I’m too careless. I don’t put out enough effort. I’m tired.
Charles Bukowski, “This Is What Killed Dylan Thomas.” South of No North.
I lost all interest in my schoolwork, friends, reading, wandering or daydreaming. I had no idea what was happening to me, and I would wake up in the morning with a profound sense of dread that I was somehow going to have to make it through another entire day. I would sit for hour after hour in the undergraduate library, unable to muster enough energy to go to class. I would stare out the window, stare at my books, rearrange them, shuffled them around, leave them unopened, and think about dropping out of college. When I did go to class it was pointless. Pointless and painful. I understood very little of what was going on, and I felt as though only dying would release from the overwhelming sense of inadequacy and blackness that surrounded me. I felt utterly alone, and watching the animated conversations between my fellow students only made me feel more so.