This is like a record or something, right? I’ve managed to write twice in the same…year! This year is almost over, actually. I’m not finished Christmas shopping, I still haven’t solved the Internet crisis at Sparks and I don’t have a job. I might be getting another babysitting job in January with one of my mom’s coworkers but for now, I’m a free agent. There’s nothing wrong with that though. It means I get to sleep, and clean, and take care of all the stupid little projects that are around the house. I mean, even now, I’m in the library collecting phone numbers and people to contact to do all the minor things around town that I can’t do. Waterproofing the basement, hooking up a better Internet for all mankind, curing AIDS, ya know, that sort of thing.

The semester has finally ended as well and boy, did it go out with the biggest bang it could! I took a history course with a professor I had for Ethics last semester for the sole reason that I liked the professor. I enjoy history, but this class was much more streamlined for history majors than my Ethics course was, although we did discuss a lot of history in that one as well. Hell, we reenacted the Nuremberg Trials. The focus of this course was writing historical analyses. Like I said, not a history major so I’ve never really written papers in that format before. My Ethics course didn’t require papers like that, at least not in such a formal manner so this was totally foreign to me. My professor, that I have the utmost respect for and admire her intellect, gave me an Incomplete as a final grade. I lost it. I went to her office to ask what happened, what I had done wrong and what exactly she wanted in exchange for a real grade. She told me I had tried to pull a fast one on her, that I was trying to get out of writing a good paper because I was a psychology major and not a history major. All in all, she told me my paper was shit and that I was disrespecting her because I thought I could get away with not completing the course requirements. Now, I know y’all don’t actually know me but if you did, you would know that I am not one to cry or one to shy away from hard work. I cried in her office that day. And I mean, cried. I wept to the point that I couldn’t form coherent words or phrases. I was pissed off, not because I hadn’t “gotten away” with something as she kept accusing, but because the hard work I did put in on the piece I turned in was such a shitstorm to her that she made me cry! The cycle just kept going around and around. The more I thought about what had happened, the more pissed and hurt I got. Even Thomas noted that I’m not a crier and that when it comes to constructive criticism I’m pretty thick-skinned. She was not giving me constructive criticism. She was just being mean. I recorded the whole conversation and plan on keeping any correspondence between us until this “I” leaves my transcript. For those of you who have not been in academia rather recently: an incomplete is like a blank space on your transcript. You don’t receive the credit but it doesn’t lower your GPA as if you failed. Instead, at the professor’s discretion, you are granted an indeterminate amount of time to redeem the credit in a way that is also at the professor’s discretion. Basically, the professor has you by the balls until you do what they want. It’s totally bullshit. I was more pissed off at the fact that I’m going through this process again than actually having the Incomplete. I mean, she could have failed me! But she didn’t and for that I am thankful. Though I’m not too happy about having to spend $60 on books on Amazon for a paper. I did this almost every semester when I was at HCC. I would have a mental breakdown and have to either withdraw entirely or take the Incomplete and work it out with my professor. That’s what bothered me. All this way, all this time, all this money…and I’m still fucking up in the worst sort of way. I’m a good writer. That is one thing I have complete confidence in. But now? Now my foundation is shaky. I’m not sure how good a writer I am because I’ve had to withdraw from so many classes, I’ve had to take an “i” in a course that isn’t even related to my major. Frustrated. Angry. Pissed. Hurt. Enraged. None of those begin to cover it.

And then, on top of that, when I went to take my final final of the semester (which was at 10 AM for a 2 PM class), I got an email. All of my emails come to my phone (like 99% of America’s population) so right before the test was handed out, I checked my phone for messages. I had an email on my school account. I swiped it open and it was her. Just the thought of what had happened, her name, her reply, all of it was like a traumatic event all over again. I’m pretty sure I bombed that test because I was so distracted and wrapped up in my head about my history course. My professor for Social Psychology (that was the final I was taking when I was so rudely shoved into an emotional storm) is really nice and has even served as my pseudo-advisor while my school-assigned advisor is on sabbatical. I don’t think she’s so nice though, that she would let me retake the final, completely stress-free and environmentally-safe, without phones and surprise communication with my history professor. That’s asking a bit much.

