I’ll be seeing my doctor again in relation to starting a mental health plan. This is something I don’t want to do. I don’t want to spend one hundred dollars on a cup of tea and a painful upheaval that’ll inevitably end in tears. I want to spend a hundred and fifty dollars on nifty roller-skates so I no longer feel geriatric as I do on my current ones, completely past their life span with pieces of plastic scattering behind me whenever I take a hill, like a fucked up ice-cream van. As much as I hate to admit it though I need to waste my money on straight haired psychologists if I’m going to get over my anxiety. Too many times I’d convinced myself my anxiety was merely hyperactive mind games, a symptom of an over active imagination that needed to be let loose on a piece of paper. Since I’d deferred from my university degree it hadn’t raised its leering head over my life and that was enough to ignore it. For awhile I lived serenely, but occasionally I would see ripples on the horizon. Now, as I start my new degree, it’s back as quickly as it left. It’s reduced to me tears and I remember now how painful it was, mentally and physically. Such anxiety isn’t passive in the stomach. It tears through you like a rusty saw and catches every bone and tendon. Always it hurts, even when it’s gone. With my supposed split with my boyfriend and my overall confusion as to whether I should even become a teacher or follow my dreams, anxiety finds a perfect place between the two, placing a hand over each shoulder and suggesting a truce. I won’t be going to university until this shit’s behind me. Hopefully, before then, I’ll decide what life has in store for me,.

This was supposed to be a funny. It wasn’t.