek frowns.

“Follow me.” He says. To the exit? I think. He marches me to the next door office and knocks. “Honey, do you have a minute?” His wife Erin looks up smiling.

“Tell her exactly what you told me.” He instructs, as we sit down.

“Everything?” I ask pointedly.

“Everything.”

One explosive rant later Erin sits back, considering me.

“You sound like you would be a good candidate for our Theological Studies program.”

“That’s what I was thinking!” Derek says excitedly. She looks at me appraisingly.

“This fall we’re offering a new major. It’s called “Theological Studies” but it’s really a build your own degree thing we’re piloting. The only requirements are a research seminar at the beginning to make sure you know HOW to research, and at the end of two years you have a graduation project. A paper, a video, it’s intentionally flexible. You take courses here or other colleges to fit your needs. And there’s lots of scholarship money for it.” She looks at me thoughtfully. “This fall is the first time we’re offering it, so not many people know about it.”

“Those requirements are awfully vague.” I say slowly.

“They’re supposed to be.” Erin replies. “We’re aware knowledge isn’t confined to a classroom and we want our students to have more options. Based off of what you’ve said, this sounds like it might be perfect for you.”

July 2, 2018

I apply for the Theological Studies program. It’s a little late for scholarships so I adjust the enrollment year for Fall 2019. A year is plenty of time to get things in order, apply for scholarships, figure out what exactly I’m supposed to do. I double check to see the application says 2019 and I click send.

July 3, 2:30pm

I receive an email from admissions. They need a few more documents and I’m in. The woman says she’s looking forward to my enrollment this August. Panicked I email her back- there was a mistake! I said 201*9* not 18! Email me back!!! An automated email is immediately returned, telling me to enjoy the holiday and that someone will be in touch next week.

I look up at the ceiling.

“Well Abba...” I say out loud. “You’re gonna need to make it CLEAR you want me there at all, much less a year early.” What would make it clear? I jot down a list of nonnegotiables.

1. Acceptance

2. 150% scholarship

3. The utmost scholastic flexibility, in writing

5. Can keep interpreting

6. Absolutely must be able to continue volunteering at youth group

7. The ability to pay all my bills

8. No required Hebrew

9. Housing would be nice.

I text Mom and go for a walk.

July 13, 2018

I take another tour of the university this time as a potential Theological Studies student. I meet the head of the department, Dr. Ken Woo. We chat about the program and it’s affirmed that this major is designed to offer as much flexibility possible whilst maintaining scholastic integrity. Because of the uniqueness of my area, no languages are required. No Hebrew. They have a partnership with Pitt and Duquesne and if there are external courses I want to take, I can. I meet with the head of admissions, and financial aid. It’s not too late, and there is still scholarship money available, if I apply. I place all my cards on the table and tell them: I’m not coming to school with anything less than a 150% scholarship. I’m already going to be mentally and emotionally compromised, I can’t afford to also worry about money.

July 25, 2018

I’m accepted.

July 27, 2018

I have been awarded 150% scholarship.

July 30

I walk to the school and hand them my acceptance. Orientation begins in 4 weeks.

I meet people who introduce themselves by name and major. When I say “Theological Studies” they frown. What’s that? They’ve never heard of it. I say it’s a pilot program. They ask what I’m going to do with my major and I laugh bitterly because I have no idea. I thought I had another year. But there was a “Providential Typo” because apparently God didn’t want to wait.

Truth be told I never wanted to go back to school... But God asked me to. I think back to all the times I said there was nothing that would make me WANT to go back to school... and there still isn’t. But the one I love most asked me too. And I love Him more than I hate school. So there’s that.

September 4, 2018

We begin.