A sucking chest wound is nature’s way of telling you to slow down.
Finals are approaching with the slow determination of a freight train, and I’m well in the process of losing my mind. It’s not that I’m not on top of the material; I don’t even know where to find the pile. I spent all of last weekend staring at my laptop screen, trying to finish an essay that should have taken me no more than 5 hours to knock off; the end product, describing the development of my group, sounds like a bad parody of a Franz Kafka play.
There’s nobody I can talk to about this; all of my classmates have a “cheer up already, it’s not so bad” approach, Karin’s in similarly bad straits with her job, and I can predict the sorts of reactions I’d get from counselors or family. I’ve never had as much trouble in my life; one of my father’s friends who ultimately killed himself after years of suffering from clinical depression said something I can relate to: “it’s like a black cloud has moved in front of the sun.” That frightens me.
Every moment I panic more contributes to an already-vicious cycle of self-doubt on this emotional rollercoaster; I feel like an angst-filled teenager bellyaching about nothing. If I fail my classes, I don’t know what comes next.