I just feel so handicapped. When I’m walking with crutches, when I’m using my cane or even my wheelchair, people stare at me. It’s just part of the gig. I don’t like it but I can put on a tough face and take the questions, laugh off the stares and get on with my day. There are certain intellectual topics that I also accept as being part of the wheelhouse I do not belong in. Math, science, things like that are not for me. Never have been, never will be. And I’ve accepted that. Because so much emphasis is put on those subjects though, I’ve been compensating my entire life with useless facts and a superb knowledge of things I am good at. English, writing, history, things like that. For my professor to make me feel stupid isn’t really an accomplishment (I feel stupid a lot actually) but making me feel stupid in something I know I’m good at is a skill. And now I feel so stupid that I can’t do anything. I’ve recoiled so much that I can’t get anything done. I can’t think of anything remotely important without thinking about how I’m doing it wrong or there’s a million better ways to handle it. It’s insane how much one person can affect you.

I’m so sleepy. I took a Oxycotin last night because I was hurting so bad and now I feel like it hasn’t worn off. I’m gonna go home and lie down. And, of course, I look fucking fabulous today but that doesn’t matter because I have nowhere to go.

350px-CastielPurgatoryFinals. Oh, how I hate you. Long time, no blog. I can’t leave the building yet, as I have another final at 12:30 (I had one this morning at 8…AM), so I’m sitting in one of the alcoves, full of sunshine, typing. I’m listening to music too but that was sort of a given. Watching people study is sort of like watching people in the bookstores and coffee shops. Some people are obviously not doing anything but trying desperately to hide that fact. Others aren’t even trying to hide it; they’re talking, looking at their phones, anything to keep the books shut. And others are legitimately working…and being greatly annoyed by those of us in the other two categories. That’s okay, though. I like the anonymity of it all (I spelled that right the first time! That never happens!); hiding in plain sight and all that. I have to work tomorrow, after another final, that I haven’t studied for. Exciting.

This week, I was super depressed. I got blown off multiple times by the same person, was left alone a bit too long and spent too much money. I’m sort of like a dog with a credit card. Leave me alone and I’ll buy ten pairs of shoes rather than eat yours in protest. I’m not sure if the emotionality was because of this semester ending; you know I don’t do well with endings. Or if it was because I have major decisions to make. I don’t know. I can’t figure it out. The decisions I speak of: graduate school, to take or not to take the GREs, and what to do about my living situation. Let’s break it down.

Graduate school: Brendan. That’s pretty much the concern there. He’s assured me he will follow me to the ends of the Earth, or Pennsylvania because that’s where I think I’m going, and get a job wherever we land. He’s supportive like only my parents have ever been. It freaks me out sometimes. Other times it’s the best and most perfect thing. He’s not the only issue though. The other problem is uprooting my life to go to school. That means being an adult. Like all the way. Shopping, not having parents within proximity, not having anywhere to run when we fight, not having anywhere to run: period. I’ve lived here my whole life. While it has not provided me with the ample running zone I would like, it has been sufficient. Having an alcove at my parents’ house is perfect for those times I just can’t stand to be in anyone’s company. If I move, that won’t be there. I’m like a baby bird leaving the nest, except the only reason I’m leaving is because I’m being forcefully shoved by society. The GRE problem is pretty much wrapped up in this too. If I go to a school that requires the test, I’ll have to take the test. If I don’t, I’m sure as hell not taking it. I will write a kick-ass essay though. That’s a given. Well, come to think of it. My living situation is sort of wrapped up in this too. Brendan is coming with me, no matter where I go, as he says, but what am I to do now? We live in my grandmother’s house in the middle of nowhere. It’s big and empty and drafty and good. But there’s no Internet. Like, at all. And, as much as I hate to admit it, we are children of the 21st century. We want the Internet (note: I didn’t use the word “need” because we don’t ultimately “need” it but we desperately, desperately want it!). It’s that simple. Having spoken with at least 2 Internet providers (I don’t know if B has talked to anyone), we have gotten no further on the issue. He wants to move but I know he’s reluctant to make that jump without having that tether to the real world. And I get it. But I also don’t want to live without him right now. I have to add the “right now” because I’m such a fluttering flower that I may not agree with myself in 5 minutes!

