Every session I teach, I fool myself into thinking that the constant demands of my students, my colleagues, and my superiors causes me stress. But like a recurring nightmare, I remember at the end of every session that it is the silence that shoves me toward the Terrible Place--the place of panic and depression. Ironically, the quiet, the stillness, accelerates my heart. Beat-starts my heart. Cruelly quickens my breath. My thoughts. And I hurt. Every bit of it hurts.
Wrongly, I long for the school breaks. I think, "I'll really get work done then." But the breaks break me, like crushes crush. The desirable attained is the final destination of the death drive. I fucking hate Freud.
If all I want is to get a couple more things published, and be awarded a prestigious grant that I think I have a shot at, if that's what I want, and I get it, what pain awaits me? How will my heart hurt then? What pain will threaten to consume me?
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