Wednesday, March 18, 2009
the film hangs thickly even after i've put on my glasses, and my eyes roll off the board, across, the page, out of the room, and into me. where i'm sitting on a bench drowning in snow turned ice turned freezing rain, turned inundation. noggin, nanog, PAX 6. (fry). SB431542, SMAD, iPSCs (zap). wiki, moodle, webmail (nothing). chart, powerlab, axiovision, excel (i left yesterday). F, F, F, F+ (A-), F, F+ (B) (they're all the same. degrees of failure. explanations of waste).
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
hyperreactivity
I've always been one to put too little stock in chronicity. On early March days when the temperature skyrockets to thirty-eight degrees and the sound of icicles dissolving into rivulets around my feet seems to follow me everywhere, I somehow convince myself winter has passed--only to wake up the next morning and slip on the rivulet-turned-black-ice.
I go a week, thinking my winged scapula has miraculously fixed itself, somehow receding into the depths of my flesh (like most people's) until stress sets in, and I can barely sleep for the discomfort of the nasty thing.
Anxiety takes its break from me, for sometimes an hour, sometimes two, and I feel as though I have all the control I can hope to muster over my surroundings. But precisely at hour three, or 1:00 a.m. (whichever comes first), my chest tightens, I reach for a paper bag, and my sternum pops with the utter fear of it all.
Caffeine flooding my system becomes a necessity, because it masks something frighteningly close to tachycardia. I'm agitated because the stuff's coursing through me, and the stuff's nothing more than those three cups of coffee or that gallon of diet coke. No, I'm fine. Ask me tomorrow, and the jitters will be gone, my heart will no longer be racing, I'll be back to my normal self--well, the self you understood at least to be my normal self. Chronicity? No way. I'm only reaching for the brown paper bag just now, only today. The fear won't be here tomorrow--I'll have established control by then.
My nervous system will calm down. I won't jump at the crack of a knuckle or the click of a pen; there's no chance I'll snap at the sniffer or glare daggers at the whisperers; as for the slamming of drawers and the loud intake of breath, I could ignore them if I wanted to (really).
oh, one day, one day, this world won't be too much.
I go a week, thinking my winged scapula has miraculously fixed itself, somehow receding into the depths of my flesh (like most people's) until stress sets in, and I can barely sleep for the discomfort of the nasty thing.
Anxiety takes its break from me, for sometimes an hour, sometimes two, and I feel as though I have all the control I can hope to muster over my surroundings. But precisely at hour three, or 1:00 a.m. (whichever comes first), my chest tightens, I reach for a paper bag, and my sternum pops with the utter fear of it all.
Caffeine flooding my system becomes a necessity, because it masks something frighteningly close to tachycardia. I'm agitated because the stuff's coursing through me, and the stuff's nothing more than those three cups of coffee or that gallon of diet coke. No, I'm fine. Ask me tomorrow, and the jitters will be gone, my heart will no longer be racing, I'll be back to my normal self--well, the self you understood at least to be my normal self. Chronicity? No way. I'm only reaching for the brown paper bag just now, only today. The fear won't be here tomorrow--I'll have established control by then.
My nervous system will calm down. I won't jump at the crack of a knuckle or the click of a pen; there's no chance I'll snap at the sniffer or glare daggers at the whisperers; as for the slamming of drawers and the loud intake of breath, I could ignore them if I wanted to (really).
oh, one day, one day, this world won't be too much.
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