Kept beating--beating--till I thought/My Mind was going numb--

So my brain has for all intents and purposes shut itself off. For the past several days, I've barely been able to think, let alone think straight. I keep forgetting what day it is and blank out. My twitching isn't better, either; in fact, it started up on Monday again. The doctor prescribed Ativan for me until the MRI and EEG results get back (which was supposed to be today, but due to hospital bureaucratic procedure, or Latin slowness, or a combination of both, is actually going to be tomorrow), but my parents--being the intelligent people that they are--have yet to fill it. So it's pretty much a moot point now, isn't it?

Yeah, I had an EEG, too, on Monday. I arrived in time for my 3:30 appointment, and after he watched my (conveniently) twitching hand, he packed me off for an electroencephalogram (or EEG, which is infinitely easier and quicker to type), hoping that the electrodes would pick up, I don't know, something. So I came out with my head covered in goo, sorry, gel. Have to use the scientificky terms, right? After the tech pulled off the eight million electrodes, he let me stick my head under a faucet, but by that point I was tired and headachy and feeling incredibly dumb. Not as in, "I'm in an awkward situation and therefore feel uncomfortable," but as in, "I don't know what day it is. Or what time it is. Or what I'm supposed to be doing." That kind of dumb. Now I know what people with bad memories feel like; I could barely remember my own name. I blame the flashing lights; apparently an important part of an EEG is testing responses while exposed to lights flashing on and off at various speeds.
Oh, and at the end of it, I couldn't feel the left side of my face. I think that might be bad, but it might be normal, too. I mean, normal for after an EEG.
In any case, the doc did get a glimpse of my MRI scans and said he doesn't think it's MS. Which means that it could have been, or might still be, and that's a really scary proposition. I'm siding with the doctor on this one; I don't want it to be MS. I'd rather it be some weird psychosomatic thing, although, to be perfectly honest, I really hope it isn't, because then I'd feel, I don't know, really stupid and foolish.

On a completely different note, my siblings' middle/high school (it's combined, since there aren't enough students to merit a separation) has an M-Term, also known as May Term. It's just like Taylor's J-Term, except it's not for college credit and it's in May. And I don't teach at Taylor.
Yeah, you read it right. Teach. Me. Me. The chick who despises children and has zero patience. I'm going to be teaching an elective, so I may actually not be teaching anything at all if no one signs up. I'm kind of hoping that'll be the case, because then I can say, "oh well, at least I offered;" but at the same time, it'd be really embarassing and rather depressing to not have anyone want to be taught by me--even though it's actually quite understandable. Especially given the subject:
Creative Writing.
Now, yeah, I know, I write semi-regularly in a blog and was in a bunch (meaning about 12 credits worth) of writing courses at Uni. But that's all the writing I do. I don't write stories much--I think about them, I plot them out in my head, I'll even tell someone about them if I'm in a really good mood about it, but I almost never write them down. Remember the Ritalin/Ambien incident? That happened because I hadn't written any stories--not one--in over a year.
I don't write for fun. I write for class. I write to keep in touch with people I care about. I write to keep the people I'm supposed to care about but don't up-to-date on my rather bizarre life (hence the blog). I write to vent. I don't write for me, I don't write for other people, I don't write fiction or poetry. I suppose you could call this creative nonfiction, since most of it's true and it's all creative.
I read things. I tell people about the things I read. I write essays and reports about what I read. I tell people what's wrong with their writing after I've read it. I'm a reader. And a critic, I suppose you could say. But I'm not a writer, certainly not a creative one.
So we'll see how this whole thing goes.

Oh, and to close, on a "writing" note, I received a very kind comment about this actual blog not long ago, and it really meant a lot, brought a smile to my face, and other assorted sappy stuff that really does prove I'm not well at all.