It's late for me, and relatively dark in the front room with just the TV for light.
My father is sitting in the recliner next to me. He says, "Do you know what this is about?" He looks pained--exasperated even.
"Dad, I don't know what to do with the dog. If I did, I would tell you," I answer as I'm standing up.
"No, why is your mom so pissed at me?"
"I don't think I should get in the middle."
"Why?" There's a pleading in his voice that I cannot deny.
"She doesn't want PeeWee out in the den by herself all night long, but she also doesn't want her in bed. She wants you to figure out what to do with her." The last time PeeWee was in my parent's bed, she peed on the pillow, like the disoriented elderly dog she is. So, Mom made a credence. No more PeeWee on the bed.
Last night, maybe even roughly twenty-four hours ago, I could hear my mother screaming at my father, about how he should take care of his dog. I hadn't heard them fight like that in months.
(In the original draft of this entry, I refer to PeeWee as being "crazy," and then I realized how hypocritical I was being.)
Monday, October 31, 2016
Best Unnoticed
It's the summer of 2001, my first quarter in college, and I'm in a private dorm on the University campus.
I remember arriving there, placing my belongings in various locations with a picture of Monkey, my favorite horse, and a picture of Russ, my favorite dog (who would join me the next quarter), at the head of my bed.
On the table, there was a small card that basically said, if you experience these symptoms, feelings of sadness or hopelessness or have thoughts of harming yourself, you should go to the student health center or call this number.
I remember that so well because it was the first instant in my life that I accepted I had a mental illness, depression, and that I needed help for it.
Lately, as I walk along on campus at the local community college, I've been wondering what would have happened if I never saw that card on the desk back in the summer of 2001. How long would I have waited to receive treatment?
At the University student health center, I saw R.M., the NP, and she prescribed Prozac for me, consoling me that soon, I would feel better.
Here, at this community college, there are no such cards for students. There are no posters confronting the issue of mental health. There is no outreach. There are no pamphlets of peer support for mental illness. In fact, the campus seems to ignore the issue right-out-of-hand. If my fellow students are any evidence, young adults today know very little about psychiatric disease, despite the fact that depression is the number one productivity killer in the world, not just in the United States. And, of course, it kills more than just productivity--it can kill the person as well.
My mother explains that the community college simply doesn't have the money to investigate the mental illness of students nor can they afford educated health professionals to deal with the onslaught of psychiatric disease.
I propose a plan to her--every single class in the beginning of every term, spend 10-15 minutes talking about depression symptoms and, of course, suicide prevention. Ten to fifteen minutes, tops.
And Mom acutely asks, "And who are you going to hire to give these talks?"
I didn't have a good answer to that because I naturally assumed (correctly or incorrectly) that your average professor or instructor would feel uncomfortable leading the discussion.
But what a difference it could make. It could literally save someone's life.
I remember arriving there, placing my belongings in various locations with a picture of Monkey, my favorite horse, and a picture of Russ, my favorite dog (who would join me the next quarter), at the head of my bed.
On the table, there was a small card that basically said, if you experience these symptoms, feelings of sadness or hopelessness or have thoughts of harming yourself, you should go to the student health center or call this number.
I remember that so well because it was the first instant in my life that I accepted I had a mental illness, depression, and that I needed help for it.
Lately, as I walk along on campus at the local community college, I've been wondering what would have happened if I never saw that card on the desk back in the summer of 2001. How long would I have waited to receive treatment?
At the University student health center, I saw R.M., the NP, and she prescribed Prozac for me, consoling me that soon, I would feel better.
Here, at this community college, there are no such cards for students. There are no posters confronting the issue of mental health. There is no outreach. There are no pamphlets of peer support for mental illness. In fact, the campus seems to ignore the issue right-out-of-hand. If my fellow students are any evidence, young adults today know very little about psychiatric disease, despite the fact that depression is the number one productivity killer in the world, not just in the United States. And, of course, it kills more than just productivity--it can kill the person as well.
My mother explains that the community college simply doesn't have the money to investigate the mental illness of students nor can they afford educated health professionals to deal with the onslaught of psychiatric disease.
I propose a plan to her--every single class in the beginning of every term, spend 10-15 minutes talking about depression symptoms and, of course, suicide prevention. Ten to fifteen minutes, tops.
And Mom acutely asks, "And who are you going to hire to give these talks?"
I didn't have a good answer to that because I naturally assumed (correctly or incorrectly) that your average professor or instructor would feel uncomfortable leading the discussion.
But what a difference it could make. It could literally save someone's life.
Merit of Criticism
"When an English teacher critiqued black male adolescents’ papers, she
added a sentence stating that she had high expectations and believed
that, if the student worked hard, he could meet her exacting standards.
Eighty-eight percent of those students rewrote the assignment and put
more effort into rewriting, while just a third of their peers, who were
given comments that simply provided feedback, did the same."
--"Nudges That Help Struggling Students Succeed," by David L. Kirp
( http://www.nytimes.com/2016/10/30/opinion/nudges-that-help-struggling-students-succeed.html?_r=0)
--"Nudges That Help Struggling Students Succeed," by David L. Kirp
( http://www.nytimes.com/2016/10/30/opinion/nudges-that-help-struggling-students-succeed.html?_r=0)
The Falling Out and the Fall of Man, Part II
"In my self-pitying, melodramatic teenager's mind, I thought I had been banished to a new, lonely rung of hell that Dante hadn't contemplated."
--by Alfred Lubrano, "The Shock of Education: How College Corrupts"
--by Alfred Lubrano, "The Shock of Education: How College Corrupts"
The Falling Out and the Fall of Man
I came from a very conservative background (both parents are staunch Republicans, my father even supports Trump and, of course, I went to a Christian school from kindergarten until junior year of high school). Despite all of this, I turned a one-eighty and became very liberal as a seventeen-year-old. I denied the existence of God or Christ; I was an atheist. I believed in ideas like abortion and gay rights. One year of public school, I was completely changed.
The falling out of these family-held values came with the onset of moderate-to-severe depression. There's a direct correlation. I lost my faith in God because He wantonly let me suffer in silence. Who could praise a supernatural being who allowed and created people to be stricken with depression and other mental disorders? What cruelty was this?
