I am not well. I am aware of this. I ponder my unwell-ness so constantly, so frequently, that it’s become a low song that constantly plays in the back of my mind. I think about it in bed, late at night when the light from the streetlamps dapple the walls of my room, quiet and unobtrusive. Unlike my thoughts.
I am afraid. I am afraid of who I have become, and I am afraid that I may not be able to get back to the person that I was before. I know that people change with time, and I get that. But my change in nature has been so drastic and so unexpected that I am overcome with fear.
I used to be one of those annoying twenty-somethings who dream of changing the world – in a small way, of course. I wasn’t entirely overcome with the delusions of youth. Encountering death in my family changed that.
All of a sudden I was blanketed in this thick miasma of “who cares”? Why strive to help change the world? What matters when a person you love is dead? I don’t know. I have no answers. Right now I’m in this program, and I’m going to finish it because that’s what I’m supposed to do. But I have been disappointed with my work as a student, and it is not a pleasant feeling. It’s a feeling that bubbles over and simmers and sticks to the sides of the pot. Can’t scrub it away, really.
To be honest, I’m not back yet. It’s been months, but I haven’t made it back. It’s been a terrible battle. I don’t know if I’ll ever be back. Most days I think I’ve peaked and I’m just hurtling downwards. And it’s a terrible thing to be lost when you’ve been convinced for the past few years that you’ve found your path.