I’m not going to tell you he wasn’t meant for you; he was. But there are more. There are many more who are meant for you. You met the one that was right for you for that time. He was right for you, then. But there are many more who are meant for you, now.
…
There are three things that we are running out of: land, air, and water. We’re not going to get anymore. We’re just not.
The original: 130: 10 Steps on How to Stay Calm
The last time I got my wish was the day my fish died. Poor Killian Jones.
My fish died of what I assume was a heart attack from being unable to escape the net when cleaning his tank. My dad and sister had been visiting and told me I needed to clean his tank. It was pretty dank, but I can’t help blaming them for his death. At first, I thought he was still alive. His thin fin was still twitching. I waited probably ten minutes to see if he would turn back over, walking in and out of the bathroom every thirty seconds. Although now given my knowledge of myosin motors, that was probably just rigor mortis.
You’re probably wondering what my wish was.
I think I’m not going to tell you. Yet.
I talk too much about myself.
This word of the day was too easy. I’m sitting in yet another coffee shop—this time the classic Starbucks since it opens at 6:30 AM—doing work of some variation. I’m wearing a sweatshirt with no bra; you can see my nipples. I’m wearing my mom’s leggings; you can see panty lines. Finals are going well.
I’ve already taken my physics exam and received 0.3 above the minimum for the letter grade that I want. I’m studying biochemistry at the moment, writing in a Rhodia notebook with a sepia tone pen. I’m boujee, remember?
I always go back to this time last year. This time last year during finals week, I got mono and passed out on the floor in my dorm room. I had to be taken to the hospital by EMS. I was afraid of what could be wrong. And behold, I had mono. I attribute the kissing disease to “wet week” a month and a half prior.
I did absolutely horrible on my finals last year. Many of those grades bumped me even lower than I already had (cough, cough—genetics). Being hospitalized earlier in the month and now being sick, I had to take incompletes on my final papers. I had a ton of fun doing those over the summer. Woo hoo.
Now, I’m sitting cross-legged on a wooden chair at a table with my study materials sprawled out ready to get another dirty chai. I finally feel capable for finals week. Like my pen-stained pencil case says, “just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly…”
I’ve found myself stuck in a maze for the past two weeks. I don’t know where I’m supposed to go. At the moment, I’m sipping a matcha latte and staring at a shelf full of Jose Cuervo. I’ve found a new place that I can inhabit. It’s a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop a block away from my apartment. It has orange and white striped walls and tiny wooden tables accompanied by chairs clad in floral padded seats. It’s quite nice.
However, I still don’t know where I get out of this maze. I’ve made many varied attempts. I hung out with the same Jose Cuervo this past Saturday night and made friends with a flattened hamburger on my floor. I immersed myself in Sense8 and pasta with solely Parmesan cheese instead of watching a rightfully underrated musical group perform. Despite these varied measures, I still don’t feel like I’ve found the exit of this feeling: one of sadness and confusion about such sadness.
Someone once told me to think of the unknown causes of emotions this way: imagine a man standing on a bridge with water below. His pants are on fire. He doesn’t know why his pants are on fire. He tries to think back to whether he was smoking or if there was a fire nearby. But he shouldn’t do that. He should just jump into the damn water and put out the fire on his pants.
I know this will pass. “This too shall pass,” my grandma always tells me. I hate that saying; she says it too damn much. I also hate “everything happens for a reason.” Sure things need to have some root cause, but you can’t always know the reason. Sometimes you just need to do keep on trying doing something good for you now and think about the cause later. Sometimes you just need to jump in the water.
What is the opposite of a kiss?
I find the opposite of a kiss to be indifference. To be purely disinterested and detached. To not have a care at all for that mouth that was once on yours. To not have a care that he or she deleted you. To even not have a care that he or she doesn’t look as good as once before.
All because you didn’t even really care in the first place.
But this indifference cannot exist without the kiss. That kiss, that connection, that attraction. With the knowledge these are possible, indifference doesn’t come so hard.
What is the opposite of a kiss?
(What were we talking about again?)
via See Jane Write: 365 Blog Post Ideas and Writing Prompts
I talked about how this time last year I was hospitalized for severe depression (in Who I am Not). My favorite uncle had recently passed from colon cancer in April. School was hard for me, between counting thousands of flies and writing out organic chemistry reactions. It was easy for my anxiety to take over and send me into a depression.
It was after my sorority’s formal that I intentionally stepped in front of a moving car. I told my therapist and she suggested that I go to the hospital. I told my mom and soon her and my father were up at school, ready to take me home.
After the hospital, I spent the summer in an intensive outpatient program. With five hours a day, five days a week, there was barely any time for me to enjoy myself. Not like I could remember what I enjoyed doing.
Even last semester, I entered into a two week depression. Taking forever to leave my bed, forgetting how many days it had been since I had showered, failing to reach out to even my closest of friends. It was all so hard for me to even think about.
Despite all that I have gone through in the past year, I am now in good place. I’ve regained my characteristic motivation. I am motivated to do well in my classes, reach out to friends and family, and do the things I know remember that I love.
This time last year, sitting in the psychiatric ward at the cafeteria tables looking out at the rain, I would’ve said I’ve been better. But now, looking at those same water droplets hit the Ithaca soil, I can say I am better.
Elizabeth Lacey Writing 