We should all cry sometimes

It was the third day in a row that I got three hours of sleep. Carrying around my pill bottle of Concerta, the jangling of the capsules was a comforting reminder that my exhaustion wasn’t actually real. With a swift swallow and Orbit (my fourth pack of the week), I could fool myself into thinking that I was well-rested. Look at me! Actually, don’t look at me. I forgot to put makeup today.

When my eye began twitching as I sat in Bobst, I started to panic. Flashbacks of my junior year of high school came flooding back to me, and I internally moaned. As much as I tried to deceive my body into believing it wasn’t 5am and I wasn’t in this exact seat four hours ago, my eyes were literally spasming because they couldn’t be open anymore.

It was too late, anyway. Even if I wanted to go back to sleep now, the stimulant had already seeped into my bloodstream, speeding up my heart rate and forcing me to be acutely aware of that smudge above the ESC key on my computer.

This is me thinking about Fitz and stuff. Note the grass. It was a good time

After I cleaned my keyboard, it was 20 minutes later and I almost forgot what I was doing. Rummaging through my dilapidated Longchamp, I pulled out that book I didn’t read for class I was sitting there writing a paper for.

Ah, yes.

Two days to read and outline four micro-histories and craft a suitable argument to dispute that stupid B- I got on my first paper. I checked the clock on my computer. OK, I had to be in Midtown for my internship at 10. I still had four hours and 23 minutes. That’s fine.

By 10, I was already groggy, and the effects of the Concerta were wearing off. Pained at the thought of taking another one, I grimaced as I did just that. Only five hours and 38 minutes until I could leave.

At 5.53pm, I could feel the sobs building under the fragile skin of my sinuses. I had class at 6.20 and I couldn’t find my headphones. In the grand scheme of things, this isn’t a big deal. But as I lay in a heap on the floor of seventh floor bathroom in Tisch, I cried as if death was an imminent, tangible thing on my horizon if my earbuds were not found.

Me listening to Love Yourself by Justin Bieber for the 19th time today.

They were literally $19.99. I wasn’t crying about the headphones. Those shoulder-shaking sobs opened up my tired nasal passages and pushed quarter-sized tears from my eyelids, and it felt so good. The culmination of school, my internship and my job forced me on to the floor as I laugh-cried hysterically — an over-exhausted college student.

I know you know what I’m talking about.

When the sight of Bobst starts to nauseate, when you starting talking out loud to your bed (“I’ll see you soon, I promise”), when you realize you’ve forgotten to eat again (but at least the vending machines are open).

Now imagine all of those feelings mixed in with the anxiety of being a transfer from a teeny hippie school in central Connecticut, the fact I was going back home to Westchester every weekend and horribly crippling, but severely downplayed (by my own doing), loneliness. Being a transfer is great! Thanks for asking!

NAMASTE (is this the correct context?)

When you’re on the verge, it doesn’t take much to send you over the precipice. In my case, it was my missing earbuds. And as much as I like to believe I’m the only person overwhelmed at NYU, I know you cried yesterday because finals are coming: cuffing season is stressful and shouldn’t exist, you don’t know what shoes to wear in this stupid weather and worst of all, you have no clean spoons left. Find comfort in knowing that in some way or another we’re all struggling. Being 18, 19, 24, whatever, this isn’t easy and sometimes a good cry is all you need.

Disclaimer: I am not a licensed psychologist and this is not a professional opinion. I’m just a 20-year-old girl who values sleep, Olivia Pope and crying.