It’s 3:20am, and I’m awake. I haven’t woken up in the middle of the night for a long time, and I don’t know what jarred me awake tonight.
Yesterday was difficult, but the end of the school day came and I had survived losing my mind. Then multiple students entered my room to stay for various reasons, a teacher too, all bombarding me with needs, and a meltdown could have easily happened. But I calmly triaged, and by 4:30 the students and teacher were gone. I never once gave in to my anxiety.
This time last year I battled depression. I gave some thought to this consistent timing of severe emotional distress, and it occurred to me that every major terrible thing in my life happened in the fall. That, coupled with the stress of the holidays—a five-week run of near hell—, is an ample and fitting reason for my current state.
Did I mention that a teacher got reassigned and I’ve taken over half of his precalulus classes? He taught only two, but the hyperbole is appropriate.
The doctor doubled my anxiety medication last week, or maybe it was the week before, and I got a lecture about substance addiction. The dose is still too low, but considering his deep concern over a possible dependency, I might not get another increase. Which means, golly, I don’t know.
I feel like writing that book on humanity. The timing feels right to start an outline at least. Start it with some history, and progress in real time with the meltdown of the world while referring back to more in-depth historical meltdowns. I can’t write it in story form as a parallel stream of events, as much as I’d like to. I don’t have the talent for fiction. I’ve never been comfortable with writing dialogue.
Wow, it’s 4:11. How did time pass so quickly?
My nerves are buzzing. Do I take another pill?
No. I’ll journal instead. I’ve been journaling, and I use all my colorful pens to do it with. The color helps.
Also, we have many expenses but it’s Christmas and I might insist on a treat to a 14,000-foot freefall. Soon.
It’s Friday, by the way.