My previous teachers would always cite "original sin," the Fall of Man, that we ourselves made up the horrible world we live in--that it's our fault. God gave us free will, and this is how we used it.
But does God really stand by and witness violent acts of abuse, molestation, rape and murder, and does He sit on his throne unmoved? Does He point the finger like a six-year-old bratty child?
When inflicted with depression (whether unipolar or bipolar), life becomes dark. You only see the ugliness of the world, none of the beauty, and in this, you lose your will to live because there's nothing worth living for--even if you have a house or a family or a caring group of friends, this is negligible because they secretly display contempt for you, for you and your lornful ways. You are an outcast, an alien, someone with no ties. You drift until you sink.
The falling out of these family-held values came with the onset of moderate-to-severe depression. There's a direct correlation. I lost my faith in God because He wantonly let me suffer in silence. Who could praise a supernatural being who allowed and created people to be stricken with depression and other mental disorders? What cruelty was this?
My previous teachers would always cite "original sin," the Fall of Man, that we ourselves made up the horrible world we live in--that it's our fault. God gave us free will, and this is how we used it.
But does God really stand by and witness violent acts of abuse, molestation, rape and murder, and does He sit on his throne unmoved? Does He point the finger like a six-year-old bratty child?
When inflicted with depression (whether unipolar or bipolar), life becomes dark. You only see the ugliness of the world, none of the beauty, and in this, you lose your will to live because there's nothing worth living for--even if you have a house or a family or a caring group of friends, this is negligible because they secretly display contempt for you, for you and your lornful ways. You are an outcast, an alien, someone with no ties. You drift until you sink.
American Sniper and Other Works of Art
A few weeks ago, the English instructor and I were reviewing my paper on American Sniper. He gets to about the third page when he asks me, "Did you cut and paste here because the font is slightly different?"
"Uh," I respond. "I hadn't noticed that."
He asks me again, did I cut and paste that sentence?
"Yes, that word there." I point. A word which I can't pronounce, but nevertheless, it is still important. I think for a moment, and then realize in that too late fashion, did he just mildly excuse me of plagiarism? Granted, I could have stole the sentence off of a previous work of mine.
Huh.
"Uh," I respond. "I hadn't noticed that."
He asks me again, did I cut and paste that sentence?
"Yes, that word there." I point. A word which I can't pronounce, but nevertheless, it is still important. I think for a moment, and then realize in that too late fashion, did he just mildly excuse me of plagiarism? Granted, I could have stole the sentence off of a previous work of mine.
Huh.
Parental Expectations and Joseph
Dad comments to me while he's on the phone with his mother, "Are you still taking the dog's meds?"
"Yes," I state defiantly.
In another conversation, yesterday, my mother and I are relaxing in the recliners in the front room, watching TV, after cleaning the house for a few hours. I'm still in my PJ's, refusing to shower that morning or change my clothes just to do housework.
I mention a stray sentence from my conversation with Joseph.
"Are you talking to my favorite son-in-law again?" My mother says brightly.
I admit this is so. I know my mother only wants someone to be there for me financially, to support me while I'm lingering in the hospital, but I'm still mildly insulted. While Joseph is a very intelligent person and a talented musician, he dropped out of law school because it was too difficult for him to go to school and work full time. He said he was "too stressed." He quit playing in his band, which toured internationally, because his then-girlfriend complained that they couldn't be in a relationship because they were in separate time zones. Joseph plainly responds that he quit so he could have that relationship--or any. It's sort of sexist of me (or maybe a lot, I don't know) to assume that a man would always place his vocation, especially one depending on one's talent, ahead of his personal bonds with people (and is it also sexist of me to say that women don't have this luxury as they are the primary caregivers of the children?).
And another thought, what kind of creature would ask someone to give up their greatest asset to this world, something as moving as creating and playing music?
My parents are always telling me to run in better circles, that I'm not going to get far in life if I keep hanging out with the mentally deficient (and if my classmates used that phrase, I would flip out), instead of people who are going places and doing great deeds like making millions.
Unfortunately for me, I'm a little past my prime when it comes down to being material for a trophy wife status, not to mention I could stand to lose 40 pounds--and wear hair extensions--and make up--and dress up tastefully. Even then, there's always someone who is prettier, taller, blonder, and, of course, thinner.
I saw a woman in the urgent care center today, who's thighs were roughly the size of my arms.
A thought that does haunt me at various points during the day is the idea that perhaps Joseph is the best I can do. It's in everyone that no matter what class you're from, you're always looking to climb up. And I can judge--Joseph will always be middleclass--as my current trajectory is staying in this lower class prison of shitty health care and shopping at Food-4-Less (which I haven't done recently, but it is always there).
But Joseph is responsible (although he does not own a dog or cat, something I find to be highly disturbing), and he calls and TXT-messages when he says he's going to or at least within an hour of my messaging. He takes me out in public and holds my hand. He talks too much, but that's not an aberrant because then I don't have to talk much about myself (at least while working as a whore, another word that I would flip out if my classmates used, I learned to listen politely to people's personal woes).
Probably most people, besides the readers of Dan Savage, would be surprised to learn that the sole reason why I won't date Joseph is because the sex with him is boring.
So, even if he lived in a mansion on the cliffs overlooking the ocean, I doubt I would stay with him.
"Yes," I state defiantly.
In another conversation, yesterday, my mother and I are relaxing in the recliners in the front room, watching TV, after cleaning the house for a few hours. I'm still in my PJ's, refusing to shower that morning or change my clothes just to do housework.
I mention a stray sentence from my conversation with Joseph.
"Are you talking to my favorite son-in-law again?" My mother says brightly.
I admit this is so. I know my mother only wants someone to be there for me financially, to support me while I'm lingering in the hospital, but I'm still mildly insulted. While Joseph is a very intelligent person and a talented musician, he dropped out of law school because it was too difficult for him to go to school and work full time. He said he was "too stressed." He quit playing in his band, which toured internationally, because his then-girlfriend complained that they couldn't be in a relationship because they were in separate time zones. Joseph plainly responds that he quit so he could have that relationship--or any. It's sort of sexist of me (or maybe a lot, I don't know) to assume that a man would always place his vocation, especially one depending on one's talent, ahead of his personal bonds with people (and is it also sexist of me to say that women don't have this luxury as they are the primary caregivers of the children?).
