April 14, 2002 Suddenly, everything's green. The blossoming young trees no longer stand alone, my jocks-in-training neighbors are at it again, and it's actually grown muggy. The first signs of spring usually promote some kind of hope, a sense of peace and being carefree, never needing a jacket. The weather is often enough to scoop me out of an extended slump. A family of birds has taken up residence in the gutter outside my window and never fail to chirp praises of glorious weather, even when they are being rained on. My world is permeated by scraps of the great outdoors, imploring me to quit studying.
2:09 pm
This year it's different. I appear to be living in a vacuum and wholly unaware of it. The bookstore is not a summer job, just as summers spent in bomb shelters lose out to gaudy beach resorts with man-made waterfalls and plastic palms. Dormancy during the winter months is something I have adapted to, but I thrive on Vitamin D. I need to see the sun when I know it's shining. It is all such a fucking tease. Working for Follett has allowed me to be lazy and casual as far as rules and restrictions are concerned. There's no uniform, virtually no customers, no handling food that's not packaged, no cleaning, very few responsibilities other than showing up. Still, as the weather grows more beautiful, I feel more and more like a caged bird. And no, contrary to what Maya Angelou tells you, I do not sing. My smiles often feel forced and probably look something like masked expressions of physical pain. If the walls were going to close in on me, they would have done it by now. Sitting still is where I excel, but it feels like I'm marinating in a stew of wasted time.
When I come, I get into my pajamas prematurely, as if groping for some sort of palpable comfort. My studying is interrupted by a psyche inculcating, Worksucksyou'rekillingyourselfquitquitquitWhat'skeepingyouthereyou'reresponsibleyouknowityou'rekillingyourself
quitbitchquitgetabetterjoboralifeorwhateverpeoplegetwhentheydon'tgetpaidtohatethemselvesquitquitquit. I'm still on the stimulants I've been taking for a year, but by the time I get home to tackle the list that's been churning through my head all day, they have worn off, leaving me noticeably irritable.
My Mom and my psychiatrist (ok, so maybe she's a drug pusher with a prescription pad and a fancy degree) seem to think that happy pills are the way to go. She suggested I toss back a second Wellbutrin at three o'clock. Taking the full dose in the morning is a no-no because of the seizure risk associated with the drug. Employees ringing up customers and falling to convulse on the floor of the bookstore could do terrible things to the company's image.
If I took breaks and could tolerate the cafeteria, this might be plausible. Then I'd come back with a fake smile pasted on my face, be productive, and still be able to sleep at night. Of course, I have to be difficult and opposed to breaks altogether. My Mom suggested taking one at the time I'd usually come home from work to see if I'm wired all night. I chased it with a Soma four hours later, with smug disdain for this pharmaceutical regimentation of my life. Sure, maybe it's for the best and based on the rest of society's standards, but by now I have ambitions of working the graveyard shift. I barely see daylight as it is now, why not sleep through it and follow my body's naturally screwed-up rhythms?
If this extra Wellbutrin starts working, I may just stop bitching and target what's making me unhappy in the first place. I registered for Government and Spanish on Friday. I just keep contradicting myself over and over again. Here I am waiting for the semester to come to a sweet end, and I register for these courses. It leaves me with ten days after finals. That's as much of a break as I've had since September, about the same as what was left in January after my winter course was through. I'm used to the school year not ending until most of June is gone, whether or not I was there for it. How I am going to learn Spanish in three weeks is beyond me. The credits are what I need, whether or not they'll transfer when I do. By now I've established that I can push myself. Crash courses are the way to go.
Especially if I'm chock full of Wellbutrin.
