Enough For Now (55/90)

Tonight, I am drained.

It wasn't until I was leaving campus, chatting on the staircase with a friend after a full day, that I remembered how long last night was for me. I went to bed at 4 and woke again at 7. Surrounded by the things I have been too tired to run from; the overwhelming fear and the sudden sharp pains of anxiety in my chest.

Sometimes we needn't run, though. Sometimes one foot in front of the other is enough.

I called THE grad school today and left a voicemail for the director of the nonfiction program. His voice, what I heard of it on the recording anyway, was gentle and controlled, his speaking pace slow. But I'm  hoping desperately that he is quick to call me back.

An hour or so later, I sent an email to the admissions office in case he doesn't. And I finalized the decision a bit later in the day that even if they don't respond either, I'll see the school this weekend.

 I'll make my way there hurriedly after our scheduled agency visits while the others return to the hotel. I'll   try to blend in with the other students, listen in on their conversations and feed off of their creative energy.

This tenacity came only after a meeting with my mentor, Brad, this afternoon, who has a way of pushing me through that overwhelming fear, far past my comfort zone and into that unfamiliar space, where I need to be.

I've finally come to the end of my whining about hating the countdown. There are  45 days until it's over. I am excited and sad. Actually, there are days that I am excited and there are  days that I am sad. Those emotions don't coexist yet.

On Saturday, while still in Chicago, I'll wake up early and go out to find a coffeehouse to sit in for the morning while I apply for an internship, which is  the next step beyond the 45 days. (It's technically not the end for me until I actually walk across the stage in July, but for all intents and purposes, it's over in 45 days.)

I can't lie. That number turns my stomach, and brings the sting of tears to my eyes.

All of the things that I'd hoped for when I moved her nearly two years ago are slowly but surely coming to fruition.  And I'm not sure whether this timing is perfect or cruel.

But at some point,  the night always fades into the morning.