And another thought, what kind of creature would ask someone to give up their greatest asset to this world, something as moving as creating and playing music?
My parents are always telling me to run in better circles, that I'm not going to get far in life if I keep hanging out with the mentally deficient (and if my classmates used that phrase, I would flip out), instead of people who are going places and doing great deeds like making millions.
Unfortunately for me, I'm a little past my prime when it comes down to being material for a trophy wife status, not to mention I could stand to lose 40 pounds--and wear hair extensions--and make up--and dress up tastefully. Even then, there's always someone who is prettier, taller, blonder, and, of course, thinner.
I saw a woman in the urgent care center today, who's thighs were roughly the size of my arms.
A thought that does haunt me at various points during the day is the idea that perhaps Joseph is the best I can do. It's in everyone that no matter what class you're from, you're always looking to climb up. And I can judge--Joseph will always be middleclass--as my current trajectory is staying in this lower class prison of shitty health care and shopping at Food-4-Less (which I haven't done recently, but it is always there).
But Joseph is responsible (although he does not own a dog or cat, something I find to be highly disturbing), and he calls and TXT-messages when he says he's going to or at least within an hour of my messaging. He takes me out in public and holds my hand. He talks too much, but that's not an aberrant because then I don't have to talk much about myself (at least while working as a whore, another word that I would flip out if my classmates used, I learned to listen politely to people's personal woes).
Probably most people, besides the readers of Dan Savage, would be surprised to learn that the sole reason why I won't date Joseph is because the sex with him is boring.
So, even if he lived in a mansion on the cliffs overlooking the ocean, I doubt I would stay with him.
Friday, October 28, 2016
Admission of Prejudice
Whether I like to admit it or not, I am too prejudice against people with mental illness.
Sitting in the lobby of the building, waiting for the case manager or for my therapist to arrive, I am seated with other patients who look funny, smell funny, talk funny and more. Some come inside with dirty clothes or wild hair and talk incoherent blurbs that only make sense to them. They're not the kind of people who I would meet in a restaurant to eat across from, where I doubt they have concerns about using a fork properly.
Perhaps I don't like being faced with a life that much more thrown off track.
Sitting in the lobby of the building, waiting for the case manager or for my therapist to arrive, I am seated with other patients who look funny, smell funny, talk funny and more. Some come inside with dirty clothes or wild hair and talk incoherent blurbs that only make sense to them. They're not the kind of people who I would meet in a restaurant to eat across from, where I doubt they have concerns about using a fork properly.
Perhaps I don't like being faced with a life that much more thrown off track.
Therapy in a Honda Civic
My therapist called in sick today. If you add up the absences of both my therapist and case manager, one of them is out every couple of weeks.
The case manager and I are driving to a nearby town in a practically new, white Honda Civic with back up cameras and a bunch of other accessories that you wouldn't expect to find in a basic car like this one.
"How do you feel about your relationship with [therapist]?" She asks me.
It's really not a subject I want to dive into. When I tell her I'm not quite satisfied, she launches into a debate about how social workers are better than MFT's in providing "hands on" help or support.
This is something I don't entirely buy, but don't have much data to back up my opinion.
"It's unethical for a therapist to give you her opinion," the case manager concludes.
What the fuck? Isn't that why you pay a therapist--for their feedback and ideas? Modern day psychotherapy is not like psychodynamics of the past, where you just lie back on a couch and spill your every thought.
I start to argue with her, but quickly realize that it's pointless.
The case manager and I are driving to a nearby town in a practically new, white Honda Civic with back up cameras and a bunch of other accessories that you wouldn't expect to find in a basic car like this one.
"How do you feel about your relationship with [therapist]?" She asks me.
It's really not a subject I want to dive into. When I tell her I'm not quite satisfied, she launches into a debate about how social workers are better than MFT's in providing "hands on" help or support.
This is something I don't entirely buy, but don't have much data to back up my opinion.
"It's unethical for a therapist to give you her opinion," the case manager concludes.
What the fuck? Isn't that why you pay a therapist--for their feedback and ideas? Modern day psychotherapy is not like psychodynamics of the past, where you just lie back on a couch and spill your every thought.
I start to argue with her, but quickly realize that it's pointless.
Creating Writers Vs Creating Students
Harry wrote this email:
"Dear [Jae],
"Dear [Jae],
Catching
up with your blog again. You've hit on the difference between a student
and a writer. And between an English major (which I used to be too) and
somebody who wants to create. English majors are supposed to become
professors. Grades help you get into graduate programs and pursue that
goal. Otherwise, they don't mean much. Nor do the essays you write in
class -- except that they give you practice and some feedback. How
valuable is the feedback? It depends. If the teacher is inspired -- and
understands what you're trying to do -- then fine. If your classmates
can spot something you're blind to, OK. But most feedback (including
mine, I'm sure) is fairly useless.
I
think you know, instinctively, that a writer's first duty is to her
talent -- to whatever makes her bang out those words. Whatever sprinkles
cold water on that fire is to be avoided. Or at least kept to a
tolerable minimum. There's a fearlessness to your blogging that, if I
were you, I'd hang onto for dear life. There's no way you can please
everybody...Learn what you can about technique -- and most of that learning
will come from the writers you'd like to emulate, not from school. If
necessary, be a hard-ass about it."
The Noble Pursuit of Education
It's the end of Engl 201B, and I wrote another in-class essay, which is not my strong suit. I'm better with a keyboard and an online dictionary. Plus, creative flow has the propensity of disappearing under pressure.
So, I'm second to last turning in my impromptu paper.
The Engl 201B professor and I start talking about various topics when he says looking down at the table, "I need to quit this job."
Startled, I ask, "Teaching?" The idea of a professor or lecturer or college instructor losing his/her optimism regarding the noble pursuit of spreading education--well, I find it to be unsettling.
"No, no," he says shaking his head, and informs me of his other campus duties that are weighing on him.
So, I'm second to last turning in my impromptu paper.
The Engl 201B professor and I start talking about various topics when he says looking down at the table, "I need to quit this job."
