Not feeling upset right now makes me awfully suspicious. I feel like maybe I finally caffeinated myself enough to numb everything out, but there must be some sort of tension boiling beneath the surface. There’s got to be.
For the past week, I’ve been fixing up my life. About two weeks ago, I dropped off the face of the earth, huddled up in my Mather single for five straight days, and ignored all obligations — work, class, friends, everything. You could say that I finally crashed and burned as expected. Since then, I’ve been reborn not unlike a phoenix, was kicked out of a club bearing the same name, and have attempted to undo the damage of my depression-induced sloth. I have also drank and slept a lot.
So far, my strategy of being too busy to mope is working. I write to-do lists I never check off. I owe IvyGate a blog entry, the Crimson a short article, and H-Bomb a book proposal. I have two papers due in less than a week. I am supposed to launch two PR campaigns by year’s end. Who has time to worry? I don’t have time for makeup.
I have also been self-medicating with coffee, boys, and shopping. I never drank so much coffee in my life. I started this year. The past week has brought seven cups of joe, two and a half hookups, and $650 in shopping expenses. I don’t know if I really needed any of the preceding to stay sane. Was it necessary to rack up hundreds in charges or to artificially induce a Ritalin-high? Would I be any worse off if I didn’t? And in order to self-medicate, don’t I need to be sick? Right now, I’m neither sad nor happy so I find myself with a perplexing problem — I don’t know if I actually need a cure.
But I shouldn’t speak too soon. After all, the weekend is here and I am fully prepared for late week depression. Over dinner Tuesday night, I told my sophomore adviser (coincidentally, a psychiatrist at Massachusetts General Hospital) that I go through ups and downs during the week. From Monday through Thursday, I am too busy to be sad. But come Thursday evening, the drinking begins and my mood takes a dip. Inevitably, I wake up a bit sadder for each of the next three mornings.
I am trying to finish all my work so I can go to New York next week. Ideally, I take off Sunday evening. I don’t care what it takes, I don’t care if I spend Thanksgiving alone, I need to get out of here.
And before someone beats me to the punch, I acknowledge that I have given into blogging before my self-declared hiatus ends. I can’t help it. I crave it like a drug. There’s a constant hunger to be understood, and I’m convinced that I can’t find that understanding at Harvard. I’ve been feeling disconnected lately and I spent last night missing writing, the only thing that has ever made me feel close to being understood. Lately, it has kept me functioning even as my sanity has unraveled. How do I turn my back on something like that?
Dinner now with Vix. Long overdue. Then Happy Hour with my frosh and HN. This weekend has possibilities I don’t want to face.