Among a long list of used to-s,I used to write pretty well. To be sure, it wasn’t Shakespeare or anything remotely beautiful, but it was factual and understandable. I haven’t done well in any assignment I’ve handed up this year – 50% isn’t acceptable to me – and for each disappointing piece that’s returned, I tore it up on the spot.
A thought struck me today. What if I was too anxious about sounding learned? Too anxious about making a good impression? Too caught up with how to present my argument that it simply collapsed into a convoluted mess. Or maybe it’s the Remeron that’s clouding my mind.
In the meantime, I cower in a corner, afraid to hand up any essay… the same fear that stopped me from handing up my work last year, the same fear that continues to haunt and haunt and haunt.
Eating for relief has its inflating effects – it takes more food to get the same sense of comfort. And there’s the more literal inflation, which proves tougher than all my physical training.
Stop.
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Whisper