Startled, I ask, "Teaching?" The idea of a professor or lecturer or college instructor losing his/her optimism regarding the noble pursuit of spreading education--well, I find it to be unsettling.
"No, no," he says shaking his head, and informs me of his other campus duties that are weighing on him.
Thursday, October 27, 2016
Road Novels
One of the boys in the class you just can't get to shut up. I guess he would say the same about me.
We had just watched an instructional video with Dr. Thomas Foster (I'm going to buy his book), who talked about how little time there is to dazzle and capture readers. A sentence. A paragraph. Maybe a page at the most. He talks with this monotone voice that you hardly believe he ever read a book in his life. Doesn't literature excite anyone, anymore?
But I digress.
After the clip, I'm confused, which mixed with the tramadol and the coffee, explains itself. I raise my hand, and the English instructor tells me to proceed.
"Did he say 'road novel'?" I ask.
"Yes, he did."
"What is a 'road novel'?" I've studied literature in high school and at the Unversity, and never heard of a "road novel."
The boy, a few rows down, answers for the English instructor like we're all paying him to talk, instead of the tall guy in the dress shoes in the front of class.
We had just watched an instructional video with Dr. Thomas Foster (I'm going to buy his book), who talked about how little time there is to dazzle and capture readers. A sentence. A paragraph. Maybe a page at the most. He talks with this monotone voice that you hardly believe he ever read a book in his life. Doesn't literature excite anyone, anymore?
But I digress.
After the clip, I'm confused, which mixed with the tramadol and the coffee, explains itself. I raise my hand, and the English instructor tells me to proceed.
"Did he say 'road novel'?" I ask.
"Yes, he did."
"What is a 'road novel'?" I've studied literature in high school and at the Unversity, and never heard of a "road novel."
The boy, a few rows down, answers for the English instructor like we're all paying him to talk, instead of the tall guy in the dress shoes in the front of class.
Losing the Battle, Part IV
Should we shame people into accepting our views and values?
"Everyone has a right to their opinion, and expressing that opinion is not illegal. You can even use hate speech. It's protected under the freedom of speech. Some colleges use 'speech codes' but those don't stand up in the Supreme Court," I say to the English instructor before class begins. I've told him this already, over the span of two emails.
"I agree that opinions should be shared as long as it's done respectfully," the English instructor comments back.
"I believe that my classmates crossed that line when we were discussing the journal topic about the boy with bipolar disorder."
He's staring at a computer screen. "I don't remember. It was a few months ago."
Earlier the English instructor had made the point that college wasn't here to re-affirm your beliefs, it was here to open you up to new ideas.
That sounds good, and indeed in most cases, it is; however, some ideas are morally corrupt, and we as a society recognize them as such. The most obvious example is racism. If a professor is promoting racism because he is a white supremacist, should he be allowed to stand in front of group of young adults and spew his hatred? What if he's a really brilliant physicist and his commentary on racial relations is secondary to his choice science?
What if you are in biology class and your professor tells you the world is flat? Because a fringe of people actually believe the earth is flat.
Yes, there should always be an exchange of ideas, but an institution has the added responsibility of teaching tolerance and dispelling ignorance.
I have a feeling that if this was law class or even psychology class, students would think twice about using the psych term "delusional." If they were made more aware of the discrimination against people with mental illness or any other disability, that they would choose their words more wisely.
Or perhaps not.
"I think I'm just going to keep my mouth shut," I say, breaking the brief silence.
"Everyone has a right to their opinion, and expressing that opinion is not illegal. You can even use hate speech. It's protected under the freedom of speech. Some colleges use 'speech codes' but those don't stand up in the Supreme Court," I say to the English instructor before class begins. I've told him this already, over the span of two emails.
"I agree that opinions should be shared as long as it's done respectfully," the English instructor comments back.
"I believe that my classmates crossed that line when we were discussing the journal topic about the boy with bipolar disorder."
He's staring at a computer screen. "I don't remember. It was a few months ago."
Earlier the English instructor had made the point that college wasn't here to re-affirm your beliefs, it was here to open you up to new ideas.
That sounds good, and indeed in most cases, it is; however, some ideas are morally corrupt, and we as a society recognize them as such. The most obvious example is racism. If a professor is promoting racism because he is a white supremacist, should he be allowed to stand in front of group of young adults and spew his hatred? What if he's a really brilliant physicist and his commentary on racial relations is secondary to his choice science?
What if you are in biology class and your professor tells you the world is flat? Because a fringe of people actually believe the earth is flat.
Yes, there should always be an exchange of ideas, but an institution has the added responsibility of teaching tolerance and dispelling ignorance.
I have a feeling that if this was law class or even psychology class, students would think twice about using the psych term "delusional." If they were made more aware of the discrimination against people with mental illness or any other disability, that they would choose their words more wisely.
Or perhaps not.
"I think I'm just going to keep my mouth shut," I say, breaking the brief silence.
Losing the Battle, Part III
The only thing worse than students casually using the word "delusional" when describing a character is my father's mother, the last time she visited, saying "crazy" every other sentence, referring to a wide variety of subjects and people.
Just stop.
Just stop.
Losing the Battle, Part II
I really didn't want to come to class.
I had taken three tramadols (not all at once!), and I was feeling the effects.
However, I had spent most of the day in the computer lab next to the library, and thought it would be a waste not to go to Engl 201A after waiting around for so long.
I walk into the room and the only people there are the English instructor and my grumpy, older classmate who sits next to me.
They're talking to each other. From the smiles on their faces, they must be getting along swimmingly.
I'm thinking, just get through this. It's only for a little while.
I hear my name, and look up. I only catch every other word of his.
"Just to give you a head's up, we're covering that journal topic that you didn't like last semester," the English instructor tells me. "You're welcome to write about something else."
"Are you kidding me?" Is an involuntary response coming out of my mouth.
"No," the English instructor replies, looking at me. "We're doing the 'alligator river story.' "
I breathe a huge sigh of relief. I immediately assumed he was talking about that ridiculous article on the boy with bipolar disorder. I was not in the mood to get into a fight over it, although nights while I'm waiting to go to sleep, I often rehearse in my mind what I would say if he did decide to post that news piece on the projector. How would I react? I don't like the 'alligator river story' either because the other students tend to demonize the woman who traded sex with a man for a ride on a boat.
