Note: I've been wanting to write about my health for quite some time now, but my brain just doesn't want to cooperate with me, so I feel that my writing's choppier than usual. Harry Potter melted my neurons...

Per my therapist’s most recent suggestion, when I was home alone in silence, I found the box of family photos in the upstairs closet.

A small herd of fluffy mule deer flanked my Xterra as I drove into one of my favorite parts of the valley, hoping I'd stop just long enough for them to get a taste of salt from the sides of my Xterra (winter wildlife sometimes seek out vehicles or sidewalks that have icemelt on them, because they like the nutrients in the salt). A place I affectionately call “God’s Ass”; a handful of massive red rock boulders, two of which come together to form a tunnel between them. Hence the name, God’s Ass.

Since I last adjusted my anxiety medication, the physical symptoms of it have subsided to manageable levels. However, my anxiety is far from cured. It’s just become less evident to the people around me. Which is great and all, as I don’t want other people to bother me about it. But the anxiety is still there, lying just below the surface. 

I’m not nearly as afraid of college as I was last semester. But, in the place of fear, I am very much frustrated. Not just because Omicron-Covid put my classes on Zoom for the rest of this week, at least. But, there’s something I can just sense is deeply, terribly wrong with my Literature course. Or, rather, with some of the students I’ll be working with.