Today marks the first day in my history of, well, ever, that I was emotionally disturbed by a B.

Not even a standard B.  I am troubled by an 89.5.

Grad school has been an interesting experience for me thus far.  I have met fascinating, talented people.  I have learned to appreciate time, health, friendship, and simplicity more fully than I was ever able previously.  I have gained insight into a realm previously inaccessable.  This has not come without problems.

A study by Maureen Neihart indicated that so-called "gifted children" [gifted, here, used in the positive sense, not the bicycle-helmet-wearing type] had lower self esteem when placed in classrooms with students of similar abilities.  The premise is simple: change the criteria by which you judge yourself and your assessment will change. Bruce Willis seems like an excellent actor when you plop him down next to Bill Shatner, but not when he's next to Anthony Hopkins.

I seemed excellent when I was in high school, when I was in undergrad.  Now, not so much.

They say this feeling intrudes upon the well-being of every new grad student at some point.  I was cocky at first, when the feeling should have been the strongest.  Now that our meddle has been tested, I can see the truth behind the matter, that I, among peers, am only mediocre.  This shouldn't trouble me, but it does.  Just as a B+ shouldn't trouble me, but it does.  Here, there are no Cs.  Either you thrive by the 4.0, or you perish by the 3.  My 89.5 was an ultimatum.  "This was effort, but it was effort poorly spent." I won't argue that.  I always feel that my papers fail to capture the notion of what I want to say.  This is, perhaps, due to the fact that I never know what I want to say.  This is especially true now.

 I find that so many conversations now transcend the theoretical into the realm of the fantastic.  It is my desire to snare these transactions and demand of them, "what are you really trying to say here?  What is the point?"  However, I know that this is an anti-intellectual endeavor.  I, myself, am constantly testing my reality for ways in which understandings can be altered here and there.  But that, too, is a problem.  Sometimes I seek complicated answers to otherwise simple questions.  However, my questioning only yields more questions and I, subsequently, end up prattling on forever.  It is this fine line between smashing concepts to the ground and rocketing them away from reason that I find myself entangled. My comments in class meander where others' home in on seemingly key issues.  Other times, my comments seek to plug an impotent fist into the firm wall that obscures truth where others' manage to chip away at a vulnerable segment that brings the whole thing down. What's worse is that my thought processes rarely yield meaningful results for me.  I have begun to wonder why I should even waste my time here.

The only thing I really want to do is be an artist.  I know that my productions suck in comparison to those of everyone else, but that means little to me as the intrinsic value of artistry comes from creation.  To manufacture something, anything, leaves one with a feeling of satisfaction.  Here, all I do is tear apart texts in search of answers which will either never exist or are too concrete to be of any use.   It is said that a degree opens a multitude of doors to opportunity.  However, in my case,it is awfully difficult to eschew 18 years of training [and the funds required for them] to pick up a profession to which those skills are useless.

Perhaps I simply have not found my voice yet.  I will wait, regardless.  I've come too far to abort this now.  Plus, quitting never really became me.  My only options, at this point, are to adapt to meet success or fail spectacularly.  Change or die.

This update might as well have come several days ago, but thanks to the miracle of Time Management™, I wasn't able to throw it up until today.

TL;WR:  My mind is in the best condition it has seen in over one year.  My body is still fighting the good fight against whatever the hell virus had the gall to penetrate my humble frame.

After my Epic Weekend of Rest, the cessation effects all but disappeared [thankfully].  What's more, I found myself being more creative, productive, and prolific than I have seen in some time.  Initially I feared entering a sort of hypomanic state, but now I do not believe that such is the case.   I do, on occasion, still get the weird auditory shuddering sensation, all other systems seem like they're back in the green.

I reformatted my computer last weekend which may have had a hand in this renaissance.  It's amazing how much of one can be tied to places, things, and people.  Fortunately for me, I am now surrounded by exemplary specimens on all three fronts.  I have little doubt that this has greatly facilitated my current optimal state.

Also, I finally restrung my cherry axe after three years[!]. Holy cats, apparently my guitar is borderline playable when it has decent strings!  As a result, I've been brushing up on that aspect of my life, as well as my keypicking skills.  I need to find some other crappy musicians to form a crappy band with.

This entire week has been crazynonstopactiongetsometime.  The first few times this occurred, I kind of assumed it was going to be a rarity.  Now I'm starting to see that my grad career is going to consist of a lot of sleepless nights and an epic dearth of free time.  The only reason I'm able to post here is by virtue of the embargo I placed on work this evening.

Uhh... it's nearing midnight and I still need to go to the gym, so I think I'll probably do that.  Oh!  Did I mention I gained, like, ten pounds in two weeks?  Not really sure how that happened, but I've already bled off four of them.  The only cure for fattiism is to run like a motherfucker, and that's exactly what I plan on doing.

So I'm sick.  Like, rly sick.

On the upside, the psychological effects of my venlafaxine cessation appear to have been ameliorated.  It could just be that the symptoms of this viral thing are masking any other unpleasantries I might be faced with.

I've been taking diphenhydramine as well, which may be partly responsible for my improved psychological state.  For the uninitiated, diphenhydramine is a histamine antagonist, an antimuscarinic anticholinergic agent, and a serotonin reuptake inhibitor, among other things.  You may know it as Benadryl, Dramamine, or  Unisom.  I had considered using diphenhydramine to lessen the withdrawal effects of venlafaxine, had they been too much to bear.  However, prior to getting ill, I did not feel the need to dampen the cessation process.  Once I got sick, however, all bets were off.  I almost purchased a cold medicine that did not contain diphenhydramine simply because it was the type I typically go with.  However, in a moment of inspiration, I realized I could alleviate my cold symptoms and try out the effects of diphenhydramine.  I also grabbed two boxes of straight diphenhydramine because they were on sale at buy one get one free.  Can't really argue with that.  So I've been taking the cold medication [which, among other things, contains 12.5mg of diphenhydramine] and supplementing it with anywhere between 25 and 75mg of unfettered diphenhydramine.  The effects have been lovely.

Bu the by, diphenhydramine, in addition to being a pretty useful, all-purpose drug, is also a psychoactive substance.  I suppose that's somewhat obvious given it affects acetylcholine and serotonin, but its effects go beyond minor changes in mood and alertness.  When taken in sufficient quantities, diphenhydramine can induce hallucinations that, unlike those produced by psilocybin and lysergic acid, are often indistinguishable from reality.  TMYK.

However, I'm still sick.  My sinuses feel like they're simultaneously full, dry, and wanting to eat my face, despite me drinking a metric fuckton of water every day.  My lungs constantly want to cough, yet they don't even offer me the common courtesy of producing anything.  Rude.  Lastly, my entire fucking body aches.  When I was younger, I almost never felt achey when I was ill.  Over the past three years, I've noticed my achiness quotient has shot up every time I get sick.  Each episode, rare as they may be, feels magnitudes worse than the time before.  At this rate, if I get a cold or flu when I'm 30, I'm done; game over.

So here I am, confined to my bed, doing nothing.  I don't even have a television in this room.  Fortunately, I have my laptop, but my desire to do anything constructive [grading papers, reading, et cetera] is crushed by the weight of my ennui.  Subsequently, I end up trolling 4chan for hours on end when I'm not unconscious.

I hope this is the crescendo of my disease and I will feel better tomorrow, though my confidence is not steadfast.  I'm slated to have dinner with some of the other grad students and faculty in the evening and, ideally, I'd really like to not miss that.  I already had to blow off FAC on Friday, and I fucking love FAC.  

Ugh, I wish I were made of metal.