endorphin
“One day you’ll look back on this and laugh.” Dad said, his voice muffled over the phone.
“No I won’t.” I muttered. “People say women have this hormone that makes them forget the pain of childbirth. But they don’t actually forget, do they?”
“Writing a thesis is like childbirth to me. And there aren’t midwives or epidural block in quarantine, just coffee, Sci-Hub, QuillBot, more coffee.”
It was one of the May days when early summer kicked in with graduation anxiety. From my rain-stained window, the view had the colors of an impressionistic painting. I sneaked a peek and drew the curtains. My roommates were, as usual, asleep during the day. No doubt another suicidal attempt of rushing last-minute submission had taken place. Quarantine had that disrupting effect on the biological clock. After a month or two, time became detached from reality. I often woke up at dawn to the lively chirping of birds. Waking at four was awful timing. As I lay paralyzed in bed, waves of emotions submerged me: the regret that I slept through online discussion, the anxiety over impending deadlines, the uncontrollable desire to break free. I recalled my dream when zoning out in front of the screen. The monotone of the lecture became unintelligible magic chants in my ear. Suddenly, I was transformed into a sparrow. I rolled my obsidian eyes and flew out. I sauntered in the clouds, sipped morning dew from rose petals, and cast my tiny shadow on the vast canvas of early summer. “Look at that bird!” “It’s such a show-off.” I heard the envious voices of my roommates, one high and thin, the other crisp and lilting. “I’ll shoot you off!” Someone in a white cloak waved a fist. “Little birdie, come.” The voice was deep and authoritative. “Show me your progress. The graduation thesis is due tomorrow.” I woke up with a start. The lecture was long over. I stared at the empty Tencent meeting room and felt a familiar pang of regret mixed with anxiety. Tomorrow I would be wakened by birds and daydream about flying once more. The only thing that kept me down was the approaching deadline of the graduation thesis, hanging like the sword of Damocles over my head.
“I had an epiphany today.” I told my roommate when she got up for dinner. “Did Jesus tell you when we’d be out?” She yawned. “No. Jesus wants me to start my thesis.” She held out her arms and made a pained face: “Dear God, if you can hear me, enlighten me on my thesis and turn the tears of dried inspiration into wine!” I laughed. We became humorous when there was nothing to humor us. As we ate, a rich smell of cooked rice, curry chicken, and stewed pork filled the air that would become disgusting in twenty minutes. We talked about k-pop, new Pixar movies, and mostly, academic failures. Roommate A had slept through most of the lectures because she couldn’t sleep at night with someone snoring. B had procrastinated on every assignment because somehow our typing sound killed her sleep and inspiration. As for me, I would quote Virginia Woolf’s words that a woman needs a room of her own to write. Since the university dormitory was clearly not designed for a room of one’s own, I set out that day to explore the corners of Building 18. I found a three-square-meter platform on the top floor, connecting the staircase to the roof. Looking down, I had a sweeping view of emerald trees in the day and neon billboards at night. Looking ahead, I saw sunlight through the locked glass door to the roof, dust dancing in the air. My butt hurt from the cold and hard ground as my mind swam back and forth between the exhilaration of finally getting something done and the frustration of fucking up most things. In this tucked-away corner, I sat down and typed my thesis, word by word, piece by piece.
May days went by. I woke up to birds chirping, daydreamed in Tencent-meeting class, snuggled in my secret corner, and typed out my thesis. The process had been excruciating and I distinctly recall the pain now. I cannot deny the overwhelming sense of triumph and contentment as I spelled the last word of acknowledgments. Maybe C. S. Lewis is right that an optimal environment is no prerequisite for the pursuit of knowledge. But quarantine hurts the mind like bullets hurt the body. My mind shattered and healed. My mind is not the same. Delivering the thesis baby when I was near my worst mental state was a lonely battle. No midwives or epidural block could put in the effort for me. So I gritted my teeth and waited for that endorphin to take effect, like gentle waves brushing away coarse grains of sand, revealing the solid ground underneath.