I’m going to watch Supernatural when I’m finished typing this. I was watching it the other day and it was fueling my depression more than I care to admit. Why? For those of you that don’t watch the show, I’m going to try to sum it up in a few sentences. Dean and Sam Winchester fight otherworldly creatures as a duty to protect humanity from said otherworldly creatures. They receive help along the way, from various human beings, creatures of the kind they hunt, and heavenly bodies. One of these heavenly bodies has played a key role in their success: the angel, Castiel. Now, if you are suddenly compelled to watching this (amazing) show, please skip to the next paragraph, as I am about to spoil some it for you. If you already watch/don’t want to but wish I would shut up and get to the point, keep reading this paragraph. I am Castiel. No, I don’t mean in a vessel-I’m-losing-my-mind-Joan-of-Arc-style. I mean, the character. The struggles, the trials, the tribulations, yadda yadda. Okay, here’s what I’m thinking. Cas saves Dean from Hell. Why? Because he knew he had to. It was his duty. Yes, I am aware there is more to it but I’m trying not to totally spoil! Then, he takes on the Leviathan (spelled this right too! YES!) and it ultimately (sort of) destroys him. Then, he survives purgatory without understanding why; he was totally expecting to rot there for the rest of his…whatever. Now, here’s my analogy (it’s me we’re talking about! Of course there was going to be some symbolism!). Cas did what he thought was right (twice) only to have it bite him in the ass. Then, he had the chance to pay for his crimes (though they weren’t really seen that way), he’s saved from that curse and is left to figure it out (I’m only on season 8 so no one spoil it for me as I’m writing this!). I’ve made countless mistakes trying to save other people, myself, whatever and whomever you want to “insert here.” I’ve never been to purgatory so I can’t say that but I was saved from my self-inflicted punishment for some unknown reason. I don’t know what I did to deserve the people that are in my life now but I can tell you, whatever it is, it didn’t happen in this lifetime. My punishment for all the pain I’ve caused, all the people I’ve hurt, all the hell I’ve raised (not in the good way) is having to live with that knowledge. But, like Cas, I’m still left with the confusion of what I did to deserve my saving. I’ve tried to kill myself before. Cas rotted in purgatory. I keep watching the show, hoping he gets some redemption, some relief, so I know that it can happen to me too.

It’s the same reason I read that book, Borderlines by Carol…something or other. That’s what started me on this journey. The divorce from Mara, the craziness that followed. Even the day it happened, I called my mom, crying, wanting to know the end of the book. I needed to know that she survived, she made it, she put her life back together. I keep watching because I need to know if Cas redeems himself. I relate to that with so much of my being, it’s insane. I’m afraid that I will never get to redeem myself, to forgive myself.

It ebbs and flows. Sometimes, I’m just as angry as Dean, just as flustered and frustrated but understanding as Sam. Sometimes, very rarely, I’m happy and carefree like Garth. Most of the time though, I’m pining for forgiveness, some sign that things will be okay despite everything that has happened, like Castiel. B has been my steadfast rock; my constancy through it all. Somehow, he’s forgiven me. Though he wasn’t at the eye of the storm, things were pretty rough on his shore because of me. Now? Now I just need to figure out how to do it for myself.

