My desk is a mess. I wish I could call it beautiful, with its chips and dents and lipsticks littered alongside those fine liner pens that are my staple. But it’s not. It’s a reflection of my mind; right now, you can guess exactly what state that’s in. I have six weeks left until my dissertation deadline, two months until my final exams, and I don’t think I’ve been outside recently for anything other than leaving for lectures.
This is not me glamourising mental illness, by the way. It’s anything but.
I have this love-hate relationship with university, with academia. It drives me onwards and yet pulls me back. I could be a wreck inside, yet still work on research and somehow get myself a 2:1 in an essay. Is it luck, is it perseverance? Probably both. I’ve sent off Masters’ applications; one rejection, one offer. Four still to make up their clever minds. (The rejection was from my #1 choice, and it still stings. But I’ll get over it.)
And all the while I’m a jittering bundle of nerves and confusion. I know I should go outside. The sun’s even shining today. But somehow it seems safer to stay inside. One glance at my bed, my friend and foe, and I feel that pull, that longing to cocoon myself. Yet, you see, I’m an adult. I can’t cocoon myself anymore. Oh, I could pull a blanket around myself for an hour or two and pretend it’s for warmth. A lie, but a reasonable one, to the outside world. To my mind. However, if I hold onto that blanket for any longer, I start forgetting what life is like without it. Not a good idea, let’s be honest. (I can be honest with you, the invisible readers.)
I have to throw the blanket off. I know I do. Stretch muscles, both mental and physical.
But it’s so fucking hard.