"I Don't Paint Anymore"

“And the dawn don’t rescue me no more.” - The Band, “It Makes No Difference”

. . . 44 days . . .

Well, another day down. I woke up this morning (and I wrote down this song . . . no, just kidding). I woke up and wanted to roll over and hide. At least tonight Lost is on, so I’ll have something to watch while I’m packing. I managed to find a public notary yesterday, so I’m all set to send in all my bar stuff. I am really tired. And hungry. And fat. And miserable. Etc, etc, blah blah blah; “Shut up and stop complaining,” I can hear it now.

My blog is kind of running dry and I do not have an adequate explanation regarding why except for the obvious: it’s an extension of my general lack of inspiration and fruitfulness. As Ali says in The Notebook, “I don’t paint anymore.” “So paint,” her clueless fiancée replies stupidly. “I will,” she says, but to enact the change, something in her life has to fundamentally change first. She basically rerouted her entire existence. I bring it up only because that’s the movie I fell asleep to last night. I think tonight I’ll try Monsters, Inc. I wish I could go back in time to the beginning of the semester and kick myself into gear so I was thin and normal by the time spring break rolled around, so I could have been all enthusiastic about Florida and supremely enjoyed my time there. Then I could have been totally rejuvenated when I returned to school on Monday instead of being a giant blob with no hope and a surplus of frustration. I also have an explosion of pimples across my nose and cheeks, the only explanation for which is an excess of popsicles or gum (whatever the sugarfree component is causes whiteheads to proliferate with exuberance.) Wow, do I despise myself. And I just don’t know what to do. I’m too exhausted to do anything, but maybe that’s just depression. I almost miss my panic attacks, because at least then I was always running, always propelled, always inspired to do something, anything, whatever was expected of me. Now it’s all I can do to wash my laundry at night, although I gather not many people like doing laundry, so maybe I’m not alone in my abhorrence.

The Shadow Holds Sway . . .

“Night or day, the shadow never seems to fade away
And the sun don’t shine anymore, and the rains fall down on my door.”
- The Band, “It Makes No Difference”

. . . 45 days . . .

I don’t know what my problem is today. I got seven hours of sleep, so I should be fine, but I feel hung over (I think... I’ve never actually been hung over, but my current state seems quite similar to how I’ve heard one described). Lethargic, dizzy, thumping pulse, throbbing head, dizzy, fatigued, faint, did I mention dizzy?

It’s almost time for my Witness course to end and I’m going to try and walk this evening, although I would rather do just about anything else. Almost - not organic chemistry homework or babysitting. Huh - now that I think about it, maybe I’m hungry? I haven’t eaten since some zucchini this morning (don’t knock it - it’s my favorite food, followed closely by steamed broccoli and red delicious apples). How did I used to get through the day on naught except a few shots of espresso? Oh, yeah - the dreaded eating habit. sigh. Back to square one. I read online that an eating disorder is harder to kick than a smoking or drinking habit and I’m beginning to believe it. I wish . . . I dunno. I’m not even sure what would make me happy at this point. I can’t think of anything. I guess my myopic interpretation of my current situation is just the product of fatigue and depression, but it’s pathetic nevertheless.

Things Are Going Swimmingly

“Ashes of laughter, the ghost is clear;
Why do the best things always disappear?”
- The Band, “Ophelia”

. . . 46 days . . .

Adding insult to injury regarding my PR course, I just found out the exam is on a Saturday. The nerve! So I have one the evening of the 2nd (Real Estate- on a Friday, natch), one the morning of the 3rd (PR), one the evening of the 7th (™) and one the morning of the 8th (Complex Litigation). I feel like I’m dying today. I got up this morning to walk and kind of stumbled about for fifty minutes before giving up ten minutes before scheduled. Sigh. This sounds stupid but I wish Gilmore Girls were still on, so I had something to look forward to. Alternately, I hope I can pull myself together so I don’t have to hang myself. The prospect is becoming more and more imminent. I managed to fall asleep last night at 10:30, then woke up when Mom called about 11:15 and couldn’t go back to sleep until 2, then got up at 7.

Later... I am so tired. My head is pounding. I look at a page in my Real Estate book and the words begin to swirl and swim to the point that I have to read and re-read every portion I attempt to ingest. I don’t know how I’m going to make it through exams. I stand up and this strange feeling starts flowing through me, which I can only verbalize as a “whooshing” feeling, as though all my blood has rushed to pool in my feet and leave the rest of me to fumble about like a wobbly plastic mannequin. Is any of this making sense? Are my sentences even coherent? My thoughts keep escaping me.

Seven Weeks

“If you find me in a gloom or catch me in a dream,
inside my lonely room there is no in between.”
- “Whispering Pines,” The Band
...47 days...

