I had the school nurse take my pulse rate today. 106 beats per minute. My inhaler is making me feel like a rubber band stretched extra taut. I keep having to remind myself that I'm not afraid, because stimulants give me all those fear-like symptoms. And, clearly, this is exactly what I needed. But the nurse said I should adjust to the meds soon. Until then, frankly, I feel extra crazy. She told me not to stop them, though, because she listened to my lungs and it doesn't sound good. All day, my hands have been shaking and I'm having trouble with those fine motor skills. That, my friends, was a poorly written English sentence.

My mother emailed me today, after exactly one month of me being silent. She said hello, remember me, I'm your mother and sometimes I like hearing from my daughter! I didn't write back what I wanted. So I'll do it here: Hello, remember the time you told me I used to be so confident and self-assured and then all the sudden I really, really wasn't? Do you remember those words? Think about them long and hard. And when you're ready to listen (which you won't ever be), I'll tell you why I don't want to talk to you. You have exactly one chance to acknowledge everything and if you don't, then I will never respond to you again. I don't even believe in ultimatums, but this is all you get.

Except, I didn't write anything like that. I stayed with safe things. Work. Health. I should have thrown in something about the weather.

I have hardly ever been so exhausted and so painfully keyed up, all at the same time. I feel like my dial is cranked up to eleven and all I'm producing is static. My head is pounding. I took ibuprofen. Or something like that. There is no rest, but I'll try to find it anyway.