(no subject)
Oct. 29th, 2006 04:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elizabethI can't feel my left hand.
I can't keep going through this. More to the point, I don't want to. I'm starting to really think that taking leave from school is a good idea -- I'm barely keeping my head above water academically, if that, and the health stuff (the depression and the thyroid issues) is starting to really frighten me. I don't think I can, though, because there's a maximum of eight semesters of financial aid, and there is no way my family can afford Barnard without serious finanicial aid. I don't think I can leave during this semester.
The only thing I can think of doing that might fix this is taking classes at Hudson Valley or Queens College, making up enough points that I wouldn't have to go through another five-and-a-half semesters here (including that fucking qualitative reasoning requirement, which has to be easier for me to handle at a community college than a place that prides itself on its "Ivy League" cred). I do like that idea, except for the part where I'd have to live either in North Hell, which, just, so much no, or with my grandparents, which is its own special kind of stress, but it's...I can handle it.
I'm just not sure if I'm panicking and not reacting maturely or if, well, you're all rolling your eyes and thinking, god, if I could've just reached through the screeen and smacked some sense into her weeks ago... (I don't actually think you're thinking that; if you are, can you not tell me, please?) and this is about as sensible as I've gotten in the last eight weeks.
I also don't know how to talk to my mother about this.
I don't know what to tell my therapist. The dean of studies I can handle, I can always cope with administration, but Dr. L knows me by now, which is a big part of why the last few therapy sessions have been so painful and difficult. I don't understand the way she thinks, actually, I can't always anticipate her, which is weird and unusual and scary as fuck, to be honest, which, strictly speaking, I am only within the confines of my own head a lot of the time, and not always there. I don't know what she's going to think. I don't know what questions I'm going to have to answer, and I hate going in blind.
I keep touching my left hand and thinking, if only this were okay, but it isn't, and it's not going to be okay, unless I'm the one to fix it.
That entry, the one that was an overreaction to the actual trigger (there was an email, I was afraid to open it, I wrote this; I was reacting to what I assumed the email would contain, which was a worst-case scenario rather than the actual contents, but that doesn't make what I wrote any the less true, unfortunately), is where I'm headed permanently unless I fix this.
I'm calling home. I need to talk to someone besides the inside of my head.
ETA: Aaaaand no one's picking up. Great.
ETA 2: OK, so, called home, cried a little, my mother was about 93% senstive, which is pretty good, and now I'm just left with a sick, heavy feeling in my chest, because I don't want to be this girl, and lying is easier than trying to fix it.
I know, that makes no sense, but I only make sense in fiction these days. Fixing it takes effort. Fixing it is painful. It's just simpler to lie.
Except, of course, that it isn't.
I need to talk to people -- the dean, Dr. L, disabilities -- and I want to sleep on it, but I may not -- I may --
I can't even say it.
I can't keep going through this. More to the point, I don't want to. I'm starting to really think that taking leave from school is a good idea -- I'm barely keeping my head above water academically, if that, and the health stuff (the depression and the thyroid issues) is starting to really frighten me. I don't think I can, though, because there's a maximum of eight semesters of financial aid, and there is no way my family can afford Barnard without serious finanicial aid. I don't think I can leave during this semester.
The only thing I can think of doing that might fix this is taking classes at Hudson Valley or Queens College, making up enough points that I wouldn't have to go through another five-and-a-half semesters here (including that fucking qualitative reasoning requirement, which has to be easier for me to handle at a community college than a place that prides itself on its "Ivy League" cred). I do like that idea, except for the part where I'd have to live either in North Hell, which, just, so much no, or with my grandparents, which is its own special kind of stress, but it's...I can handle it.
I'm just not sure if I'm panicking and not reacting maturely or if, well, you're all rolling your eyes and thinking, god, if I could've just reached through the screeen and smacked some sense into her weeks ago... (I don't actually think you're thinking that; if you are, can you not tell me, please?) and this is about as sensible as I've gotten in the last eight weeks.
I also don't know how to talk to my mother about this.
I don't know what to tell my therapist. The dean of studies I can handle, I can always cope with administration, but Dr. L knows me by now, which is a big part of why the last few therapy sessions have been so painful and difficult. I don't understand the way she thinks, actually, I can't always anticipate her, which is weird and unusual and scary as fuck, to be honest, which, strictly speaking, I am only within the confines of my own head a lot of the time, and not always there. I don't know what she's going to think. I don't know what questions I'm going to have to answer, and I hate going in blind.
I keep touching my left hand and thinking, if only this were okay, but it isn't, and it's not going to be okay, unless I'm the one to fix it.
That entry, the one that was an overreaction to the actual trigger (there was an email, I was afraid to open it, I wrote this; I was reacting to what I assumed the email would contain, which was a worst-case scenario rather than the actual contents, but that doesn't make what I wrote any the less true, unfortunately), is where I'm headed permanently unless I fix this.
I'm calling home. I need to talk to someone besides the inside of my head.
ETA: Aaaaand no one's picking up. Great.
ETA 2: OK, so, called home, cried a little, my mother was about 93% senstive, which is pretty good, and now I'm just left with a sick, heavy feeling in my chest, because I don't want to be this girl, and lying is easier than trying to fix it.
I know, that makes no sense, but I only make sense in fiction these days. Fixing it takes effort. Fixing it is painful. It's just simpler to lie.
Except, of course, that it isn't.
I need to talk to people -- the dean, Dr. L, disabilities -- and I want to sleep on it, but I may not -- I may --
I can't even say it.
Reposted from LJ, 20 March 2009
