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 Help, please.

I need to vent.

I need to cry.

I need to scream.

Please.

I don't want to go on anymore, seriously.

I don't want to know anything more.

Why can't I be free?

Please.

Silence.

                                  I need silence.

ｈｅｌｐ

What am I doing?

Am I even doing anything?

The deadline for that fully paid course to the Galapagos Islands, in the cradle of Biology (for those who have never set foot in Ecuador), is today. I've partially met all the requirements...

For what?

They're not going to accept me anyway; I'm missing the requirements. The monograph they're demanding isn't even good; it's a lame excuse because I have neither the interest nor the ability to write scientifically. I have to admit, though, that I feel incredibly violated and disingenuous writing long, self-motivational sentences. "Oh yes, I'm stroking myself thinking this will strengthen my burning desire to contribute to the world, adding valuable pillars of knowledge about plants, in this place." It just feels so contrived. I simply want to go, to see if I can land a job, and that's it.

No, that's a lie.

What am I even talking about?

I'm not even close to having a job.

I'm not even close to having my final year project done.

I haven't written anything about it in the last few days since my last meeting with my thesis supervisor. I don't even think it's some kind of rebellion against the system. Good grief, what nonsense is that? I've simply given up.

I have to admit it. I've given up. I want to get out of this life, but I simply don't have the strength or the determination. I immediately start thinking about the next obstacles I'll have to overcome, and that's exhausting enough to stop me in the present.

Drawing protists. Writing the books or articles that I haven't even finished yet. Dreaming about getting them published... and what for? It won't do me much good, especially seeing how little impact they have, or will have in the short term. It won't change the fact that I'm failing as a graduate. A pseudo-graduate.

I was going to continue writing about the complete disaster that was the last "expedition" I went on. It doesn't matter.

You know what? It doesn't matter.

I need help. Because the small achievements I make aren't mattering, or whether I write a single line of the final report. I only see darkness at the end of it all. I'm not going to write about how I see myself in a few years. Because it simply disappoints me, and it also worries me. I simply... need help. And I don't have the financial resources to seek the professional help that might pull me out of this mental hole.

Insecurity. Anxiety, or nervousness around people, whatever the hell you call it. Loneliness. Disappointment. Inner anger. A sabbatical, a sabbatical, impossible, I can't afford it.

But I do need help. Somehow.