I had taken three tramadols (not all at once!), and I was feeling the effects.
However, I had spent most of the day in the computer lab next to the library, and thought it would be a waste not to go to Engl 201A after waiting around for so long.
I walk into the room and the only people there are the English instructor and my grumpy, older classmate who sits next to me.
They're talking to each other. From the smiles on their faces, they must be getting along swimmingly.
I'm thinking, just get through this. It's only for a little while.
I hear my name, and look up. I only catch every other word of his.
"Just to give you a head's up, we're covering that journal topic that you didn't like last semester," the English instructor tells me. "You're welcome to write about something else."
"Are you kidding me?" Is an involuntary response coming out of my mouth.
"No," the English instructor replies, looking at me. "We're doing the 'alligator river story.' "
I breathe a huge sigh of relief. I immediately assumed he was talking about that ridiculous article on the boy with bipolar disorder. I was not in the mood to get into a fight over it, although nights while I'm waiting to go to sleep, I often rehearse in my mind what I would say if he did decide to post that news piece on the projector. How would I react? I don't like the 'alligator river story' either because the other students tend to demonize the woman who traded sex with a man for a ride on a boat.
Losing the Battle
It's early evening on Wednesday in Engl 201A, and she has moved from the back of the class, in the corner, to up front, next to me. Lying on her desk is a Spanish-English dictionary.
The other students are throwing around the word "delusional" even though none of them are mental health professionals--none qualify as a psychiatrist or psychologist, and I doubt any of them consulted the DSM briefly before coming to class.
What's insulting is the ignorance and lack of sensitivity to the possibility that out of 30 students (which is very likely given 1 in 5 Americans experience mental illness in their lifetimes) that someone in that room might have actually been diagnosed as being delusional.
Even though I'm in and out of a psychiatric hospital several times a year, I still couldn't adequately define "delusional" and the symptom criteria necessary for such a diagnosis.
The other students are throwing around the word "delusional" even though none of them are mental health professionals--none qualify as a psychiatrist or psychologist, and I doubt any of them consulted the DSM briefly before coming to class.
What's insulting is the ignorance and lack of sensitivity to the possibility that out of 30 students (which is very likely given 1 in 5 Americans experience mental illness in their lifetimes) that someone in that room might have actually been diagnosed as being delusional.
Even though I'm in and out of a psychiatric hospital several times a year, I still couldn't adequately define "delusional" and the symptom criteria necessary for such a diagnosis.
Wednesday, October 26, 2016
"Deserts of vast eternity."
--"To His Coy Mistress" by Marvell
I remember we were both in his kitchen.
I walk up and put my head on his chest.
He tries to comfort me by holding me and making soft sounds, "We'll take this slow...we'll try having coffee."
I remember we were both in his kitchen.
I walk up and put my head on his chest.
He tries to comfort me by holding me and making soft sounds, "We'll take this slow...we'll try having coffee."
Boring
"I know you find him boring," my mother told me a couple of months ago during the time I was seeing Joseph on the weekends.
"I don't find him boring," I respond.
Surprisingly, Joseph TXT-messaged me on Monday, saying, "Would b great to talk sometime."
If life made sense (which it doesn't), I would be living with Joseph in town, and we would be happily in love.
But of course, reality doesn't reflect that.
I never bothered to contact him after we had our disagreement about what exactly being a friend entails because I felt like I never said anything wrong. He was angry, and that was on him.
Joseph is working on the premise that someday, somehow, I'm going to change my mind and want to be with him in a committed, romantic relationship.
Of course, that's never going to happen. He will realize this eventually--but I know how the heart tends to drag things out until you hit your lowest point--then you begin to see the truth.
"I don't find him boring," I respond.
Surprisingly, Joseph TXT-messaged me on Monday, saying, "Would b great to talk sometime."
If life made sense (which it doesn't), I would be living with Joseph in town, and we would be happily in love.
But of course, reality doesn't reflect that.
I never bothered to contact him after we had our disagreement about what exactly being a friend entails because I felt like I never said anything wrong. He was angry, and that was on him.
Joseph is working on the premise that someday, somehow, I'm going to change my mind and want to be with him in a committed, romantic relationship.
Of course, that's never going to happen. He will realize this eventually--but I know how the heart tends to drag things out until you hit your lowest point--then you begin to see the truth.
OCD
Mom is staring at me. "You have OCD about school," she concludes.
I don't have OCD.
"It's okay."
I don't have OCD.
"It's okay."
Breaking All the Rules
The self-care of eating ice cream and drinking red wine at night springs from an overwhelming sense of self-pity.
"The [private dance] agency had one rule and one rule only," I explain to the LSU Professor the last time we met. "Never give out your phone number to a client. And I broke that rule for [Morpheus]."
"Yeah," he answers. "And look what happened."
"The [private dance] agency had one rule and one rule only," I explain to the LSU Professor the last time we met. "Never give out your phone number to a client. And I broke that rule for [Morpheus]."
"Yeah," he answers. "And look what happened."
Pain Or Pills
"I wondered what was the point of working so hard to stay alive, if that's what I was doing. I remembered my pep talk to Esperanza a few months before, and understood just how ridiculous it was. There is no point in treating a depressed person as though she were just feeling sad, saying, There now, hang on, you'll get over it. Sadness is more or less like a head cold--with patience, it passes. Depression is like cancer."
--pg. 232 of The Bean Trees by Kingsolver
I noticed her typing on a laptop in the back of the classroom, seemingly uninterested in her surroundings, including the other students and the English instructor. Her head stayed down. I simply took her as being a classmate that I had never previously noticed.
The following class period, she stands up in front of everyone in Engl 201A and announces that she's a professor in the English department here at the community college, a colleague of the English instructor, and that they perform reviews of each other as part of their employment. She's here to hand out teacher evaluations' forms. She emphasizes how important feedback is, and encourages us to write as much as we want on the back of the form.
The lower abdominal pain is starting to unrivaled me. I have two options, I can suffer through it or I can get high during class and possibly not understand a word being spoken. I decide to do the latter. Unfortunately for me, the pain pills are in my purse, which is in the car, which is half-a-campus away.
