It seems that this blog has taken on the responsibility of chronicling my almost-daily woes of writing my academic papers and it’s sort of apparent that there shall be more in store pertaining to my dilemmas. Today, as I have initially resolved to continue moving forward with this task (and eventually end it all), it seems my agonies still have the upper hand onto perpetuity. Indeed, it has become so uncomfortable that my anxiety attacks are now getting more frequent by the hour.
Just right now I decided to read all my resources for the nth time but for some strange reason nothing comes to me… again. Perhaps it has something to do with the anxiety now or that my agitation concurrently morphing into something more severe but all I know is that I could not make sense of anything no matter how I try to peruse everything onscreen, let that of touching—yes, touching!—all my borrowed books. It is evident that my body has begun reacting indiscriminately towards anything that has got to do with writing a paper, and all I need is to calm down. Of course, I needed to breathe in and out: the usual prepping up for a more pacified state of mind so as I could breeze my way through the task. Next would be the talking-to-myself mind resuscitation technique whereby I have to incessantly condition my brain through personal locutions worthy enough to be mantras in themselves. I have to talk my way through a task, say, “conversations” that should dissuade me from feeling discouraged so as I may strive to move forward “and win”. If all else fails, my next move would be to spend time away from what triggers all such perturbing sensations: I would stand up, go elsewhere to recline or maybe eat; and this would I engage in for a handful of minutes until such time I’d feel ready enough to face the turbulence of being busy and busier.
True enough, I’ve done it all. Yet nothing still keeps me on track; thus, here I am, patiently waiting for that choo-choo train of perseverance and steadfastness (not to mention concentration as well as calmness) to pick me up for a smooth and easy ride towards culminating this task once and for all. Actually, I have endured minutes and more minutes of waiting for that nudge of the Muse to at least lift me high from this mind’s slump that I may prosper in this writing endeavour but no. Where is inspiration when I need it the most? Where is motivation? Even more, where is that badly needed dose of understanding fueled by quick thinking? I am afraid there is something wrong, and this I speak not merely out of trepidation or paranoia. I have never experienced these prior to 2011 and practically, I have been observing that this has grown worse through the years: the inability to recognise the places I frequent, the difficulty in reading that it has become necessary for me to revert back to page one right after finishing five pages (and do so for at least five times so I may recall pertinent details). And yes, the inability to finish a paper within a reasonable span of time unlike before wherein I could do so in a day or two. Thus, it has become atrociously inconvenient for me especially when I work or study since I always need more time than expected just so I could get something done.
Woe is me.
In the midst of all these, my frequent fallback is to blame my epilepsy or bipolar or whatever. But should that have any bearing at all? I usually deny that illnesses should even play a role in whatever capabilities I have since I still acknowledge that my senses still function that well. I am not wanting physically at all—I have my faculties intact. But there is something equally errant in the manner of how my brain processes work nowadays, with this darn project of three papers as a testament to how nothing is alright. Everything is so painstaking which I very well know should not be the case since I have always been used to writing and engaging in academic work. It has always been my preoccupation, given that I have been in the academe for five years. But why must these suddenly become so difficult?
Time is of the essence, the clock is ticking away fast; yet I could not fairly advance myself to where I ought to be headed. I need to finish these papers before midnight today, and such is my immediate goal nevertheless screwed up by something unbeknownst to me. Why can’t I even read, and when I do the agitation strikes that I am left sweating profusely and feeling jittery? Reason tells me to take it easy but merely seeing the bulk of to-dos keeps me on panic alert mode. I have been waiting for so long for all these intervening emotional upheavals to dissipate but they’re still here; and I have exhausted every means possible to keep them at bay.
It is must utmost prayer that I finally prosper in this undertaking, and I shall force myself through whatever means possible so as I may finish this in time for submission on Friday. Definitely so, I shall never ever bear the possibility of flunking my prerequisite subjects just because of malevolent chasms within my brain that interfere with how I should absorb stuff. I want to pass, and I need to do so such that all my efforts throughout this semester shall not be laid to waste at all. I admit it might not be easy for an epileptic to be so sure of achieving much like “normal” people should but that poses a considerable challenge. I want to succeed.