Thursday, May 20, 2004
Picking up the Pieces
That's it. I made it through the end of this semester, the end of this school year, and maybe the end of the next year as well. There were times I thought I wouldn't make it. Drop a class? Take an incomplete? Have a nervous breakdown? Just do miserably in a class or two? They all seemed like viable options. The last week was intense, and that's an understatement. I don't know if I've ever worked so hard in my life. I put in 12 hours in the libraries for three days straight. I did write up those 25 pages. I did take those three exams in 24 hours. And the second I finished my last exam, I did meet my mom. I did give her a big hug. And without wasting a moment, together we did pack up all my belongings and left that university high above Cayuga's waters that very day.
I knew I'd feel amazingly free and unburdened once it was all over. But I also knew that transitioning into a drowsy, low-key, relaxed summer would be easier said than done. I had told people that my summer would be rehab, or a much needed therapy from the trauma that was this year so far. From brushing shoulders with the Democratic hopefuls to the White House on the campaign trail of the nation's first caucus in January, to conferences, to photoshoots, and to working through 21 credits at school. Don't get me wrong. I'm not upset or bitter. I don't think I'd trade these past 5 months for anything, but if they managed to do something to me, they drained me out like crazy.
I knew that the weeks upon end of four hours of sleep a night would catch up with me eventually. And eventually is now. Since I got back home on Sunday night, I've been sleeping a lot. The time I spend awake just flies by in a sort of semiconscious drowsiness. Snapshots, and headlines, and thoughts have been popping into my mind out of nowhere and disappearing just as quickly, leaving me perplexed. Bombs dropping, people dying, people condemning, people apologizing, nothing's changing. The student from my school who left around the time I did, who also packed his life into his car, who drove home with his mom on the same road I did with mine, who got into an accident and died. My sister who got into a car accident today. My dad who seems to be getting more sick each day, and the smell of his cigarette smoke that fills the house despite years of trying to get him to stop. The messy kitchen. My worried mother. The music that plays in the background all the while the clock keeps ticking, and the pieces keep shredding off, and the storyline becomes more and more fragmented.
I knew I'd feel amazingly free and unburdened once it was all over. But I also knew that transitioning into a drowsy, low-key, relaxed summer would be easier said than done. I had told people that my summer would be rehab, or a much needed therapy from the trauma that was this year so far. From brushing shoulders with the Democratic hopefuls to the White House on the campaign trail of the nation's first caucus in January, to conferences, to photoshoots, and to working through 21 credits at school. Don't get me wrong. I'm not upset or bitter. I don't think I'd trade these past 5 months for anything, but if they managed to do something to me, they drained me out like crazy.
I knew that the weeks upon end of four hours of sleep a night would catch up with me eventually. And eventually is now. Since I got back home on Sunday night, I've been sleeping a lot. The time I spend awake just flies by in a sort of semiconscious drowsiness. Snapshots, and headlines, and thoughts have been popping into my mind out of nowhere and disappearing just as quickly, leaving me perplexed. Bombs dropping, people dying, people condemning, people apologizing, nothing's changing. The student from my school who left around the time I did, who also packed his life into his car, who drove home with his mom on the same road I did with mine, who got into an accident and died. My sister who got into a car accident today. My dad who seems to be getting more sick each day, and the smell of his cigarette smoke that fills the house despite years of trying to get him to stop. The messy kitchen. My worried mother. The music that plays in the background all the while the clock keeps ticking, and the pieces keep shredding off, and the storyline becomes more and more fragmented.
