Do you ever just wake up in the morning feeling guilty for no particular reason?
That’s my morning today.
I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I’m just going to attribute it mostly to school stress and the fact that I’m not the kind of spirit to put up with all this structured nonsense. I love learning, I hate school. I love math, I hate tests. If it weren’t for this Native American Literature class, the one where you don’t get grades, where your papers are creative and appreciated rather then structured and critiqued, I would have dropped out this entire semester already.
What’s the number one thing us people with anxiety are experts at?
If you said avoidance, you guessed right! You get . . . nothing. Sorry.
And if I could avoid these classes to get to my goal, I would. I hate when people praise me for being in school or whatever and I’m sitting there like “you have no idea how close I am to dropping straight the fuck out”. I’m just in it to play the game because you have to if you have the kind of goal I do. Sure, I could influence individuals lives to a certain degree without being a fancy doctor, without going to medical school, without being a psychiatrist even, but I don’t feel I’d have the same impact. People are more inclined to trust the one with the professional title.
Regardless, I hate classes. I hate them, especially when I have no energy for them. I know I’m going to have to retake that Research Methods class where you have to lead all those fucking experiments and do all that crazy group work and shit, which I’m fine with because I would like to eventually do research, but that class is a ball of stress larger than Calculus and Chemistry combined; I’m nowhere near ready for it.
I’m a creative mind. What I love is writing and I will always love it. And when I’m bogged down by all this structured bullshit without a chance to exercise that part of my mind, I get very irritated, very sad, very . . . uninspired. That’s like yanking my ear phones out of my ear and I’ve warned how dangerous that can be. My friend in high school used to do that all the time and I’d shove her to the ground. Don’t fuck with my music.
Oh don’t give me that look; I kept telling her to quit it and she wouldn’t.
But these days, with the very minute amount of motivation I have left, and the even smaller amount of energy I have left, I barely have time to scribble down the outline for a short story. I loved writing for competitions. I don’t care if I don’t get first or second or even third, I enjoy it and if it isn’t a part of my life then what’s the point in anything?
Part of my father’s depression is the fact that he doesn’t get to play music like he used to. Part of mine is I don’t get to write like I used to. We’re way too similar for my comfort sometimes. I need to start exercising again before I’m hypertensive.
I realize that I need to start working. I prefer a stock job in the back where I rarely have to set foot on the main floor, or a cleaning job where I can be in the buildings at night after all the freaky office freaks are gone. But I also realize that I’m going to have a problem no matter where I go. The social anxiety is one thing; I’d end up so beat by the second hour that there would be no way I could last another four, five, or six hours. When you have social anxiety people are a parasite to you; they suck the energy out of you without even knowing they do. They’re just doing what they do best: talk, laugh, socialize. And I’m doing what I do best: misinterpreting their facial expressions as malicious, wondering if their laughing at me, considering the possibility that they glanced away from me as quickly as possible because I was laughing weird with them or I said something dumb or . . . God, whatever. Point is, it’s too much energy for me to do anything in relation to customer service and I’d run the risk of someone calling me “quiet” again.
I fucking hate that. I know I’m quiet you stupid son of a bitch, is that a problem? No, it’s not, so shut your fucking turkey lips up and get the fuck out of my face.
Anyway, Problem number two: aside from anxiety around them, I’m not really a people person. I like helping people, I like being part of a group very rarely for maybe a few minutes while we all work on something, but I prefer to be by myself. That’s just who I am. I like to walk alone with my music, I like to drive alone with my music, and I like to spend the majority of my Friday and Saturday nights either listening to music, writing, or just day dreaming. I day dream every other second. It’s how my brain functions and I don’t like the fact that I have to fight it to appear “normal” in the rest of my life. So I have a very strong urge not to. Fuck focusing in your class, I’m going to imagine what it would be like if an alien spaceship landed outside and it was a pure being of consciousness and wanted to stick a straw in our brains and suck out the white matter. That’s much more interesting to me than converting Atomic Mass Units (a made up fucking number) to moles (another made up fucking number). How does one made up number into another made up number make a real number? Why do they think numbers are even real? Just look at the atom and appreciate it, stop trying to weigh it. Stop it. You can’t. Stop.
I mean, really. Carbon is 12.011 amu. Even if you put that into grams and moles, it doesn’t make a difference! I still can’t even fathom the number! There’s 6.022×10^23 atoms per mol. Can you please fucking show me, physically, how many atoms that is? Show me, right now. I can show you two plus two. Here’s one pencil, here’s another. There’s two. That math I let slide because it makes a tiny bit of sense. The rest of this math is just theoretical shit, observations, science tries to pass off for reality. Pisses me off.
Problem number three: I want to enjoy my life and that means living it how I want to. I am also mature enough to realize that’s more of a cliche dream than a reality. Therefore, if I must get a job to assimilate to this weird ass society, then I want the freedom to be a writer on the side. I don’t want to be bogged down by school, by work, like I see so many other people. How stressed they must be. I’m not one to handle stress well, OBVIOUSLY, and while I don’t mind learning coping mechanisms, I refuse to put myself under any amount of stress that I’m uncomfortable with. I just love writing, I can’t help it. Sure this blog is pretty informal, but even that’s fun to me. If I ever got paid for writing, I think the level of disgust I feel for my current life situation would shrink tremendously.
I need to find a balance before I ruin myself.