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Itsenäisyyspäivä, 1. osa
Dec. 11th, 2010 03:35 pmI know it's long past due for another post... a lot has happened and I'm still slowly digesting it. So in order to satisfy inquiring minds, here's a brief account of events. I'll unpack more philosophically in a later post.
I actually need to back up a little bit before the time of the previous post.
Saturday morning I stepped up my medication a couple of days sooner than my doctor had told me to, because my physical and mood aspects of my anxiety had gone back to pre-medication levels. I still felt awful about the fact that I'd gone about the self-evaluation that I'd written on Wednesday night the wrong way, and that I'd have to completely rewrite it. Also something that my teacher had said on Friday about my "lack of commitment and initiative in the school community really makes it obvious that you don't want to be here" or something like that really got me down.
I spent most of Saturday in bed. In the evening, I discussed with my roommates C and K the options I felt like I had: press onward through the next two weeks, or stop now, heal myself, and figure out life on my own. I also talked to some other people, and in the end opinions seemed a half-half split between the two -- older people in support of pushing on and younger people in support of saving my sanity. I told my roommates that I'd think about it.
"It's not really about Finland anymore, it's about finding peace in my heart. 'Finland' is just the name I gave to that peace."
Saturday night, approximately 2AM, I awoke, the pain in my chest a lot stronger than it had ever been. It felt like someone had punched me in the sternum, and I cried and howled in anguish for a while, pondered the idea of checking into the hospital (but then how would I make it to the performance?!), then fell back asleep.
When I woke up Sunday morning, I felt a bit better but not much. I broke my 37-hour fast with a massive bowl of oatmeal. Eventually in the afternoon I resolved to get my evaluation thing rewritten and it actually didn't take too long to do. There was left a couple of lesson plans to do for Monday, but I didn't want to think about them until my performance that evening was over.
At the performance I wanted to be excited. I wanted to be happy. It was kind of fun. The crowd was modest. It was a little scary to be singing alone at first, but as I noticed how the sound (from microphone) echoed around the chamber, I really wished I could fully enjoy the moment and spend the night savouring the memory of that moment.
But I couldn't, I knew. Gravely I went to collect my coat and things, while everyone else was cheerful, giving themselves pats on the back. I asked them to pray for me, that I'd survive the next week of work. I went home and just went to bed, too drained to do anything else.
In the middle of the night, I woke, sobbing. The all-too-familiar chest pain was back again, not as badly as Saturday night, but it gave me pause. Thoughts went through my mind: I've been to the emergency room before. Where was that door again? How much stuff should I bring? A change of clothes? Would they even take me?
Restless, I must have fallen back asleep because I got out of bed at around 5. I didn't want to think about fractions or ratios, and there was no way you could have made me think about them.
At this point I knew that my decision had been made. It was now or never. At 7:30 I called my UF and told him that I'd struggled and put up a good fight, but that I wasn't coming back. "You didn't put up a good fight, it was a great fight. I would urge you to reconsider, but it's already too late, isn't it?" he asked. He said that he would let my teacher know and also talk to the other 'boss' at the university about it and make sure everything's done according to protocol.
Part of this protocol requires me to visit my counselor/psychologist, so I went to her office the moment it opened at 9AM to make an appointment. The earliest she could see me was 11, so I hung around in the library, filling out Christmas cards, until then...
I got a phone call setting up an appointment with a psychiatrist for Friday. As far as I've heard, that is an unusually quick turnaround for such things (since it normally takes at least a month for the referral to go through and an opening found).
Then a stranger sat himself down at the library table, across from me. He introduced himself and asked me what I studied. I told him that I was actually just waiting right now for an appointment at the office to drop out of Education. He asked me why, and eventually he was telling me about the struggles he had had with drug addiction and anxiety, and the things he did when in treatment, like art therapy. I thought it was interesting, kind of serendipitous, even...
I emailed my teacher to thank her for working with me, and she said that although she was disappointed in my decision, it was not entirely unexpected, echoing my words that "it was a difficult decision, but an inevitable one."
I hadn't eaten again since Sunday morning. In the evening I hung around with another friend and stuffed my face full with chicken nuggets and potato, almost until I was sick. When I'd pulled on my jeans that morning, I'd noticed that I had lost a couple of inches around my waist -- eating almost nothing but a package of crackers five days a week and a restaurant or fast food meal or two on the weekend will do that do you.
Tuesday morning I woke up feeling completely normal. (Well, as "normal" as I'm used to living for the last number of years of my life.) So normal that I almost forgot to take my medication. It was like suddenly, all that fear, all that anxiety, all the pain was gone. I brought Eva with me to the school in the afternoon to return the textbooks I'd borrowed. On the way, a couple of students recognized me; it was kind of a weird feeling...
