The sky is filled with storm clouds, making spring break more like a winter break. I, however, adore the rain because of the seemingly rare occasion by which it arrives in California. So the rain is coming down in drizzly patterns at the moment, and I ponder on the past two months and the impact I have sustained.
At the beginning of the quarter, I was quite uplifted and motivated with a sense of unknown energy. I felt ready to take on the courses that would propel me towards the end of all my undergraduate tribulations. Then I was struck with the sickness malady, and I realize that according to the overall dates, Jan. 10 to March 10, I was afflicted for basically eight weeks. The quarter only lasts ten. I remember how startled I was being continually physically attacked, and I began to think I was going crazy, that maybe people–people I kept having to explain to–that they wouldn’t believe me; but unfortunately, it was all too real. I also remember how I was trying to do some of my assignments, sitting at my desk feeling terrible, knowing the work had to be done. Towards the end, I felt like I was never going to get better. On several of my writing tasks, I labored away with the distinct feeling that a poison was coursing through my stomach. Trying to write was like slogging the icy ocean sea floor with large stones attached to my feet while trying to contain the urge to vomit. The memory is awful.
When I began to feel better, I realized I was behind on many of my studies. I deplored the thought of getting bad grades, but I knew I couldn’t avoid the matter. On the contrary, I was rather amazed that some of my writing was met with appreciation. For the psychology classes, the story was much different.
Having had to pull through with half of what is usually a stringent effort makes me feel awkward. I understand there wasn’t much I could do, and that years from now, it won’t make a difference. But for now, I feel the leftover pang of knowing how much better I could have done had I not been sick. In this manner, I reflect on all the stories I’ve read throughout literature about people lying in their sickbeds, being attended to by loved ones, unable to move, unable to live. As I recall reading about these situations, I remember feeling well during the experience and thinking, “this seems strange, a person unable to get up.” Yet as I think on my own, true-to-life experience, what these people went through now comes through very clear. People go down, some never come up.
With this jet-laggish type feeling lingering about me, I take note, that my finals and my work and my entire input could have been so much different. I had to cram and stress towards the last week and a half, which was stressful in and of itself, but I am taking the moment to try and recoup, with nothing more to do than write a post for now. I will also prepare again, and look for that unknown energy I started the winter quarter with. Hopefully this time, I will meet with much better results.