Chapter 17: Philosophiae doctor.

Choosing a PhD program brought certain muffled excitement to life. It meant moving somewhere else, northward, and that always comes with some expectations and hopes. I was also excited by the choice of my topic. I knew that whatever I chose to do, it was going to be related to helping computers ‘understand’ the world. Or at least, process the vast amount of data that reality generates and be able to find causal connections that, because of their complexity, escape us. Complexity and accuracy two aren't always proportional, but often so. Much like complexity and intelligence.

So I did embark in such academic adventure. I was on my way to success! Being a field dominated by males, I would have some unexpected allies and some predictable enemies.

Over the years, the path I had chosen had shown me not to be precisely made of the best of choices. Specially considering how my last two years of college had been. A pressure started to build up. I had to make the right decisions, at every level:

• Professionally: Does loving technology grant enough motivation to dedicate your life to it? What about the allure of getting to know more about the fabric of reality, what about finding a field were technology isn't the be-all end-all, but a tool to push the known boundaries? Was the intellectual satisfaction more important than the financial? What about morals?
• Human relationships: I had been avoiding dealing with these needs. I needed extroversion, yet it made me uneasy to approach it without masks. Thus, it often felt alluring to disconnect from humanity, yet there was no way to do so without being hit with a persistent decrease of happiness.
• Romance: What was this⸮ What puerile washout put this item on this list? What does this have to do with success, with Academia? Could we replace it by ‘family’, at the very least? A better family? Was it a hack to increase the chances of long-term happiness? An answer to mere biological needs profoundly mixed with culturally imposed expectations? Obviously I still hadn't met Roberto when I was asking myself these questions. Questions I found silly and unrelated, but that popped in my head when weary.

The list was messy, rethorically useless. Not worth half a listicle. I threw it away.

Still, I wanted to know myself so I could optimize the continuation of life's path. Happiness should have been the first target. Tweaking priorities, getting rid of the yearnings that bring misery. To learn to be content.

Instead of all that, I chose a doctorate program. Academia first. Academia only. I liked it.

Years went by. Anxiety grew. It felt as if it wouldn't ever be finished. An interminable road to a destination long forgotten, first set by a madwoman in the silly quest of building an identity for herself. I wouldn’t ever be done with it. I wanted to abandon —I considered doing so, so many times.

Was it the sunk cost fallacy the one that didn't let me out from the hole I dug? Couldn't I ...just climb out of the hole? Its stone walls were too slippery.

Alas, I felt trapped so deep into that hole that the only way out I could think of was to keep digging, in search of the underground exit. The hole became an asphyxiating trap in which every phantom listicle, every algorithm seeking an optimal decision —whether financial, educational, or whatever— required me to stay in that hole, both shovel and pickaxe long worn out, only to keep digging bare handed, nail against soil.

Digging in a direction that I had decided for reasons I couldn't remember. What I had loved had slowly become what was smothering me, daily, at all times. Every waking hour, every moment of consciousness. Many times permeating in my sleep.

Sure, I could take a break, I could go traveling. It didn't matter: the ghosts of the student loan and the stress of an incomplete duty would stalk me anywhere I'd go.

Now, a posteriori, I have the feeling that if I were transported back to those times, I'd do things much better. Honestly, I don't know. Maybe it was too late. Maybe I was too late. Maybe the seed of failure had been planted long before, in 1981.

The PhD brought social life to its lowest. My tutor monopolized a rare social presence. Sometimes, the long sessions at the computer lab where interrupted by some equally asocial creature. The ensuing interaction —if any— was doomed to be awkward. As the joke goes, in the most extroverted moments we would look at each other's shoes.

It's not a good year when the only warmth you receive comes propelled by fans in a server rack.

The PhD took many more of those years than I expected. It's typically the case, I knew. When it surpassed my initial estimation, I started having nightmares. Really vivid nightmares. Those would sometimes turn into dreams of plenitude. That's how I never grew to hate dreaming: if the nightmare hadn't turned into a beautiful dream, it was because I had awoken too early.

Nightmares hit, but not only before receiving my PhD: my dissertation was flanked by depression and its accompanying nightmares. Depression pre-PhD, depression post-PhD. And once I was done with it, the abundance of choice and the breaking with such an intensely focused period of a lifetime were disorienting.