Today I made it until 12:45 p.m. before choking back sobs on my walk to class, which means nothing, because I groggily rolled out of bed at 11. I would like to formally say “Fuck you” to my program for specifically scheduling finals for our last two days in Sevilla. They have a strict policy about changing test times, and when I asked to move one of my Thursday finals to today, I was told no, because my schedule wasn’t shitty enough. Then I said, “Listen, I’m going to be an emotional disaster on Thursday and I have no business taking two final exams,” and they responded, “Sucks to be you!” (in so many words, in Spanish) before showing me the door.
I could go on in agonizing detail about my horrific sleep schedule, the way I’ve been abusing my body between coffee and sleep aids while trying to simultaneously study, pack and not cry every time I realize it’s the last time I’ll be doing/seeing/speaking with X, Y or Z. But we’ll leave it at that. People read this, in theory, and perhaps the more maudlin details are best saved to wallow over on my own.
I’m not ready to leave Sevilla, and it feels like I’m being yanked from this place far too early. The taxi to the airport comes at 4:45 a.m. on Friday. By late Friday afternoon Central time, I will (hopefully) land (on time) at ORD in Chicago. By Sunday afternoon, I’ll be moved into my Iowa City apartment. The proximity of all this activity has forced me to snap out of denial, and apparently all I’m missing now are the proper coping mechanisms to accept it.
