I was half naked and nervously smiling when I enlisted, pawing at the earth to smear my chest in mud and flesh to imitate the warriors around me. And as the first volleys spat against the cloud-bleached skies and cut into us, I waded into battle and fought like hell.

I have been at war for 3 years.

I have known the numbing cold of weeks without meaningful human contact, burning sections of myself into the still night sky, to stay focused for the next battle.

I have seen kind people dig deep into their skin and tear away their cheek, their lip, their face, lost and wandering aimlessly, screaming to the sky on bent knees for the pain to stop. Screaming.

It may be a higher circle than is known by some, but the cool crescent red of Hell licks my vision on this hill, that rocky crag--and as I stare out on the other half-dead souls weaving past the spires of corpses come before us, I have come to appreciate life and the soft flickering candles I can barely make out as the sun dies down and flesh is made to eat and fuck for our numbed beastiality.

This last semester was the hardest yet. I did not remotely appreciate the cluster-fuck I was rushing into until it was too late. The neuroimaging class was a cake walk, and I impressed the prof well enough such that he'd like to collaborate. I made assistant professors look amateurish by comparison to my work. I deserve every dram of arrogance there, because it was founded in fact and it was easy.

And then there was cellular and molecular neuroscience. I knew I needed to take the course, to fill the gaping hole in my training that every other psychology person wouldn't move to fill. And from the first day I sat down in class and learned just how little background I had, to mastering the material and being on par with neuroscience and biomedical engineering students, I constantly wondered if I had done the right thing. It quite obviously wasn't the wise thing. I spent long stretches of time re-reading notes right after lectures, reading the book, and letting other sections of my personal and professional life suffer.

I deteriorated some this semester. My self-esteem tanked at several points for reasons I've mentioned. I gradually got less and less sleep. I barely kept in contact with anyone. And my research suffered. I can't do another pharmacology based study because of a few balls I dropped during this semester--which actually is probably for the best.

And so I took the final for the course I had so very been underprepared for. And today I found out that I did better than most people in the case. I had become their equal and, by studying about 2 1/2 to 3 weeks in advance, grabbed one of the several A's they allow. I have never worked so hard on a class.

So after that final, more numbed than relieved, I set about to get with feeling human again and return home. To have a proper vacation. To see what it was like to be around family and friends again.

So far it's wonderful, to the extent that I don't know how I was living beforehand. Then I remember the ones on their knees with no identity anymore. While I wasn't one of those, I had in essence forgotten my past and paid little mind to the future. Truncated.

It's hard sometimes to let go. My clothes hide most of the physical scars I have, and often times my disposition or quiet does likewise for those of the heart or mind, but sometimes I forget to remove the burden. I woke up today after a terrible dream involving the lab. Sometimes I wish I could live a normal life.

I'll eventually have to go back to the war. I'd like to think the worst is over. Maybe yes. Maybe no. I'd like to think I can keep bouncing back, even if in some ways I'm more neurotic or anxious than I used to be.

But even if I can, it's not healthy. The question then is how to bring more healthy things to the equation. That's where I'm at right now.

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