Fridays are apparently destined to be horrible. It is raining again, a torrential downpour this time as opposed to last week’s mist. I’m sitting in science class, trying to avoid any thoughts about the test that I just finished—despite all of my studying, every inkling of information seemed to clear out of my head at the first sight of a topographic map, and I want to be anywhere but here. I want to be away from the loud laughter and whispers of my classmates. The presence of other people is deafening. The crashing of the rain against the windows matches the bleakness of my mood, which makes everything worse, because now I am completely and totally enveloped by this bleak atmosphere, and wish that there were a few stray beams of sunlight breaking through. Like Kurt sings in one of my favorite Nirvana songs, “Frances Farmer Will Have Her Revenge on Seattle,” I miss the comfort in being sad. Usually I feel secure, as if my feelings have formed a net for me to fall back in, and I can be miserable without having to drop any further. Today, however, has an endlessness to it, without the safety that I typically enjoy. It’s as if I’ve found my way into an abyss that has formed at my core.

Everyone around me seems phony all of a sudden, like they’re playing a character. I can hear each stiff laugh. Everything said seems to be fed through a filter. Even the “What’s wrong?” of a close friend sitting next to me feels forced. “Nothing,” I say. She shrugs and walks away. It’s a lie, of course, but how can I answer when I don’t know why I feel this way?

Maybe I’m the problem. I’m always confused about everything, especially in moments like these when I can’t be bothered to actually feel any emotion towards anyone or anything around me. I’m the one pulling away from everyone else, and I don’t know why. I don’t try to smile, or talk, or write. I just…am. I don’t bother to live, I exist. Why do I have to feel so muddled all the time?

The period soon ends, and we are all free to go to our next class. As everyone else packs up their things slowly, so as to prolong whatever conversations they’re having, I shove everything into my backpack and walk hastily out of the room and into the hallway, maneuvering around other people until I reach my creative writing class. Usually it is a safe haven for me where the main focus for 45 minutes is my imagination, but today it is as daunting as everything else. As my classmates flood the room, I keep my head down, my hand moving slowly across the blank page of my notebook, hoping to ward off any potential banter.

Nothing that I’m writing is coherent. My thoughts have interrupted my ability to string together words into acceptable sentences that will help me finish the exercise that I usually have no problem doing. It is as if my hand, like everything else, has become disconnected from me. ♦