My license plate is, hypothetically for the sake of privacy, 35L P62.
About a year ago I was driving behind a car that looked similar to mine — 10 or 15 years old, boxy and blue. More importantly their license plate number was 32L P62. Again, for the sake of privacy, that’s not entirely accurate…
You rock, rock.
I know there are always personal nuances, but it’s just unreal to me how universal some of the major characteristics of depression are. I cried in my car a lot, too; there was even a six month period of time when I literally could not fall asleep at night without having cried at least once that day. It was as much a part of my pre-bed routine as brushing my teeth. Probably a lot more so.
Still, I think I prefer the tear-filled times to the emotionally blanketed times. At least I still felt like I was part of life, able to interact with and be affected by my environment. I don’t know.
Thank god for Cymbalta and running.
I’ve turned into the kind of person who Googles things like “how to be more independent” and “what to do when you realize you’re immature.”
This is who I am: I’m asking Google - A SEARCH ENGINE - to tell me how to grow up.
How did I just now realize how hilariously contradictory that is?
God… I bet grown-ups don’t talk about themselves this much.
I’m going to Google “how to worry about yourself less” - surely THAT’S not contradictory, too.
Oh wait.
I think I’ve forgotten how to do anything aside from listen to Harry Potter audiobooks, eat carbs, and think about myself.
You’ll notice not one of those is a marketable skill… much less one that can help me get through finals.
I wish I was majoring in Harry Potter with a double minor in cats and sleeping.
I’d be way over prepared for finals if that were the case.
…whether or not I’m going to find a way to get work done.
So far, I’ve been to the doctor, filled some prescriptions, tried to work, read a book for fun, visited the boy who lives next door (and on whom I have a major crush), tried to work again, taken a bath, lit some candles, opened the fridge to look contemplatively at a Red Bull, and blogged.
We’ll see how this goes.
Spoke too soon.
Having gone to this Walgreens many, many times without ever running into any classmates here, I have foolishly begun to think of it as my own private place - my secret drug store with the super friendly pharmacist and the extra large ethnic hair care section.
But tonight, as I turn down the cold & flu aisle to grab some more musinex (AKA the medicine of the gods), I see a guy I go to school with and I promptly turn around, frantically finding solace in the cleaning supplies lane.
This is a person I know. Fairly well. We’re in an organization together (one where I pretend to have leadership - and people - skills as the VP), we’ve talked plenty of times, and we wave when we see each other on campus.
And yet my paralyzing social anxiety keeps me from even saying hello. Talk about flight instincts - I didn’t even briefly consider greeting him… Or letting him see me.
And now I’m sitting in my car with bags of swifter refills and off-brand clorox wipes, with no musinex and very little pride.
At least my pharmacist knows my name.
And she knows my name. First and last.
And implications about the state of my health aside, this thrills me more than she could possibly know.
“Miss Hillary! What can I do for you?”
“Um… I guess just be my best friend? I love you?”
And she said I dress sooo cute.
And some guy in the pharmacy line next to me complimented my hair and boots.
…
Um yes. This WAS a successful trip to the pharmacy - what gave it away?
The pharmacist at the Walgreens near campus is getting really into the Christmas music playing overhead.
I’m not being sarcastic when I say that she inspires me.
Why do I even have a blog? I hope no one is reading all this nonsense.
If you are, sorry. :/
My name is hillary brown. I have a blog now. This is it.
