I guess I’m going to be that ridiculous person who writes in a Starbucks.
Earlier this summer, I quit therapy, which forced me to quit seeing my psychiatrist (you need to be doing therapy in order to see a doctor at the student clinic). So, I’ve been kind of alone. I’m not sure if I made the right decision when I did that, but it was rash, it felt freeing, and I was tired of sitting on a couch where nothing got accomplished.
My old psychiatrist reached out to me to let me know he was leaving the center and asked if he should close my file. I wasn’t really sure. I didn’t think my care was over. Maybe I had thought I was just taking a break. The doctor let me know he had a private practice I could see him at. Today, I went there.
My anxiety has been high. Last night I had that terrible feeling, like something was really wrong. I haven’t had that feeling in ages. I used to have it all the time, and I would think something was wrong with Bo. I had abandoned him, and now something catastrophic was happening. So, I would always reach out. Just to make sure he was okay.
I couldn’t do that last night. I knew my family was safe, so there was nothing there. Bo is long gone from my life. He exists more as an idea now than as a human being or old friend I know well. I’m not sure Bo would have cared if I sent him something asking if he was okay–probably not, he would have been very decent. However, I felt it was just something I could not do anymore. So I just sat there, in my own anxiety, melting into a puddle of adrenaline.
I watched a documentary that was on TV, and it made me cry, even though it wasn’t the most emotional thing I had ever watched or new information for me. I wanted to fall asleep, but my mind wouldn’t let me. I had to stay awake, in case something was wrong.
But there’s nothing wrong, I was just being irrational. I told a few people I loved them over text and went to sleep. When I eventually went unconscious, I had terrible and realistic dreams.
After my appointment today, I did feel a little better. I walked for a bit and got to a Panera Bread, where I had something to eat, and browsed funny Reddit subs. I listened to suburban moms meeting for coffee in the morning talk about their children and Disney Princesses and society and Stranger Things. I listened to suburban divorced dads meet for lunch and talk about ways they are trying to lose weight. It was all very comforting. There was a mall–one of those where older folks go for walks. I walked around. I like walking. I got ready to go back to campus, but I didn’t want to. I get so tired of campus and it’s hullabaloo. I found this Starbucks, and got a water and a bag of whole grain, yet entirely too salty and buttery popcorn. I’m not a big fan of Starbucks, but at least they have great WiFi. I did some homework. Now, I’m writing this.
My hormones have been racing spiking lately. I feel horny, or I sweat too much and smell ridiculous, and I’m getting some small bouts of acne. I even have been having some cramping. None of this has really happened since I’ve been on birth control, so I couldn’t say what the source is. Perhaps my body has adjusted to the birth control, and now I’m fucked up again. Hormone spikes during my period have been a big source of unbalance in the past, and I don’t want to deal with that.
I don’t think I’m completely sad or unmotivated anymore–I’m just lost and feel lack of control. This could have to do with me being close to graduation from college, but it is not like me to let those kind of things affect me this way. No, I think I am just growing and this is another portion of my growth stage, of my coming of age, which will not stop with something like college ending. I’m not saying that my educational career finally (finally!) finishing is not going to bring about emotion, but that I feel odd in a way that doesn’t relate to that. I constantly think of my life as a timeplot, plotted according to a vague variable of “feeling.” I am having ups and downs. There are thresholds we may hit along this. This plot goes on for the period of my being alive.
I can attest that I am deeply afraid of moving back to my hometown–which is the plan post graduation. I feel like I will lose all the progress I have made. That none of this journey will have any point. That the timeplot may as well come to it’s end.
If I had to pick one title for my identity, I wouldn’t be a female, or a minority, or a queer person, or a Muslim, or a daughter, a friend, or anything. I would be an artist.
“He was alone. He was unheeded, happy, and near to the wild heart of life. He was alone and young and wilful and wildhearted, alone amid a waste of wild air and brackish waters and the seaharvest of shells and tangle and veiled grey sunlight.”
-James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man