My post- finals plans. or, Friday.
Not really.
It's finals time around here, which basically translates to your soul feeling like it is being sucked out of your ear, you second guess everything you ever thought rocked about yourself, and everyone on campus looks the same as you do. Like sweaty, confused zombies. Well, zombies is a bit cliche of a description, no? So, everyone looks like sweaty...confused...sweat-pants-wearing-greasy-haired-depressed-slightly-hungover-and-self-loathing visions of their former selves. Basically, the feeling around campus is euphoric.
That was my sleepy stab at sarcasm.
After 3 days in solitary confinement I was in tears over the fact that I had not spoken to a human soul about anything other than term papers. I had been existing in a colorful array of pajama separates and my life felt like it operated on a a very, very depressing schedule. Wake up, make coffee with eyes closed, try to work but end up listening to the Backstreet Boys album, stumble to a cafe, try to work again, but end up eating pizza and staring out the window as you think about how much you hate Walt Whitman and wishing he was alive so you could smack him. Feel bad because you don't actually hate Walt Whitman, you just hate your major and then have a quiet cry about that in the bathroom stall. Go home. Put on different pajamas. Maybe open some wine. Work more. Find a Disney Pandora station. Go to bed after listening to 7 different versions of "A Whole New World." Maybe sneak in another quick little cry or two. Sleep.
Do it all again the next day.
I wish I could say I was exaggerating, because I do love to exaggerate...but sadly I'm not. (okay, maybe the Pandora station only had 5 different versions of "A Whole New World.") this life is something I definitely chose, and this life is what led to Brett needing to leave to finish school 2,568 miles away...so I definitely need to own this life. BUT HERE IS THE THING. I sort of hate it. I open up lovely books now, bound in gold thread, smelling of libraries and rich history and all of the fucking things I used to love about literature before, and all I want to do is vomit. If a fellow classmate uses any of the following words: "dichotomy," "agency" "utilize," problimitize," "gender constructs," or "epistemology" I will smack them in the face. And then throw a chair at them. And then hurl hateful insults in their general direction in my black little mind. It's petty, sure. But hey. It's where I am.
2 things have saved me recently. Well, 3. I will now bullet point these for you.
-(Dash, not bullet point, I am aware.) I recently made a friend that I never expected. In fact, I was pretty sure this guy hated me, and I hated him to be formal and by extension. IN REALITY he is brilliant and charming and a very giving person. And I am a douche bag. When he texted me last night to make sure I was doing ok on my paper I felt that old Catholic guilt revving up in my stomach. But I forgave myself. Sometimes the most interesting things in life are right under your nose and you are too much of an asshole to see them. So, get better glasses.
-My friend Mikaila has sat with me in countless coffee shops as I overwhelmed her with questions and jokes about how Depends should come in thong form. We have vented to one another about our frustrations, drunk countless cups of phlegmy coffee, and checked in with one another each step of the way. It's actually pretty amazing.
-(third dash point,) KATIE.
Katie gets a simplistic dash point and no explanation because we had a conversation the other day that is nothing short of amazing. I called her in hidden tears. This means I was actually crying out of legitimate depression, but I practiced a cheery "HI!" before I called her so she would not think I was a weirdo.
Katie is this lovely and charming and gorgeous friend my father set me up with. She also happens to be one of the funniest women I know, which says a lot- since I think I am the funniest woman I know. Most importantly, she is a grad student at my school, but is nice enough to listen to my undergrad woes even though she needs to write, like, a fucking novel by the 16th.
This is our conversation:
Me: "Katieeeeee! HIIIIIIII!!!!!!!! How's the writing going?"
Katie: "Awful."
Me: (actually dissolving) "Oh God. Me too. Do you ever look at people on the street? Strangers? And you hate them? Because they are able to have friends and be normal and eat food in public and wear clothing other than pajamas?"
Katie: "Melissa, I actually became jealous of a girl I saw today. Because she looked cleaner than me."
Me: "Oh God. I forgot I haven't showered..."
Katie: "Do you think we'll get through this?"
Me: "Well. I made a lot of inappropriate suicide jokes today. About the hook on my ceiling. Wondering if it will hold my weight. WHICH IS BAD. I'M BEING BAD. What I am trying to say is...I don't know. Will we?"
Katie: "Yes. We will. And I've seen that hook. It's too small."
Most of you are probably thinking that I am a horrible human being for being so insensitive. But you know what? I feel...enlightened. In one week so much has been made clear to me. I'm smarter than I think, I have people in my life that I didn't even know were there...the hook in my living room ceiling can truly only support a plant...and I will get through this.
We all will. We are all up against something that seems impenetrable. Something that seems like it pushes back more than it gives in. I'm here to tell you that, YES. IT SUCKS AND IT WILL MAKE YOU HATE YOUR LIFE FOR AWHILE. But, somethings gotta give. You will get somewhere. You will make an imprint. And slowly but surely...you will be where you decide you need to be.
For me, right now...I only want to be on the other side. Maybe I am missing the point a bit...like I so often do in life. I'm all about the end result, so it's helpful for me to piece my life together in the odds and ends of the week that propelled me forward.
Those odds and ends? An unexpected friendship. Funny chats with Brett. Help and love and patience from an old friend. Laughter and $4.19 cookies with a new one. Wine, (obviously. Come on,) and trust and new beginnings and frustrated tears and thrown away cartridges of ink.
It's sort of the poetry of life, is it not?
Fucking Whitman would be proud.
Bastard.
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