Smile. It’s good for you.

So… I’m feeling better. The mental/emotional boat is rockin’ a lot less severely, even if the anxiety and jumpiness haven’t completely abated. And I’m keeping food down again, which is always a plus. (Particularly after a two-day stint without…)

I pulled something of a preemptive strike on my chemistry prof and e-mailed him Sunday night to tell him I knew I bombed another exam, that I would be willing to take a (non-credit) exam in a week or two to show that I can, in fact, master this material, and that Dr. M is helping me understand things. Hideous as this sounds, the good news is that about half the class failed. My second, crippling fear (after my grade for the course, bien sûr) was that I would be the only one to fail (I was the only one on the first exam). However, now Dr. J is frustrated that he isn’t able to adapt his teaching to our (lack of) learning, and we are frustrated (me to tears) that we can’t get what should be simple. It’s a damn general chemistry course. I don’t know about anyone else, but I just need a good algorithm–I understand the concepts, and how the equilibrium moves with the addition of constituents, but damned if I know where to start working the math of the situation. So there’s my goal for the week. Plus understanding this thermochemistry stuff before I get completely befuddled.

My mother called this afternoon, which had me worried all over again. If she had just waited for another couple of days, I could have played nice on the phone and smoothed things over, but I was busy, and in the middle of something. I was probably a bit terse as I explained they needed to call my cell phone to get in touch with me since I’ve moved into the Thorn office, that one of my classes wasn’t going so well, and that, sure, she could fly up here to be a passenger on the trip back to Charlotte, as long as she doesn’t bring Ali–I’ve got enough shit to fill up my trunk and back seat, easily. She ended the conversation with, “Well, since you’re so busy, I’ll let you go…” which does not bode well for a lack of concern on her part, which will spread to my father when he gets the money I sent back in the mail. My anxiety is not supposed to be contagious.

I don’t know if I look frazzled or bitchy (probably the latter, alas), but people are treating me with kid gloves, and it’s a weird feeling. I expected to have my throat slit twice over an editorial choice I made last week in the paper; I spoke directly with the more… aggressive… of my two potential attackers earlier today, and she said naught on the subject. I suspect attacks are being fielded, though. Bridget just gives me these looks (of the pitying sort) every time I see her that make me wonder if I look like I’m ill or something. It doesn’t help that I can’t really explain why I’ve left when she hints about it–I’m the one being the weird, whacko bitch right now, not her, so there’s no point in bringing my problems out to bother her, and it would serve no purpose other than to make her feel bad.

But I am feeling better, a little more in control. This is a good thing.