She lays the paper on my desk as she passes them out to the rest of the class. About a week before, I had a nightmare about this very situation. In the dream, one of the professors who I was fond of was fired because of bad student feedback. I remember him standing there, disheveled and manic, shouting at someone--or anyone.
So, I just politely excuse myself, and head towards my pill-popping salvation. As I'm making my way to the parking lot, I notice the English instructor talking to probably another instructor on the sidewalk. He was asked to leave during the evaluations.
The pill gets stuck in my throat, so I'm wandering around campus, looking for a drinking fountain. By the time I return to class, the other professor is gone and so is the evaluation form from my desk.
After period and after all the other students have left, the English instructor approaches me, and asks if everything is okay.
"Yeah, I'm fine," I reply.
He remarks that I didn't complete the teacher evaluation.
"I think I'm a little biased." Probably should have just kept that comment to myself.
He says nothing more.
--pg. 232 of The Bean Trees by Kingsolver
I noticed her typing on a laptop in the back of the classroom, seemingly uninterested in her surroundings, including the other students and the English instructor. Her head stayed down. I simply took her as being a classmate that I had never previously noticed.
The following class period, she stands up in front of everyone in Engl 201A and announces that she's a professor in the English department here at the community college, a colleague of the English instructor, and that they perform reviews of each other as part of their employment. She's here to hand out teacher evaluations' forms. She emphasizes how important feedback is, and encourages us to write as much as we want on the back of the form.
The lower abdominal pain is starting to unrivaled me. I have two options, I can suffer through it or I can get high during class and possibly not understand a word being spoken. I decide to do the latter. Unfortunately for me, the pain pills are in my purse, which is in the car, which is half-a-campus away.
She lays the paper on my desk as she passes them out to the rest of the class. About a week before, I had a nightmare about this very situation. In the dream, one of the professors who I was fond of was fired because of bad student feedback. I remember him standing there, disheveled and manic, shouting at someone--or anyone.
So, I just politely excuse myself, and head towards my pill-popping salvation. As I'm making my way to the parking lot, I notice the English instructor talking to probably another instructor on the sidewalk. He was asked to leave during the evaluations.
The pill gets stuck in my throat, so I'm wandering around campus, looking for a drinking fountain. By the time I return to class, the other professor is gone and so is the evaluation form from my desk.
After period and after all the other students have left, the English instructor approaches me, and asks if everything is okay.
"Yeah, I'm fine," I reply.
He remarks that I didn't complete the teacher evaluation.
"I think I'm a little biased." Probably should have just kept that comment to myself.
He says nothing more.
Less Caffeine, More Exercise, Part II
The psychiatrist asks a standard question. "Are you experiencing any suicidal thoughts?"
"Yes," I answer honestly.
"You know this is the decade of the brain. We are learning so much about neuroscience that we'll find a cure for mental illness within your lifetime. There's no reason not to be hopeful about the future."
Somehow, I doubt the cure--because I know how complicated it is to even tease out the separate biological factors from the environmental ones--much less addressing these individually--and finding an all-encompassing solution that comes in a pill or an injection.
"Yes," I answer honestly.
"You know this is the decade of the brain. We are learning so much about neuroscience that we'll find a cure for mental illness within your lifetime. There's no reason not to be hopeful about the future."
Somehow, I doubt the cure--because I know how complicated it is to even tease out the separate biological factors from the environmental ones--much less addressing these individually--and finding an all-encompassing solution that comes in a pill or an injection.
A Room of One's Own
After my parents filed for bankruptcy, we moved to a mobile home on a large multi-thousand acre ranch. The place was so small that I was forced to sleep in the front room on a old twin bed, and every morning, when my mother woke up at four am for work, she woke me up too because she'd turn on the kitchen lights in order to make a pot of coffee--a mere few feet away from where I slept. Because the doctors at Stanford took me off of the clozapine, I couldn't sleep well, and therefore would be unable to fall back into dreamy bliss. So, up at four am I was.
We moved in April of this year to a nice home while staying on the same ranch. I have my own room now, although it's not very big once you cram in my nice, queen bed. The only drawback is that I have to pay $500 in rent per month. However, when my mother wakes up, I never hear her.
I've had opportunities to leave home, and to live at a residential program ran by county mental health. My mother was ardently against that idea, citing previous damaging treatment I received from their doctors (including being drugged to the point of being unable to walk without assistance from a walker, being unable to speak clearly because I simply couldn't find the words, and being sent to the Stanford ER after blood results showed my electrolytes were dangerous out of balance--oh, and yes, the vomiting). She wanted to be able to monitor me for any relapse, saying that she would do a much better job than any employee working for the county.
I had to agree with her there, although I explained that it may come to the point again where I can't be left alone for safety reasons. Was she willing to take that responsibility even when I could be in a house with 24-hour supervision? She said she was.
We moved in April of this year to a nice home while staying on the same ranch. I have my own room now, although it's not very big once you cram in my nice, queen bed. The only drawback is that I have to pay $500 in rent per month. However, when my mother wakes up, I never hear her.
I've had opportunities to leave home, and to live at a residential program ran by county mental health. My mother was ardently against that idea, citing previous damaging treatment I received from their doctors (including being drugged to the point of being unable to walk without assistance from a walker, being unable to speak clearly because I simply couldn't find the words, and being sent to the Stanford ER after blood results showed my electrolytes were dangerous out of balance--oh, and yes, the vomiting). She wanted to be able to monitor me for any relapse, saying that she would do a much better job than any employee working for the county.
I had to agree with her there, although I explained that it may come to the point again where I can't be left alone for safety reasons. Was she willing to take that responsibility even when I could be in a house with 24-hour supervision? She said she was.
Drug Seeking Behavior
Mom has just come home, and she's washing her face in the bathroom.
I'm standing in her bedroom, where she can hear me. I whine, "What am I supposed to do when I run out of Auggie's tramadol?"
"I don't know. Tell them that PeeWee [another dog] needs it." Them, being the veterinarians at the local animal clinic.
I'm standing in her bedroom, where she can hear me. I whine, "What am I supposed to do when I run out of Auggie's tramadol?"
"I don't know. Tell them that PeeWee [another dog] needs it." Them, being the veterinarians at the local animal clinic.
