The past two years or so I’ve been on a steep learning curve. I had to learn to give myself the OK to be tired and sick and depressed. Then I had to learn to forgive myself for not being able to work. For a perfectionist — for someone, who’s always been taking care of herself and make sure things get done on time, this has been one of the hardest things to get over. But I learned. So over the summer, I gave myself the time to concentrate on trying to get better from whatever it is that ails me.
(Yes, I know — we call it depression. But as my therapist says, it’s not for no reason I’m going through this over and over again.)
Come autumn. It’s a been some sort of a self-imposed deadline that once the uni opens again, I’m going to start to work on my thesis like a good student and get my life back in order. I’ve been twiddling my thumbs long enough, right? (I’ve noticed some other people have giving me hints that this would seem like a good idea.) Alas, it doesn’t seem to work that way. It’s so fucking frustrating; I want to graduate and get on with my life but there’s this intanglible mess in front of me, and I can’t ignore it, and it doesn’t seem to want to go away.
Intellectually I know you can’t hurry these things… But everything else in me is telling me to cheer the fuck up, chin up, get some vitamins, go jogging and get a life. And then I get mornings or days or weeks like this, and all I want to do is curl up and die or scream or punch myself in the face or something, and I just don’t know which way to turn. All I want is a peace of mind.
That’s all, folks.