a day in my life

Having always focussed on academics, the break of six months was like a slap on my face. Graduation was easy, but deciding what to do next had the combined anxiety of a thousand exams. A plethora of questions floated in my already suffocated brain: What if I fail? What if the choice is wrong? What if people find out that I am actually a pretty dumb person? The last question has more to do with the imposter syndrome, courtesy my generalised anxiety disorder, than my indecisiveness. I hate labelling myself, but it is what it is.
The first two doubts became facts. One positive of having anxiety: I can see the future. Psychology was not a good option. The first few months triggered my sweet imposter syndrome and I still, to this day, believe that I am just pretending to know stuff, in reality I know nothing. All the books that I have read (I have to pass time somehow) are lies. Well, seeing that the whole world is an illusion, I am almost correct.
Anyway, failing psychology was not the worst part, it was realising that a break was inevitable as the admissions were six months away. I was plagued by the demons of aging even though I was just twenty two, in my head I was losing my youth and was well on the path of becoming a stagnant and senile old lady with no career prospects. I comforted myself with a few example of my relatives, one of whom had changed his entire career in his mid-twenties and was happy. But I was not as brave.
Marvel cinematic universe was my distraction for the initial days of the six-month-long hermit life. The final movie of the epic saga of my beloved heroes was just around the corner and I had all the time in the world to re-watch a decade worth of movies.
But I was never left alone. My anxiety had given birth to a monster that sat on my chest even when I was asleep. Breathing became hard so to combat this ogre, I named him George. (Maybe, that is where things went wrong.)A mundane name, to humanise the monster.
I started talking to him, to become friends with him. After initial coldness from his side, we became good buddies. It was actually nice, talking to someone even though imaginary. I never wanted to share my fears of not doing well, when I enrolled myself again in a college, with my family. They had their own problems. My father had to scold random mothers-in-law who cried a river after being blessed with grand-daughters, my mother had to bear the belligerent fools that were her extended family and my sister still had a few months left in an institution whose basic structure was that of a discriminatory leech. So I, like a good daughter and sister, kept my mouth shut and pretended that everything was roses and peaches.
Looking back now, I should have talked because it went bad, really fast. First George was a just a way to cope, then he became a friend and then suddenly, a tyrant.
At present, George is a small, moustachioed man that I am trying really hard to shoot in the head. (With help, of course!)
George- oh sorry diary, I have to go now. One of the ward boys has come to escort me to my therapist. I will meet you tomorrow. No, sorry, in ten minutes as you have to be analysed by my therapist as well.
So long.

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