thFQXEBNFCHanging out in the library. Whoa. Haven’t done this in quite a while. I’m completely out of data at the house so I’ve been sitting around, day after day, watching an endless stream of DVDs. I had emails too important to not send so I had to find a connection somewhere. And here we are. It’s cool, there are two old men arguing about the relevance of Facebook and Google as one of them sets up a profile. I missed this. The quiet bustle of people searching for a good read or learning about computers for the first time. Not the arguing. Well, actually, they’re sort of entertaining too. I was struggling yesterday with the inability I have to fit in. After being talked about (not so subtly) by classmates and having this terrible internal dialogue about my worth and the inflexibility of my principles, I had a bad day. It wasn’t good. I imagine this is what condors feel like. They’re lonely birds, lacking the same social structure as songbirds that fly in flocks. They have to sit on power lines and tree branches, watching the other birds, wondering what it’s like to be socially accepted. Then, after longing and loathing, they have to eat, they have to dive into their midst and take one or two. Dominance is what rules nature. But as soon as they’ve finished and returned to their roost, they are alone again, watching from afar. This is how serial killers are bred. Like, for realsies. Isolation leads to desperation and desperation leads to drastic moves. Don’t worry (or report me), I’m not going to kill anyone. All I’m saying is that we like movies and stories about villains for a reason. We understand their plight, their longing to fit in and then the lack of empathy from the masses. We understand their frustration and pent up rage as again and again they are scorned and ridiculed. We are the ones that turn villagers into villains. Because we believe we are the kings and queens of this world, that we deserve to make others feel as downtrodden and ugly as we feel inside. Behind our masks, behind this façade, we are all villagers on the cusp, waiting to be pushed over the edge just enough that our status changes and the respect we long for is so violently ripped from those that refuse to give it. I read a piece last night about a serial killer that explicitly stated the only reason he turned to crime and violence was because that was the only thing he had ever been shown. All those that entered his life mistreated and abused him. He felt he should do unto others…so he did. In prison, on death row, he wrote his autobiography. It has been picked apart and analyzed by sociologists and psychologists and they’ve all been fascinated with their finds. Why? Because they believe, as he did, that he was not born a killer, he was molded into one by the cruelty he experienced. This has been proven time and again with those that commit mass murder in public places like movie theaters and schools. We are so quick to blame the individual but how many of these individuals can there really be? We want to blame the person because if we were to admit it was society, their upbringing and those involved in their life, we would have to cast blame on ourselves. And who wants to admit that they were the root of such evil? No one. If one cup of water comes up poisoned, shouldn’t be blame the well it came from?

Treat others with kindness. You never know what they’re going through. And you never know if you’ll be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

