The time is now 9:42PM. It’s only been a month since my last entry, but I can tell from the reactions that people are concerned. I apologize. I am currently charging my phone, three feet away from my friends who are studying diligently. The dorm room we’re habitating at the moment is far too warm for comfort, but we don’t complain. We just work. I feel that I should fill everyone in on what’s happened since I last wrote.
The day after, I had hit my lowest point. Looking back now, I was a bit childish. I suppose it was an act of exaggeration, but I wanted to let my mother know just how broken I was, or had been for years. This feeling that had been growing in the back of my throat was cracking. Basically, I refused to accept the fact that I’d have to drop classes and scared my mother in the process. Scared her so much that her friend payed last quarter’s balance to send me back to school.
Now don’t get me wrong, I am eternally grateful to be back in school, but I’m only a month in and I’m starting to feel anxious again. Even as I sit here and write this out, the wave of anxiety is rendering me breathless. This quarter balance is coming up quick and it’s triple the amount of before. My mother tries to assure me that I’ll be able to pay it, but it’s obvious that she’s exhausted. I’ve failed to get a job like I promised I would. To be fair, I’ve tried but it’s nearly impossible to work in the city when you have no means of transportation and a student workload that refuses to quit.
My friends begin to argue over cereal and whose metabolism is faster. Someone is singing a makeshift parody of Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance over the noise. “Caught in a Bad Hunger”. Sometimes I wonder.
I know that I made it back here for a reason. I know that I need to breathe and do whatever I can to stay for the sake of my friends. Had I killed myself last month, would my friends still meet up like this? In all honesty, my mental health is deteriorating. I know I need to talk to someone about all the shit that I’ve allowed to fester inside of me, but I can’t.
I keep telling myself that I’m not in a healthy position to be seeing a therapist frequently. The irony. I always imagine myself making appointments from my clean ass comfortable house that I pay for with a stable-ish job right after making appointments for my dog at the groomers. But how long will it take to get there? For me to reach that level of comfort?
I think that’s the true reason I haven’t killed myself yet.
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