I apologize that the last few blogs have been rather depressing. But I am a writer and this is how I choose to express myself, so maybe I'm not sorry.
Thursday night I had a mental breakdown in the beer aisle at Walmart. Dylan escorted me out to my car, where we had a little chat.
As I've mentioned, I've felt depressed since I returned home. I feel that people don't quite understand me here, and some are too selfish to recognize I'm upset. I'm made to feel that I (who traveled Europe for five months and learned a second language) was the one who missed out last semester, because they tell me all the people they met and parties they've had. I am not jealous. I drank beer in Belgium and sipped wine and champagne in France, but people demean me. They make my successes seem less impressive, and I've cried almost everyday I've been home. Nobody knows how I feel except for Dylan, who's seen me spontaneously burst into tears, and Leah, who takes me out to tea weekly.
Friday night, he and I split a bottle of wine and talked about religion, toe-sucking, and broken families until 3 AM. We had seen Midnight in Paris that night at the Fine Arts Theatre and were feeling a little nostalgic, so I broke out some cheese and we sat on the patio.
Saturday, he left for his camp. He'd be gone five days. No biggie. The power had gone out in my apartment and I would be alone. When he left, I sobbed and locked myself in the bathroom. I cried by candlelight, but I could hear my boyfriend standing outside the door waiting for his girlfriend to come to. I don't know what's wrong with me. Everyday I remind myself that I'm an incredible person, but people here make me feel otherwise. I'm trying to stay strong and I've prescribed myself a daily dose of herbal tea and classic literature. It helps.