I dropped two classes, because I don't have time to go to therapy.
Sans one directed readings course and one pointlessly unhelpful Institute class, I think I might make it through the semester relatively emotionally whole. And then, in the Fall, my husband has requested that I take three classes, and only three. Since I'm also supposed to be co-founding a professional poetry collective, parenting, and pulling decent grades so that grad school is possible, I think this is a fair thing to ask.
My edits and bio are in to Dialogue. The CNF research piece is just about wrapped up, I guess. There's one more monstrous piece left to write for the course. I've got a mountain of Brit Lit to catch up reading for Wednesday's midterm, and Greek translations every day. No wonder I felt like I was drowning. No wonder the anxiety was eating me alive. Duh.
Someday I'll stop trying to take on more to fill up the emotional holes when I feel stressed. It's a really bad coping mechanism. It may not actually work.