Well, I guess that's all I really want to say right now...
I actually need to back up a little bit before the time of the previous post.
Saturday morning I stepped up my medication a couple of days sooner than my doctor had told me to, because my physical and mood aspects of my anxiety had gone back to pre-medication levels. I still felt awful about the fact that I'd gone about the self-evaluation that I'd written on Wednesday night the wrong way, and that I'd have to completely rewrite it. Also something that my teacher had said on Friday about my "lack of commitment and initiative in the school community really makes it obvious that you don't want to be here" or something like that really got me down.
I spent most of Saturday in bed. In the evening, I discussed with my roommates C and K the options I felt like I had: press onward through the next two weeks, or stop now, heal myself, and figure out life on my own. I also talked to some other people, and in the end opinions seemed a half-half split between the two -- older people in support of pushing on and younger people in support of saving my sanity. I told my roommates that I'd think about it.
"It's not really about Finland anymore, it's about finding peace in my heart. 'Finland' is just the name I gave to that peace."
Saturday night, approximately 2AM, I awoke, the pain in my chest a lot stronger than it had ever been. It felt like someone had punched me in the sternum, and I cried and howled in anguish for a while, pondered the idea of checking into the hospital (but then how would I make it to the performance?!), then fell back asleep.
When I woke up Sunday morning, I felt a bit better but not much. I broke my 37-hour fast with a massive bowl of oatmeal. Eventually in the afternoon I resolved to get my evaluation thing rewritten and it actually didn't take too long to do. There was left a couple of lesson plans to do for Monday, but I didn't want to think about them until my performance that evening was over.
At the performance I wanted to be excited. I wanted to be happy. It was kind of fun. The crowd was modest. It was a little scary to be singing alone at first, but as I noticed how the sound (from microphone) echoed around the chamber, I really wished I could fully enjoy the moment and spend the night savouring the memory of that moment.
But I couldn't, I knew. Gravely I went to collect my coat and things, while everyone else was cheerful, giving themselves pats on the back. I asked them to pray for me, that I'd survive the next week of work. I went home and just went to bed, too drained to do anything else.
In the middle of the night, I woke, sobbing. The all-too-familiar chest pain was back again, not as badly as Saturday night, but it gave me pause. Thoughts went through my mind: I've been to the emergency room before. Where was that door again? How much stuff should I bring? A change of clothes? Would they even take me?
Restless, I must have fallen back asleep because I got out of bed at around 5. I didn't want to think about fractions or ratios, and there was no way you could have made me think about them.
At this point I knew that my decision had been made. It was now or never. At 7:30 I called my UF and told him that I'd struggled and put up a good fight, but that I wasn't coming back. "You didn't put up a good fight, it was a great fight. I would urge you to reconsider, but it's already too late, isn't it?" he asked. He said that he would let my teacher know and also talk to the other 'boss' at the university about it and make sure everything's done according to protocol.
Part of this protocol requires me to visit my counselor/psychologist, so I went to her office the moment it opened at 9AM to make an appointment. The earliest she could see me was 11, so I hung around in the library, filling out Christmas cards, until then...
I got a phone call setting up an appointment with a psychiatrist for Friday. As far as I've heard, that is an unusually quick turnaround for such things (since it normally takes at least a month for the referral to go through and an opening found).
Then a stranger sat himself down at the library table, across from me. He introduced himself and asked me what I studied. I told him that I was actually just waiting right now for an appointment at the office to drop out of Education. He asked me why, and eventually he was telling me about the struggles he had had with drug addiction and anxiety, and the things he did when in treatment, like art therapy. I thought it was interesting, kind of serendipitous, even...
I emailed my teacher to thank her for working with me, and she said that although she was disappointed in my decision, it was not entirely unexpected, echoing my words that "it was a difficult decision, but an inevitable one."
I hadn't eaten again since Sunday morning. In the evening I hung around with another friend and stuffed my face full with chicken nuggets and potato, almost until I was sick. When I'd pulled on my jeans that morning, I'd noticed that I had lost a couple of inches around my waist -- eating almost nothing but a package of crackers five days a week and a restaurant or fast food meal or two on the weekend will do that do you.
Tuesday morning I woke up feeling completely normal. (Well, as "normal" as I'm used to living for the last number of years of my life.) So normal that I almost forgot to take my medication. It was like suddenly, all that fear, all that anxiety, all the pain was gone. I brought Eva with me to the school in the afternoon to return the textbooks I'd borrowed. On the way, a couple of students recognized me; it was kind of a weird feeling...
Well, I guess that's all I really want to say right now...
