i am not sure what’s wrong with me.
i am very, very VERY frustrated with myself right now.
i have a lot of little things due in the next week…as 8 days until i graduate gets closer, and closer, and closer…

i have a 2-page paper to write. i meant to write it yesterday: nothing. i have been trying to write it today: and i’ve done everything but. i sit down in front of the computer and deal with this choking tight ball of panicky nausea every time i do.

on my desk is a ceramic wineglass filled with cigarettes, a bottle of bach’s rescue remedy, my book. i’ve read the fucking play twice, i’ve made the notes, the essay was due almost a month and a half ago (luckily my prof is the most understanding woman in the universe).

i know i can do this work. i know i’m smart enough, i’m disciplined enough, i’m ambitious enough…

i’m wigging out, plain and simple. wigging out.

for me, going to university has taught me a lot about my personal demons, and what i actually want out of life. i sure as hell wanted to go back…i had enough people telling me i shouldn’t waste the money because i was only going to drop out again, when i informed them i was moving here. i love learning. i love being inspired by discussions, and feeling things percolate, and getting my ideas affirmed by my peers. (i’m a geek, i know it.)

i’ve also learned that i’m terrified, in lots of ways, of change. that i’m more submissive in taking part in my destiny than i’d like to be. what i mean by that is that i don’t exactly know what i’m going to do without a framework…without being told what to write, for example, will i write anything at all? i didn’t before.
i am not disciplined enough. i let things go to seed in my apartment (sometimes literally). i don’t mind sleeping on a bare mattress, underneath my duvets.

i take obscene care of my skin, and it bothers me that i cannot find my floss.

all these things don’t matter! i’m scared and i have no idea what i’m writing.

in the past few years, ever since the hobbit and i split, i’ve found more and more reasons not to hand things in. in my shakespeare class last year, i didn’t hand in the biggest paper. in my prose workshop, also last year, for one of my assignments i handed in an old story that i’d written in high school, because i was dealing with this. somehow, i’ve gotten here. there’s 8 days left and i’m getting immobilized.

am i scared of succeeding? am i scared of my life? what the hell is going on with me? in me?

i don’t even know if i would have published anything in the last week, if it hadn’t been for nablopomo.

i just…i don’t know what i need.