I bombed. Been sort of failing at keeping up with the general pace of things this semester. It’s probably me more than anything. Worse yet, I can feel myself slowing down a little more as each day passes. I’m sleeping more, eating less, and all attempts of meditation leave me jumpy and strung out all at once. My knees ache, and with the oncoming morning chill, it’s harder and harder to leave the warmth of my bed.
I’d really rather ball up in my blankets and check out for another few hours. Or all week. Once I leave the house, it’s not a problem; it’s the leaving that’s the issue. It’s been a couple months since I’ve really gone out and seen anyone but for the same couple of people. And even then, it’s for briefer and briefer periods.
As of last spring, I’ve been diagnosed with clinical depression and bipolar and anxiety disorders. The slew of medications have had varying effects on them, and though I’ve settled on a trio that does some good, it doesn’t seem to be having the same effect as it was before classes started six weeks ago. I can see myself backsliding into the immobility of last spring. Honestly, I’m almost wishing I would.
At this point, throwing my hands up and giving up on this disaster of a year is probably the wisest thing I can do. It’s better to withdraw than to fail; looks better on the records and it’s less embarrassing to admit at the family Christmas parties. And even then, I’d probably need a bit of wine before mentioning it.
My only goal left is to finish a couple Christmas scarves and survive to the end of the year. Everything else can go hang.