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I’m not quite sure what burnout is, but what happened two weeks ago felt something quite like it. After weeks of what had felt like going through life on auto-pilot — running in and out of back-to-back meetings, slogging through a cappella practices, rubbing my bleary eyes in the morning and rushing to class — a bad grade on a midterm tipped the scale.
I’ve always loved both science and writing. During my senior year of high school, as I wrote my college essays, I tried to find a way to weave the two together into a feasible future for myself: to explain why I love poems that overflow with biological imagery; to try to articulate the parallels I saw in the processes of biology and creating literature. And then when I read the book The Lives of a Cell by Lewis Thomas, I felt like all my efforts were put to shame.
For the majority of those of you who are reading this, the upcoming weekend doesn’t stand out in any particular way beyond being the precursor to the last week of classes.
The end of spring semester is a bittersweet time, where change seems imminent, and in this frantic rush to do it all — study for finals, secure last-minute internships, renew or sign apartment leases — the last thing we may want to do is reflect on the past year. But that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t try.
Name: Carmen.
It’s 2 a.m. and my chest closes. Suddenly, I’m drowning in a sea. I can’t swim. I can’t breathe. I’m in physical pain that won’t stop. Pain that has no tangible symptoms but can only be described as a mental cage of thoughts that drive in over and over again with an unparalleled intensity. I’m a deer caught in the headlights by the sudden rush of intrusive thoughts that collapse like a crashing tsunami.
I will be the first to admit that I’m not Riverdale’s most devoted fan. I binged season one last summer but then lost interest in the most recent season’s serial killer pretty early on last fall. A few weeks ago, though, after being barraged by commercials for the midseason premiere, I decided to check back in.