Less Caffeine, More Exercise
The psychiatrist at county mental health is new. I've never seen him before.
He asks me how much coffee I'm drinking.
I explain that it's about six cups per day.
"I think you're getting the hang over effect from the Seroquel; that's why you're needing so much caffeine in the morning...You know what? Exercise is a stimulant...." He pauses. "I'm not asking you to get up at six and go out jogging." He smiles at me.
For some odd reason, I don't find him funny.
He then tells me to reduce my caffeine intake and to exercise more.
Afterwards when I told the LSU Professor about the doctor's recommendations, he looked at me and said, "We could all do that."
He asks me how much coffee I'm drinking.
I explain that it's about six cups per day.
"I think you're getting the hang over effect from the Seroquel; that's why you're needing so much caffeine in the morning...You know what? Exercise is a stimulant...." He pauses. "I'm not asking you to get up at six and go out jogging." He smiles at me.
For some odd reason, I don't find him funny.
He then tells me to reduce my caffeine intake and to exercise more.
Afterwards when I told the LSU Professor about the doctor's recommendations, he looked at me and said, "We could all do that."
Class Cancelled, Part II
"I cancelled class on Monday because I needed a day to myself after all that," the Engl 201B professor shares. He's staring straight into the computer screen that sits on top of his disorderly desk.
He cancelled class yesterday as well, explaining that he needed to go to a doctor's appointment that he's been waiting for--five months, to be exact.
Perhaps I give the impression that the English instructor only wishes to disembowel me as a writer, only hands out criticism and big, blatant "X" marks on paragraphs that he finds to be inconsequential and a distraction from the work's purpose. My ex-therapist, a wonderful, caring woman, once told me about the "sandwich effect," giving bad news in between two pieces of good news. The English instructor holds to that as well. Some of his remarks have been deeply flattering.
Yesterday, I read yet another article about how to become an expert in an arena. The main point of the essay was in its last line: "find a teacher." It pressed that people who are self-taught don't recognize their errors as quickly as an outside guru can--that greatness needed guidance.
These news articles all bring up an interesting point: to what extent can writing be taught? Surely, we can insist on grammar and spelling rules, and a few general suggestions like not using the "be" verbs often, instead find "stronger" verbs. If writing doesn't require talent but only extreme dedication and practice, aren't we all capable of being Emily Dickinson, Sylvia Plath (minus the suicide, of course) or Virginia Woolf (again, minus the suicide)?
Some have even argued that Woolf's greatness was a product of her bipolar disorder, the very illness that took her life. They say it was the spring of her creativity. Most people who have ever been manic or hypomanic have experienced "flight of ideas" as part of the racing thoughts. Maybe that was the well in which Woolf dipped.
Or are some people just born with an aptitude of putting words together that make music, even in prose form?
He cancelled class yesterday as well, explaining that he needed to go to a doctor's appointment that he's been waiting for--five months, to be exact.
Perhaps I give the impression that the English instructor only wishes to disembowel me as a writer, only hands out criticism and big, blatant "X" marks on paragraphs that he finds to be inconsequential and a distraction from the work's purpose. My ex-therapist, a wonderful, caring woman, once told me about the "sandwich effect," giving bad news in between two pieces of good news. The English instructor holds to that as well. Some of his remarks have been deeply flattering.
Yesterday, I read yet another article about how to become an expert in an arena. The main point of the essay was in its last line: "find a teacher." It pressed that people who are self-taught don't recognize their errors as quickly as an outside guru can--that greatness needed guidance.
These news articles all bring up an interesting point: to what extent can writing be taught? Surely, we can insist on grammar and spelling rules, and a few general suggestions like not using the "be" verbs often, instead find "stronger" verbs. If writing doesn't require talent but only extreme dedication and practice, aren't we all capable of being Emily Dickinson, Sylvia Plath (minus the suicide, of course) or Virginia Woolf (again, minus the suicide)?
Some have even argued that Woolf's greatness was a product of her bipolar disorder, the very illness that took her life. They say it was the spring of her creativity. Most people who have ever been manic or hypomanic have experienced "flight of ideas" as part of the racing thoughts. Maybe that was the well in which Woolf dipped.
Or are some people just born with an aptitude of putting words together that make music, even in prose form?
Tuesday, October 25, 2016
Medi-Cal Fraud
My therapist is a homely looking man with crooked teeth, and balding with some grey on the sides of his head. He usually hides himself under a ball cap.
He takes me to a local coffee shop (one of my favorites) for our sit down, so Mom tells me not to complain. "At least you're getting free coffee out of the deal," she comments.
He always asks, "Do you have something you want to talk about today?"
I always answer, "No," and then hide my gaze into the white lid of my cup. Silence stretches for minutes.
For some reason, last Friday morning, I asked him finally when I couldn't take the awkwardness anymore if he liked to write. He does have a Master's in social work (which means he would have done lots of writing). Which is odd because he doesn't do social work, he's a psychotherapist. In my biased view, he's underqualified.
"Sure, I write song lyrics," he replies.
My new case manager is a writer too, but she explained to me that she didn't want to take creative writing at the local community college because she wasn't ready to deal with how bad her writing was when all her life she's been told she's good at it.
Having nothing better to say, I retell a story that the Engl 201B professor told class--that Emily Dickinson wrote during the 1860's but that her poems went largely ignored until the 1940's. Imagine dying and thinking no one will ever read your notebooks that you have stashed in your isolated bedroom.
By some odd coincidence, Harry wrote in a recent book review of this very fantasy--that if the writing is good enough, it will be discovered sooner or later--and appreciated.
But the case manager redirects the conversation to talk about sexual orientation.
I identify as bisexual, although I never could see myself in a long-term, committed relationship with a woman.
We discuss this because the case manager is gay, and didn't come out until later in life (after being married to a man for twenty-four years).
In fact, we usually talk about her, instead of me. She talks about being suicidal before she was comfortable with being a lesbian, about riding motorcycles, about bringing women to orgasm (a difficult feat, I admitted to her), about taking drugs, about her Christian college experience, about her food habits and being overweight, about how she doesn't allow her daughter to wear much makeup, despite the child's complaints, about her beliefs on evolution and creationism, and etc. This would be great if we were friends, but we're not. I'm supposed to be the client in this situation.
