Mistake

The choice to stick around was my own. Nobody twisted my arm. Nobody pleaded for me to stay. I did it because I wanted to. But every now and then I’m curious if I made a mistake. Everything was lined up. It was perfect. You couldn’t ask for better conditions. I could feel my body giving out slowly but surely. Then I stopped eating. Not a conscious choice. Just didn’t want to so I didn’t. Give me a few more weeks and I’m dead sure that I could’ve pushed myself past the line. I’ve heard from people here that if you wanted to do it you’d do it. That the people who do it don’t think they just act. I think there’s truth to that. But I still think my little idiotic plan could’ve worked. Just given some time. Weaken the body and the mind so they can’t put up a fight. That was my goal.

But now I’m here and I’m dealing with PhD applications and motor issues and conference paper deadlines and budgeting and people I don’t want to talk to and writing and health insurance and people moving my things and asking for reference letters and on and on and on and on. I know my problems aren’t the biggest in the world. Hell I don’t think my problems even come close to ones that most people have on here. But even so in the back of my head every day I think “I wasn’t supposed to make it this far.” For that one thing that kept me going, I’m incredibly grateful for it. Wouldn’t trade anything in the world for it. So I guess I feel guilty for having these thoughts. Even though they’re probably the only person in the world that would even understand it. So at the end of the day when I really think about it, I can’t really say I’ve made a mistake. Even though it sure feels like it sometime.