The pen in my hand stares nervously at me, anxiously awaiting what I have to say. Its cap bears the words “Dr. Me,” beautifully engraved in the most elegant of font-faces, and is emblematic of the love and excitement in the heart of the woman who painstakingly created it for me on the day I successfully defended my thesis. This pen, as did everything else in this room, watched aghast as I coolly shooed her away, declaring that I don’t care about anything in this world… including her. The most unfortunate thing here is that in a state such as mine, nothing really does matter; even if a part of me knows that it should.
Like the drunk finding himself alone on the street in a pool of his own vomit, it often takes hitting rock bottom to realise that it’s high time you did something about your life.
And last morn, I finally did.
I worked up the nerve to go and talk to a professional about what I’ve been like for the past few years, and how things have progressed to a stage far more serious than anything I can just “snap out of.” As you’re reading this, two large vials of my blood are being subjected to a battery of tests, aiming to implicate any physical issues that I might have, along-with or bolstering my psychological problems. Diabetes, kidney damage, anaemia, hormonal imbalances… all the usual suspects linked with this sort of affair are being carefully investigated.
Over the following days and weeks, through intense conversations and lab-work, I hope to have a better grasp of what I’m dealing with so I can begin to cope, and eventually, start caring again.
Perhaps then, this pen won’t be as nervous when I pick it up.