It had been building.  And building.  And building.  Stress piled onto my prone to anxiety self, coupled with a general fogginess and sense of looming darkness behind it.

Like the beginning of a bad horror flick where you keep screaming at the stupid people to run AWAY from the killer and to stop splitting up and wandering into rooms without turning on the lights.

I know I have a propensity for depression and anxiety, especially in the winter (we like to say we have SAD [seasonal affective disorder] around here).  I knew something was up when all I craved was junk food and the warmth of my bed.  I saw the signs.

I sort of ignored them.  Then I had my first panic attack in a few years.  The aftermath of which left me reeling and searching for an answer as to why that had happened in the first place.  It’s like anxiety on speed, amped up to the nth degree, crawling out of your skin, lungs shrinking and unable to hold enough air.  Clearly, I was having a problem.

I sat, holding a beer across the table from a new friend, one of those calming souls, someone whose energy always projects positivity even unintentionally.

Sometimes, you just have to step off the carousel to be able to see the pony – you know?

I thought long and hard over the next few days and nothing seemed to settle as right.  I decided to quit school.

It seemed logical, this ridiculously extravagant decision – one whose repercussions I would definitely feel when the student loan bills kicked in and I had no Masters degree to show for it.  I heard conflicting advice but  I had convinced myself that it was in my best interest to take a step back.  That drowning was simply unnecessary and since I couldn’t quit my job and I couldn’t quit my life, quitting school seemed the next logical move.  Done.

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I stood at the dog park early Saturday afternoon and watched my dog prance around happily with other equally as excited playmates.  I smiled and breathed in the fresh air.  I caught, in the corner of my eye, two large dogs charging down the field.  Towards me.  Before I had a second to consider what was about to happen – or move – they slammed into me, taking me out at the knees, knocking me over and slamming my head and knees to the ground. My knee snapped out of place, the air shot out of my lungs like a bullet from a gun.

I laid there, unable to move or speak, hearing someone shout for an ambulance.  I stared up at the sky and realized this is wrong.  Something is wrong.

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Sometimes, the universe gently guides you towards a certain path.  Maybe with a short series of events or conversations.  Happenstance, as its called.  Some people say god.  Universe.  Fate.

Whatever it is.  The universe, as I have deemed it, decided I needed a bit swifter lesson.  Something to knock me on my ass, literally.

Because of course this is hard.  Of course I am tired.  But in 11 months, it will be done.  DONE.  I will have an MBA and new opportunities and more choices of where to go, who to be.  New ways to find happiness, new passion to explore.

I fell over.  I lost track of what the hell I was doing.  But I am done now, I think, with the wallowing and the weighing doubt.  I am not the first person to do this and I am absolutely strong enough to finish.  Fog, darkness and running dogs be damned.  So I think I’ll climb back on the carousel now.

Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, “I will try again tomorrow.”