downloadI just did a shit ton of proactive…action, for this upcoming semester. Mostly, I should have done it like 2 weeks ago but instead, I’m doing it Lucy-style: 3 days before the semester starts. I’m kind of an idiot sometimes. But, but! I did think through buying textbooks and plan on purchasing them for super cheap on Amazon. I fully promote this idea! Can I get paid for it though, that would be great? Oh! Speaking of being paid, I got a job! I need to review my nicknames for people on here, cause everyone has a Batman/Bruce Wayne identity. For now, we shall call them…The Sitters. They have a 6-week-old that will need a part-time nanny while Mother and Father cart off to work. And I was chosen! They were very thorough in their “investigation” of me but I got the job! I saw them yesterday and did a bit of training: knowing what soothes her, changing diapers (though I didn’t much need that one, I totes know how to do that), and finding things around the house. It’s still going to be a learning process but it’s exciting to know what’s ahead of me. Wow. I never thought an adventure into the unknown would be…exciting. That’s like a normal-people word, not one used by…us. It feels weird on my tongue and honestly, it’s going to take some getting used to. School is the same way. I’m looking forward to it because summer always tends to feel a bit too long around this time. Like, you just want to get the year over with but it refuses to die, keeps taking these straggling breaths. I made it through, though. Without muddling, because that was what I was about to type. No, I made it through. There were challenges, like my vacation, but it was still fun. Anyway, back to school. The only thing I’m dreading is my schedule. I think the course load will be refreshing and interesting, as these are classes I’ve never even heard about. I’m hoping it will refresh the subject some because hearing the same thing about Freud is exhausting sometimes. And then I get all implosive and apply unnecessary theories to my life. I know, I know, that’s just what undergraduate psychology students do, but it doesn’t mean it’s fun…or helpful. Though last night, Freud and I came to a certain conclusion. I wrote in my pen-and-paper journal, something I haven’t done since like 2013, because I’ve posted here instead. I wasn’t sure I was ready to share what I wrote but I needed it out. I had to draw from the source and disperse the confusion and potential undoing onto something else. And it helped. I even used the word “healthy coping skills” in the entry. But I was talking about my body image issues. Freud believed that patients with mental illness could never be cured, we (as in psychologists and the psychological community) could only help them manage the symptoms. The bend in their rod would never straighten, and would only continue to warp as time continued, especially if they did not receive help. Well, I don’t agree with Freud on many things, mostly because, as he was an intelligent and innovative man, he based a lot of his theories on absolutely nothing. This theory though…I enjoy this one. I think it makes perfect sense. Mental illness as a whole is an intelligent and cunning creature. It takes on the presence of bipolar or depression, anxiety or PTSD, and ravages your brain, your body, your life. Then, after you’ve bravely faced every battle, every bout, and came out the other side just a bit dingy, worse for wear but alive all the same, it does something unexpected. It changes it’s identity. Like a good spy, it disappears into the folds of your brain tissue to recuperate and find another source of insecurity, doubt or fear. And then? Then, it attacks, revitalized and just as destructive, if not more so. See, this new manifestation has a special talent of raising things from the dead. Particularly, it’s former identity. So once you’ve battled and beaten the initial illness, taken afternoon tea, and slept, you turn around and are facing a new but oddly familiar enemy. Eating disorders, panic disorder, agoraphobia; they serve as a new mask for the same villain, the one you just FRACKING beat into submission. I hope that tea was good, because now you have to worry about a whole new army, one that you are not trained and too weary to fight against. That’s what’s happening to me. I was diagnosed first with depression: check, battle won. I was then diagnosed with bipolar: check, forever ongoing but for now, managed. I was diagnosed with CRPS (I know, not mental but has a strong mental component): check, acceptance is key. But now, my symptoms manifest around food. I can’t eat without feeling extremely guilty. I keep track of my bowel movements and know if I eat more than i should use my super-laxative to make sure the calories are removed. And intellectually, I know that isn’t how it works. Weight loss is a struggle, as everything is in life, but it takes discipline, not psychosis. Then, after worrying and worrying, I have visions of a near future as an inpatient…again. That cannot happen. I’m not saying I will stop fighting, at least at this particular moment, but like Napoleon leaving Russia, I’m tired. I need to learn to control my brain, and to stop this nonsense once and for all. But then I think of good, ol’ Sig. What if Siggy was right and there is no way to undo the damage that has been caused? Like some kind of psychological storm, the very infrastructure of my psyche is too worn to be salvaged, and must be left as a bent pile of rebar, exquisitely ugly. I mean, part of the interest in all of this is trying to decide where this stuff came from. Was my brain warped in womb, or was it because of a series of unfortunate events? (I love that series; so excited for the Netflix version!) The theories and backstories of these individuals is beautiful and mysterious and it sucks me in every single time. But, is it all for naught? Knowing yourself, knowing who you truly are has not served anyone but Buddha well. I mean, to even survive in this world, I truly believe people are forced to kill off a part of themselves. It’s like some weird ritual, some weird sacrifice made to the gods that comes from within you. I want to hold onto my whole being though. I don’t want to enter the adult world if it means I have to lose the child I was/am. That seems to be my problem. Like, Freud thought his patients could never be cured. What if it’s because they were born different from the start, and in combination with a series of misfortunes, their inability to cope…oh my God, patients with mental illness are mutants. That’s it. Works for me. I’ve always wanted to be a part of X-Men. And make out with Hugh Jackman. Yea, that’s pretty much the only reason actually. I’ve shared theories like this before, where being “ill” and more enlightened than the majority of the population is frowned upon and shameful, but those like me refuse to let go, and that’s what makes us fucking awesome. I just feel like with the constant manifestations of symptoms, despite my knowledge and slowly, weakly built internal structure and system, is not because I’m causing them, not because somehow I want any of this. I think something is wrong with me. Something that can’t be fixed, cured, or completely abated. I think, like CRPS, it’s just a part of me, my cross to bear, and shall always be.