I am so bummed. I opened the door to my wonderful, expensive apartment last night and this giant, dark cloud descended, like the one that hovers over Eeyore but much more permeable and persistent. There’s absolutely no reason for it. I have a job and a future and (providing I don’t fail out this semester) an education that could get me somewhere if I make it past thirty. Ugh. I really, really, really don’t want to deal with the next seven weeks. It’s so short a time and all the problems are in my mind, which makes the inescapable and almost impossible to contend with. And I’m dreading graduation rather than looking forward to it because I look so horrid. I wish I could go back to last year at this time and redo all my mistakes. I should have spent the summer in a job I liked, working for my parents, rather than one I loathed that still plagues me. And I shouldn’t have let myself fall apart to this extent. Stupid idiot. Well, off to another day. I wish I were sitting in the lobby of the Grand Floridian.

The Shape I'm In

“This living alone will drive me crazy. . . Oh, you don’t know the shape I’m in.”
- Robbie Robertson / The Band

I’m in my dreaded PR course and concurrently dreading the MPRE tomorrow. I’m also not looking forward to my four-hour drive home tonight, my weekend of requisite starvation, or any other facet of my existence save graduation (if I don’t fail out). I guess such is the impact of clinical depression combined with sleep deprivation. Talk about a dangerous Molotov cocktail to the psyche. I just want to find a corner somewhere, lie down and sleep underground (an extension of the ostrich inclination). I woke up this morning at 5 and couldn’t fall back asleep, so I went into the kitchen and assembled another box of styrofoam peanuts that resolutely clutch my arms and fingers. I now have all my dishes packed . . . as I was assiduously bubble-wrapping my precious Alice in Wonderland-themed plates, I realized that in the past two and a half years, I had not used them once. Not even when Dad came to visit - we must have gone out to eat - or when Ali came to visit - she had a dinner packed that she brought with her. Strange. They’re so beautiful, though, so I guess preservation is an accomplishment. It’s kind of sad to see everything get packed away, but not really. I’m just realizing how much crap I have accumulated over the years - I’ll take anything, as the joke goes, so now I have to figure out what to do with it all. Sigh.

I can’t believe there’s one week until Spring Break, and I haven’t progressed any from my psychological low point. How stupid. This MPRE has been absorbing all my efforts that I should have been funneling into myself and pulling myself together. What a moron. Well, at least tomorrow it’s over and I’ll be “free” to focus on my demons. . . at least momentarily, before the exam crunch.

We have two marred guest speakers today, and they are two of the most boring individuals I’ve ever met. I pray to God I never turn out like that. I can’t even fathom such an existence.

Florida:
Want to see: the renovated Haunted Mansion, the renovated Spaceship Earth, the Flower Festival-decorated EPCOT
Want to do: get Dad on Soarin’ and Ali on the Rockin’ Roller Coaster if she’s so inclined (my beloved Tower of Terror might still be too much)
Want to get: a Ratatouille pin, a new Mickey watch and, most of all, a new attitude and a replenished motivation to pull myself together.

Any Day Now . . .

“I see my light come shining from the west unto the east. Any day now, any day now, I shall be released.”
- Bob Dylan, as immortalized by The Band

. . . 66 Days . . .

There’s a guy online who just graduated from Columbia law school and, just as I titled my blog the “Cell Block Tango,” he calls his “Three Years of Hell to Become the Devil: Life at Columbia.” I think mine slightly more symbolic and less acerbic, but who am I to say?

I was feeling really down yesterday so I pulled out my two old standbys: Monty Python and The Last Waltz. I watched one of my favorite Python discs... “The clarity is devastating. But where is the ambiguity? It’s over there, in a box.” I love the Pythons. Absolute geniuses (Cleese - law, Chapman - medicine and Idle - English from Cambridge; Palin - history and Jones - English from Oxford, and the token American Gilliam - political science from Occidental College, with Chapman becoming a certified but ultimately non-practicing doctor) and certifiable geniuses in their own right. They are so brilliant, all of them; even Gilliam. Although I have never particularly cared for his cartoons, he proved his abilities on several occasions, appearing in several sketches with brilliance (“The Spanish Inquisition” and as Che Gueverra in “World Forum,” in particular). But I digress.

I’ve been not sleeping all week and feeling horrid but I researched last night what happens if I fail the MPRE this weekend and it turns out you can take it as many times as you want. I’ve read online about people who have failed the thing five or six times (considering it costs $60 rather than the Bar’s $950) and seem utterly blasé about the whole thing. Not that I should follow their example, but it’s just nice to know it’s not the be-all and end-all. Maybe I should have even waited until August to take it in the first place. Hmm. I just need to calm the hell down... since I’m so adept at that.