You may say to yourself, "My God! What have I done?"
Yesterday I finally met with a doctor that appeared to give a damn about my problematic proboscis. She shined a light up my nostrils and declared nothing wrong, just like that nurse did, but wrote me a prescription for a saline-steriod spray that "might" help the mysterious injury that no one can see. Before filing this prescription, I Googled the solution to make sure it wasn't anything terrible, and every list of possible side effects I read included an entry for 'nosebleed.'
So...like...a product that causes nosebleeds is supposed to fix my nosebleeds? Which logic model does that reasoning follow?
I'm fucked. Pure and simple.
And today I'm traveling back and forth between my bedroom and the laundry room while I try to get some work done. Earlier, Steven lost his mind over something so inane and petty that it defies description, wrenched my laptop out of my hands so he could scare me with the threat of smashing it, and almost tore my finger off in the process. So I fled the house in fear, walked to the corner store for some bandages, and then snuck back into the house via the annex and hid in the basement for three and a half hours. I didn't mind; it's warm and comfortable down there. The only problem is that the Internet connection is pretty lousy, and most of my supplementary essay material is fixed in cyberspace, so I eventually had to creep back into the bedroom and hope Steven was either not there or subdued enough not to fight me again. Just to be on the safe side, I hid the Macbook in a drawer in the laundry room until I was sure the beast wouldn't attack.
[In case you're wondering, he's in bed having a nice, peaceful afternoon nap. If only we could all be so lucky!]
Now I'm finding it difficult to concentrate again. Surprise!
On Monday I have a meeting with my supervisor. My fate will largely depend on the advice she gives me, as well as whether or not she's willing to lobby on my behalf for an extension on the assignments (because even if I do manage to "finish" them by the deadline, I guarantee they won't receive very good marks). The day after that, I have an appointment with my shrink. She's supposed to talk me out of having anxiety, but so far she's a miserable failure at it. I keep making the appointments because I just like visiting her. She has this certain kind of overweight matronliness and soft British voice that are comforting to me.
In a desperate attempt to find counsel for my troubles, I stupidly appealed to my mother. I explained the various ways in which this situation has turned sour, as well as the events and thought processes that have led to my admittance of failure and the possibility of going back to square one. After a barrage of stock pep talks and lukewarm concern, she insisted that I don't return home under any circumstances. Why? Well, because a year isn't a very long time, and this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! This is my education; it's important! Luckily for me, I can see past her doublespeak, so I know that what she really meant to say is "it will disgrace the family, knock me down a notch in the rivalry I have with my sister, and make me afraid of having to support you."
So that settles it. I can't go home. And it's not like I even care about disgracing those people; they're fucking asshole losers that aren't worth an ounce of consideration...it's that if they don't want me around, then I'll have nowhere to go. I spent all my savings to move here. I'm broke. They have my car. My driver's license is suspended.
And my fucking finger still hurts.