Post Traumatic Stress.

Two days ago I had a particularly stressful exam.
My teacher wrote each of the 500 pages of his book himself and, believe it or not, he actually wants us to quote them word for word at the exam.
- It's ok if you think that I'm shitting you, I would have never believed it if I hadn't been a victim of his particularly stupid and narcissistic way of interrogating students.

I had already passed two of his classes and I didn't see any reason why this year's one would be different.
Sure, it hurts a bit to try and cram 500 fucking pages of keywords in your head, but then so do a lot of other things that we do every day.
Actually, I was even pretty chill when it came to that exam.
Been there, done that, it would just take a lot of willpower and empty memory space.

Or so I thought.

For reasons unknown, those damned words didn't want to travel from their page to my head.
I gave up two days in a row until it was really a matter of sink or swim and I had to forceps them into my memory.
It's never pleasant.

The night before the exam, I was a hot mess.
For the life of me, I couldn't remember one word of what I had studied. -see previous post
It goes without saying that come bedtime, there were lots of tears and very little sleep.
On the morning of, my sweet Mr K. took precious time out of his own studying to help me go over every damned detail of it.
Picture me sitting on my bed, repeating my lesson with tears in my eyes like a child who didn't do his homework.
Not one of my finest moments.

When I arrived to the exam room, I could barely stop myself from fainting.
All my hard work was gonna be destroyed by one stupid exam which was supposed to be piece of cake.
It's a miracle that I didn't run after Mr K. and ask him to take me far, far way from uni.

Once I saw the questions, things seemed to look up a bit though.
Except from two questions (out of 10) where I went into full freestyle mode, I actually remembered my shit when it came down to answering.
Before giving back my exam, I painstakingly calculated that even if he was very strict in his notation, I should manage to pass.

Getting out, I talked with some friends who miraculously seemed to have answered roughly the same as me.
It seemed that once again, I had worked myself into hysteria for nothing.
Reassured, I left uni to get back to my ball and chain : my piles of study material.
From then on, things took a turn for the worse.

During the ten minutes that it took me to walk home, I went over and over all my answers again, dissecting them mercilessly in my head.
With every step, I became less sure that I had actually done good at the exam.
When I got home and started rereading my notes, every little key word that I had forgotten was one more nail into my coffin.

By the time I called my parents to tell them my impressions, I was sure that I had miserably failed.
I was so distraught that it took me a second to realize that my dad was mocking me when he wondered whether or not I'd actually have a negative grade.Ah ah.

Two days on and I'm not only certain that I failed that one, I'm also convinced that I'm gonna fail all the others which will then result in my failing Uni and failing my life.
I've actually gotta run : I have to see if any of the sleazy bars next to the train station are hiring.
God knows that I won't find work anywhere else.

x, K.

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