The V Stages of Sophomore Slump

A monologue

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So last week Kit asked me how to get over sophomore slump. You ask this like as a junior I somehow know the answer. But hey, friend, things do get better. Let me explain to you the five stages of what is known as The Slump.

Stage 1: Denial
Hi! How are you? Oh, me? I'm FINE! No really, I’m FINE, everything's good, don’t worry about it - I said I’m FINE! What do you mean I look tired!? I look fabulous. I spent 30 minutes on my hair this morning to prove that I’m in control of my life. Yes I was sending you snapchats of the ceiling last night at 4am, but at least that’s better than the freshmen in the dungeons of Bass Thursday nights! Have you seen the fear in their eyes? I used to be one of them, but I got this now, I start working on my psets the day before they’re due and I roll out of bed exactly five minutes before class starts. Things are going FINE.
Just kind of fast, is all. Like there’s no space to breathe? I keep missing movie night with my friends and eating leftover wheat thins instead of going to breakfast. I only did my laundry today because I’m literally wearing my last pair of underwear. And I mean, it’s FINE, just that I’m starting to forget what I’m doing all this for. Like, why do I even care? I mean I know why, back in September I chose my schedule because I knew it was important. I just can’t remember why it was important to me.
But I don’t have time to worry about that. You know why they call them deadlines? Cuz if you don't make them you will DIE. I’m at Yale now, which means I’m constantly being pulled in a million directions at once, and even though that makes it hard to focus on just one thing long enough to finish it, I’m still worried that I’m not fully taking advantage of my resources so I feel like I need to do even MORE, and of course don’t forget about applying for internships and thinking about studying abroad and will I ever get into grad school and do I even want to get into grad school? And instead of dealing with all of this, I lock myself in my room and spend three hours on Reddit.
But, you know. It’s FINE. I just gotta get through the day, do the same thing tomorrow, that’s why they call it the grind. Yeah I’m FINE. How’re you?
Kit: Hey girl, your sheets have been in the washer for twelve hours!
I’ll be right back!
(runs off stage)

Stage 2: Depression
(comes back, lies on ground, covers face with sheets)
(peeks out)
If I can’t see you, you can’t see me.
(covers face again)
…
(becomes a blanket burrito)
You know when you have too much on your mind to fall asleep, but you’re too tired to actually do anything?
Yeah.
The worst part isn’t so much the downward spiral of aggressive unproductivity. It’s the shame. I mean, look at what I’ve become. I’m a BLANKET BURRITO. I don’t even have the energy to check my phone. That’s just sad, man. It’s like I’m a failure, but that’s not supposed to happen to me, I made too many promises to let this happen to me. I can’t let you see me like this.
(rolls away)
I just want to be dead to the world for a while. Cram myself in a box and take up as little space as possible. I hate admitting that I can’t handle something. It’s like begging for favors, or living off of people’s kindness. (sigh) I’m not ready for that. But I guess I can at least check my phone. How long have I been lying here?
(checks phone)
Oh, SHIT.

Stage 3: Bargaining
(gets to knees, raises hands, wears sheets over head)
Are you there, Professor? It’s me, Victoria. I know I’m not, like, the best student out there? I slept through section once, but it was the alarm’s fault I swear. It turned off by itself that day. I don’t do the readings but I’m really good at talking about vague conjectures only tangentially related to the topic, you didn’t even notice, right? I would bake you cookies but I think bribery is illegal.
Anyways. I’ve been really overwhelmed lately. Recent events have been extremely stressful. I’m swamped with work, and on top of that it’s tech week for my slam poetry show. I’m dying here, Professor. Can you please give me an extension for the paper?
(takes off sheets)
And you know what? It really helps. My friends and my mentors REALLY CARE about me. They want me to succeed. When I reach out there they are. And I’m so grateful for that. But sometimes it also drives me crazy, because I don’t know if I deserve it.

Stage 4: Anger
(stand up)
Sometimes I fantasize about my death, in a dreamy, abstract kind of way. I write them all down in a notebook. Like-
-Today, I imagine being plowed over by a car like a stalk of wheat crunching under the blades of a mechanical reaper. I relinquish my tenuous hold on my body. I can feel each fraying stitch lining up my arms to my shoulders, the seams of my mouth, the positioning of my ragdoll head. I imagine the car breaking the stitches, the weightless unpain of it, the loose infinite.
(stop)
When you’re furious--perpetually, in the marrow of your bones, in the bass thrum under your skin--and you have nobody to blame, you either take it out on everybody, or you take it out on yourself.
(drop blanket corner and step on it)
-Today, I imagine myself pitching headfirst over the rail and smashing onto hard rock floor like wet porcelain. It’s drizzling gently, a mist that leaves Christmas bulbs on my glasses, shining white in lamplight, blue under the police box, red waiting at a crossroads. I am late and ten feet in the air and I want to rearrange the ground from where I stand.
(stop)
Is this a fantasy of destruction? Or is it a fantasy of recreation? I want to break myself down into components of five, and build them back up into something I recognize from my dreams. Prettier. Cleaner. Tabula rasa. Burn away that clinging sheet of mistakes.
(pull stuffing out of blanket)
-Today I die by making carrion of myself with my restless hands. I'd like to tear myself apart, see the truth of all the things that make me tick and tick and tick and the ticks and worms and cockroaches nesting in my intestines. Dig my clumsy claws into the flesh of my belly, tear my hair out, scream a lung, burst heart.
(stop)
But none of this changes what I am. Maybe that’s not the point. Maybe I'm being taught a different kind of lesson.

(drop blanket)
Stage 5.
I have no idea what I'm doing.
I'm sick of covering that up in ambiguous metaphors and elaborate conceits. I have a lot of problems. I guess this makes me relatable. But that's not the point either, the point is: Hey, friend. How are you the person you are right now? When you take a breath, what magical thing fills you up from your nose to your ten toes like the wind in a drooping sail? You and I, we’re the vessels of our desires, and we decide the direction that our bodies will move, we decide what to do with the cloth we were stitched from and what dreams will stuff it full. There’s no deadline for becoming who we’re meant to be.
Hey friend. You and I are kind of a mess, and I love us anyway.