Twenty Year Old Me Is An Idiot

I’ve spent most of my Saturday in bed. I woke up occasionally to blog (two posts today, lucky you… or not, depending on your opinion of this blog) and eat and add more layers of clothing until I could probably have gone skiing and not felt the cold.

I looked in my bathroom mirror at one point, and saw the face of somebody I knew but thought I had left behind, somebody who featured in this blog a long time ago, who I promised myself would not join me at university, but has probably been present more than I would have liked… I let my gaze rest upon the familiar sight of eyes sunk in their sockets and the huge grey shadows around them that would easily have looked at home on a panda; skin drained of all its colour, and lips so pale it was hard to see where they started – ill me. I looked rough, alarmingly so. There was no doubt left in my mind then that I have a serious problem – one that I can’t even face up to, let alone fix. But at that point my body was being called back to bed, my eyes couldn’t stay open and I didn’t have the energy left to stand staring at the reality of this sick person in the mirror, so I wrapped myself in the comfort of my denial, took my tablets, did an injection or two, curled up under the covers, and fell asleep to the sound of Roman Atwood vlogging (YouTube videos, for those of you who have no idea who or what a Roman Atwood vlog is).

I spent the day living off of crackers, tinned pineapple, and baked beans (obviously not all at the same time, I’m fatigued, not unable to taste). I didn’t have the energy or the imagination to cook, or to make another trip to the grossest student kitchen of all time, even though my room is literally opposite the kitchen door. I did cook for the first time in a week yesterday, which was an achievement that will probably not be repeated for a while.

This is pretty much the situation I was in when I started this blog, except at that point I was at home, snuggled up with a chocolate Labrador, and didn’t have to cook, because someone else made enough food to share around our family of four at least once a day. I also didn’t have to attend 9am lectures, or revise for exams, or sit through practical assesments, or try and deal with the death of my friend. So sleeping all day and watching YouTube videos (Julien Solomita vlogs and Jenna Marbles that time) worked pretty well for me, right up until I inevitably ended up in hospital because we decided that was a pretty lousy way to be spending all of my time.

My point is, this feeling isn’t new. It’s not pleasant, it means pretty bad things, but it isn’t new. I know that I don’t have to deal with it, so I won’t even try. I know it well enough to know what it means, to know what comes next.  I should be scared, I guess, but I have no need to be any more. The feeling I feared is here, and continuing to fear it will not allow me to escape it. My uni parent was right – such high levels of worry were unsustainable.

All I have to do is find a way to not get kicked out of university now, and to somehow study for my exams. And yet at the same time… That really doesn’t matter. Everything I was stressed about has melted away, because I don’t have the energy to worry about anything any more. All my thoughts focus on just getting out of the bed, or what I’m going to eat, or how far away the bathroom is (basically a metre or so from the end of my bed, but it feels like a mile).

Whenever things have gone wrong before I carried on not because I was strong but because that was pretty much the only thing to do. I rode out the fear, the pain, the loneliness, and whatever else was thrown at me not because I held on, but because I couldn’t get off of the ride. I always told myself this whenever people told me I was brave. My standard answer to “I couldn’t do this if I were you” was always “You couldn’t, but you would. You’d have no other option, this isn’t a choice I got to make.”  and then recently I completely lost sight of my own mentality. Don’t know when, don’t know how, just know that I did. Twenty year old me is an idiot… And she’s only ten days old.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s