“Tomorrow Is Stronger Than Yesterday…”

imagesHola amigos. It has been quite a long time since I have clicked away at my keyboard, much to the annoyance of the dog, and discussed my personal affairs with you. But, here I am, back again, for another go around. There is something indescribably therapeutic about not having a face to express all of my emotions, problems, and innermost thoughts to. Don’t get me wrong, Allister is the best therapist on the planet (and will remain so until I finish school to claim my rightful place atop the pyramid! :P), but the anonymity of posting here, explaining things that I’m not quite brave enough to say aloud is perfect. It’s exactly what I need as I am draped across my armchair, typing this by the light of the antique lamp that has returned home to my grandmother’s house. My mom is here; the powerwashing company and the landscapers are coming tomorrow and I have class so she agreed to babysit them. It’s a bit of a funny thought: my mom, this tiny woman, ordering husky, buff men around as they rip up the plants and trees we simply refused to. Most of the work that needs to be done around here…wait, did I even explain this to you all? I moved into my grandmother’s house in March, as the tenant found a new place of residence (oddly enough, just up the road). The Trust (with a capital T as it contains 3 people of extreme importance) thought having someone remain in the house until it was sold was the best idea, so things don’t go to rot and ruin. So here I sit, eerily reminiscent of when I was a small child, curled up underneath my grandmother’s needlepoint. She would send the needle down, and I would send it back through. That is one of my most favorite memories. I enjoy living here. The independence and solitude is exactly what I wanted. I have the dog, a faithful companion through all of the scary trips to the basement, and Brendan visits only when I ask him. The situation is nice…but. Always hanging over my head is the thought that I am not doing enough. I don’t have a job, and am forced to return home almost every weekend for money. I feel shamed and worthless when I do so, like I was somehow irresponsible in my spending. I usually buy groceries and gas, sometimes paying for the finer things in life, like Starbucks, but only on occasion. It’s just that when I have to bring up money, I feel like Marley from A Christmas Carol, saddled with the chains of my spending habits past. I don’t steal money, I don’t lie about what I buy, but the guilt is still there. Some of it lies in the fact that I am not pulling in my own income. I don’t have a job and have been completely and utterly unsuccessful at being hired either here, or in my hometown. I’m not sure what I’m doing wrong, but it has been consistent throughout my applications. And I am active, in applying. It’s not like I only do it once a year, and then complain the rest of the time that I’m not being hired. I apply to many places and many positions, with no luck. And it ends up reflecting back on me. People think I’m lazy, spoiled and usually, rather pretentious. I try not to care what people think, but in the end, I always do. I see how my classmates look at me with confusion and mild disgust. I know what I look like when I walk in with food, or coffee, and appear to be stuffing my face. I can feel all of that and it hurts. It cuts really deep. There’s a girl in my class, for example, and because we sit in opposite corners of the room, our eyes lock pretty often. And the rays of contempt coming off of her are almost palpable. I haven’t ever spoken to her, or attended previous classes with her, but her disdain for me grows with each eye-lock. For some reason, I want nothing more than to be her friend. I want her to like me, to want to be around me, and it has masterfully backfired. That’s always what it comes down to with people. I want to be liked. I want to be that person in someone’s life that truly, and utterly makes a difference. I want to have profound and provocative thoughts that shake people to their core, but instead, I say “like” and “whatever” a lot like I’m some idiot from the Valley. I complain, criticize and am overall judgmental, rather than kind and compassionate. I am a bully. And it hurts me, but I can’t, or rather don’t know how, to change it. I have hurt many people that I love, but am praised for my harsh critiques at the same time. This conversation took a turn that I didn’t think would happen. I was thinking about it almost all day, but didn’t know it shook me this deeply until now. I guess Allister and I need to have a talk. And I won’t be claiming that title from him as soon as I had hoped…