To put it as mildly as a spring sun strolling through scattered clouds, I’ve been under a lot of stress lately. I took my last final, possibly my final academic test for forever.
My motivation for studying plummeted while my chapped nose, used tissue hoarding, impossibly silent roommate huddled around the cheery music of The Great British Bakeoff. Add that to skirting the dread of fruitless sweat, and it seemed simple as to why I buried the hurried scribbles of corrected calculus to brave the more than evident germs so I could share Netflix and the couch with my sick roommate. I had studied much of the material for the past week so I didn’t have the same anxiety level as being chased by a bear. It didn’t stop my heart from racing at the site of the dangerously thin test either.
Polymer physics is by no means intuitive, the obtuse reasoning left me doubting every decision. Things only got worse when I started writing the wrong numbers. My brain would say one and my hand would write 3. I had no idea why I kept erasing and rewriting the same numbers over and over and over again. The thing that made my skin literally crawl was the slinking dot of friction moving through my hair. It couldn’t be a scary bug like a cockroach (the feeling wasn’t that large or leggy) but more like a single insidious parasite that could have thousands of children on my scalp.
I remembered feeling like this in the other precious vibrating hypomanias. I still couldn’t stop my hand from scratching dead flakes to fill my short fingernails. When I drove my roommate home after the test, I stumbled into a leap of faith and sheeply asked my roommate to check for bugs. Under the harsh bathroom light she patiently waded through the place where I had kept clutching my head the whole ride. She was monastically quiet through the whole thing because of her sore throat, yet that small action and reaction to the situation allowed me to not pander the fear that I was completely losing it. Gratefully the rest of the night has been creepy crawly free.