“Don’t Work Too Much,” They Said

And go to therapy

Photo by engin akyurt on Unsplash

“Go to therapy,” they said.

I obeyed. I kept my weekly appointments, although I knew full well that I was racing the clock. During my freshman year, I would have sacrificed my left arm for an extra hour tacked onto the end of every day.

Sleep was a rare commodity in those days: always in short supply. I played varsity sports, did ROTC, worked two jobs, and went to school for my bachelor’s in chemical engineering to hide the fact that I was deeply traumatized. Of course, the only one who didn’t see the truth was me. No one else was surprised when I was diagnosed with PTSD.

I went to the neighbourhood centre for therapy: these were the days when my healthcare was free. An ephemeral season that lasted until I switched from working one job to working three.

“Don’t work too much,” they said.

Real words from the financial aid office of a school I never ended up attending. Back then, I thought they were out of their minds, but there’s no point in pretending that I don’t understand it all now. The gap between Medicaid and money; the income bracket where we say our prayers and hope we don’t drown.

“Go back to school,” they said.