On the morning of my beloved gal's birthday, I got up bright and early, ready to tackle the day, but as I was halfway through the apartment parking lot to my vehicle, I turned around and headed back home as if I had no other choice. This has never happened this semester, especially after all of the initial roadblocks that threatened the chance of me even attending school in the first place. Therefore, I attended every class I could, all the time there was no excuse and has not been an excuse to be absent yet.

Yet on this day, I walked back inside, hat and jacket still on, and buried the front part of my body into the mattress. And sank. It was already peculiar enough that I had noticed myself getting into the fetal position and facing the wall while in bed so frequently as of late. Reminds me of the final scene in Aronofsky's "Requiem for a Dream," where all of the main characters are pictured lying in the fetal position, as if reverting back into a child like sate of dependency on whatever their vice was that ultimately led to their respective fates.

I had been doing so well for what seemed like quite a while. I am on track to make Dean's list. I am balancing schoolwork with work, military obligations, my music career, and a social life that consists of my few best friends (primarily my girlfriend) and my pet cat, Atlas.

I mean, I finished my paper last night. Or so I thought. Upon reviewing the guidelines, I noticed that I missed a few of the criteria. I felt devastated by such a small defeat. This wasn't going to make or break my final average. Yet it was such a small upset that threw me over the wall of silent patience that I had become so familiar with.

I lost it, just 20 minutes before I was supposed to leave the house. I could feel like solar plexus tightening up as well as the muscles in my face as I starting weeping like I haven't for years. This particularly reminded me of the move to Tennessee, where after that my grades began slipping, and I knew my parents expected much more, and I broke down in my bedroom, so angry at myself for not living up to expectations that felt so out of reach.

And now I was in the same circumstances, except a decade later... crying hysterically into my hands while Cait attempts to console me, telling me that I'm much stronger than I give myself credit for.

I believe her. And just because I feel very weak in this moment of time doesn't mean that I'm actually leaning a lot from this experience. I do believe that it takes pushing yourself beyond your limits in order to recover more fully than ever before. Like progressive overload for the mind, body and spirit. And I had been doing just that, pushing myself beyond my limits without realizing it.

Everything was catching up to me. I realized that I did what I said I wouldn't do in taking out student loans. I also had unreseolved parking tickets. An outstanding balance due to the school by the end of the semester. Rent due in a few days. Typical stuff right?

Wonder how everyone else is staying afloat so easily? Sometime I get even more upset that whenever I log onto social media between all of the ignorant arguments and clickbait articles, there are tons of self diagnosed anxious and depressed people around my age, and I'm not quite sure if they understand the scope of it. It's almost like they are glorifying the experience, romanticizing it in a way that would make the most hipster Tumblr girl G-eazy fans proud. No offense.

But maybe that in itself is just a symptom of anxiety. I'm skeptical of many things. I'm sketical of myself, ultimately. I get anxious when introduced to new people while I am already anxious. It seems like such a critical and a nitpick way to live. What do I do, withdraw from society unless the peple who interact with me never do anything to trigger my discomfort? No way. That's now how it works. Yet I don't know how it works.

I don't have the health insurance or money to go get diagnosed for the disorders that I know I must have and have had since childhood. Yet I also don't want to wear anxiety like a fad, because that's how it has become. In many ways. I don't want to wear the same shirt over and over again without washing it.

I don't want something like that to define me, and so I never will let it define me. But it feels like I'm taking a swig of vinegar when I exhale some days. I cut my hair in hopes that some of the dark thoughts are... hiding..... hah this is silly... in my hair?

I clean my room until I can see my shadow's reflection in the carpet, as a matter of fact, I bleach tabletops so throughly that that sentence starts to make complete sense.

One thing I will not do in the midst of not knowing what to do , however, is run. I know that these episodes and feelings and confusions are necessary in order for me to have the illustrious life that deserves to be captured in song and poetry and moving pictures.

And that's where the relief is. That's where the proofreading happens on this big turn in date. All of the red pen marks and scribbles that show up are some of the most necessary things about it all.

So I will keep writing, and I will continue because I am capable of self healing.

What I'm trying to say is, you are too. Don't forget to slow down and take the breaks you deserve. And it's OK to revel in your weak moments, and embrace your vulnerability, even if you're only vulnerable to yourself and no one else.

If there are those who are genuinely concerened, let them try to hlep.