Now that spring semester has begun, it is turning out exactly as I predicted: terrible. It is possible I overdramatize everything in my life, but the jury is still out on that at this time, so I will continue to speak as though I am 100 percent justified in everything I say.
The spring semester is always worse than the fall semester. When the fall semester begins, I am spry and eager, willing to take on whatever academic challenges are sure to face me in the new school year.
That feeling quickly wanes, however, and I reach a complacency somewhere between “I know I need to try harder,” and “What if I just never go back to school?”
Often in the fall semester, the first introduction between a student and a professor occurs on that first day of class, which always seems to be on a random Thursday.
By the spring semester, at least in my experience, most of my courses are taught by professors with whom I have already become familiar. This sounds great at first.
The problem, though, is these professors now know my secret. I speak out a lot in my English classes, and I could easily come off as a successful, ambitious student. In reality, I like to hear myself talk, especially about English.
In the spring semester, it is cold. It will eventually be spring, but the semester actually begins in January. It is a cruel tactic to call this freezing wind monstrosity the spring semester. When I wake up at 7:45 a.m. and check my phone for the day’s temperature, a blaring 10 degrees Fahrenheit eliminates any shred of motivation and enthusiasm that might have carried over from a cool dream into real life.
When someone is teetering on the brink of complete breakdown in the form of never leaving the house and forgoing all responsibilities, the thought of ice cold winds and freezing sleet forbids me from attempting to leave the lasagna-esque placing of comforters on my bed.
Spring Break is a shining ray of hope within the spring semester. Though I never go to Panama City, or anywhere really, there is once again a small break from getting up early, and a week’s worth of pretending I do not have a thousand assignments piling up preceding the final exams that might very well kill me.
Like I said, maybe I overdramatize things. Maybe I do not really despise school as much as I say. I actually love my professors and the discussions that emerge. Maybe I make things worse by dwelling on how awfully and unbearably busy things seem to be during the spring semester. The only thing I can say is, try to get through it.
There are only two semesters left once I survive this one. In the words of my boyfriend, my mother and the man to whom I have not spoken in years who replied to one of my tweets, don’t give up. So here I am, attempting to balance my busy schedule and my unconditional affinity for naps.