She asks almost every week, "How do you feel about getting that B on your essay? Are you feeling any better? Are you berating yourself less?" Because school is the only topic I don't feel the need to hide away.
We don't talk about Morpheus. She is largely unaware of his influence over me. I mentioned him in passing, only referring to him as an ex- who had re-contacted me. We don't talk about my weight gain (I would feel silly for doing so since she has her own issues with weight), thanks to the Seroquel. In fact, I've made up my mind that the reason why Morpheus doesn't want to see me again is because I'm fat. Because I am no longer fulfilling the stripper fantasy.
We don't talk about how my self-therapy is eating ice cream and drinking wine at night.
All of the assurances she gives me or the psychological insights--I've already heard before, either at Stanford or through my own personal study.
I spend two hours in therapy every Friday, and I look at it as a fraud of Medi-Cal.
He takes me to a local coffee shop (one of my favorites) for our sit down, so Mom tells me not to complain. "At least you're getting free coffee out of the deal," she comments.
He always asks, "Do you have something you want to talk about today?"
I always answer, "No," and then hide my gaze into the white lid of my cup. Silence stretches for minutes.
For some reason, last Friday morning, I asked him finally when I couldn't take the awkwardness anymore if he liked to write. He does have a Master's in social work (which means he would have done lots of writing). Which is odd because he doesn't do social work, he's a psychotherapist. In my biased view, he's underqualified.
"Sure, I write song lyrics," he replies.
My new case manager is a writer too, but she explained to me that she didn't want to take creative writing at the local community college because she wasn't ready to deal with how bad her writing was when all her life she's been told she's good at it.
Having nothing better to say, I retell a story that the Engl 201B professor told class--that Emily Dickinson wrote during the 1860's but that her poems went largely ignored until the 1940's. Imagine dying and thinking no one will ever read your notebooks that you have stashed in your isolated bedroom.
By some odd coincidence, Harry wrote in a recent book review of this very fantasy--that if the writing is good enough, it will be discovered sooner or later--and appreciated.
But the case manager redirects the conversation to talk about sexual orientation.
I identify as bisexual, although I never could see myself in a long-term, committed relationship with a woman.
We discuss this because the case manager is gay, and didn't come out until later in life (after being married to a man for twenty-four years).
In fact, we usually talk about her, instead of me. She talks about being suicidal before she was comfortable with being a lesbian, about riding motorcycles, about bringing women to orgasm (a difficult feat, I admitted to her), about taking drugs, about her Christian college experience, about her food habits and being overweight, about how she doesn't allow her daughter to wear much makeup, despite the child's complaints, about her beliefs on evolution and creationism, and etc. This would be great if we were friends, but we're not. I'm supposed to be the client in this situation.
She asks almost every week, "How do you feel about getting that B on your essay? Are you feeling any better? Are you berating yourself less?" Because school is the only topic I don't feel the need to hide away.
We don't talk about Morpheus. She is largely unaware of his influence over me. I mentioned him in passing, only referring to him as an ex- who had re-contacted me. We don't talk about my weight gain (I would feel silly for doing so since she has her own issues with weight), thanks to the Seroquel. In fact, I've made up my mind that the reason why Morpheus doesn't want to see me again is because I'm fat. Because I am no longer fulfilling the stripper fantasy.
We don't talk about how my self-therapy is eating ice cream and drinking wine at night.
All of the assurances she gives me or the psychological insights--I've already heard before, either at Stanford or through my own personal study.
I spend two hours in therapy every Friday, and I look at it as a fraud of Medi-Cal.
Bleach in the Kitchen
"[Jae], don't use so much of the bleach, don't use the bleach when you're cleaning the kitchen," Mom says to me while we are standing side by side. "It bothers my nose."
I take the bottle of bleach and spritz a little bit more on the counter next to the microwave.
"Why aren't you doing like I asked?"
I take the bottle of bleach and spritz a little bit more on the counter next to the microwave.
"Why aren't you doing like I asked?"
Class Cancelled
It's an odd building next to the soccer field with only a few classroom in it (maybe even two), and stands white. I'm situated at the locked door, reading online articles off of Facebook--which is where I get most of my news--with my computer bag on the dirty cement.
There's a horde of students gathering around in a half-circle with the doorway being the center.
I see him coming from the parking lot.
When the English instructor arrives, checks the door, and then he answers a few students' questions, and afterward announces that class will be cancelled today.
One woman (who is one of only two students older than me) demands, "why?" as she is plainly annoyed. She asked in a tart way a while back during a different class period for me to move my belongings, and I haven't liked her since. How quickly we make judgments about people's personality and character. Maybe she's usually really nice, and I just keep catching her on an off day.
The English instructor is standing next to me. I want to tell her that it's none of her damn business why he's not holding class today. Maybe he has HIV and needs an emergency transfusion. Maybe he's suicidal in addition to his physical illness and needs to be hospitalized. It could be a bad anxiety attack. Maybe he's visiting a girlfriend from out of town, and wants a few hours to himself (he probably wouldn't appreciate me insinuating that he is cheating on his wife). Maybe he just doesn't feel like abiding in front of a crowd for the next two hours.
He answers without any sourness, "I haven't finished grading the midterms yet."
There's a horde of students gathering around in a half-circle with the doorway being the center.
I see him coming from the parking lot.
When the English instructor arrives, checks the door, and then he answers a few students' questions, and afterward announces that class will be cancelled today.
One woman (who is one of only two students older than me) demands, "why?" as she is plainly annoyed. She asked in a tart way a while back during a different class period for me to move my belongings, and I haven't liked her since. How quickly we make judgments about people's personality and character. Maybe she's usually really nice, and I just keep catching her on an off day.
The English instructor is standing next to me. I want to tell her that it's none of her damn business why he's not holding class today. Maybe he has HIV and needs an emergency transfusion. Maybe he's suicidal in addition to his physical illness and needs to be hospitalized. It could be a bad anxiety attack. Maybe he's visiting a girlfriend from out of town, and wants a few hours to himself (he probably wouldn't appreciate me insinuating that he is cheating on his wife). Maybe he just doesn't feel like abiding in front of a crowd for the next two hours.
He answers without any sourness, "I haven't finished grading the midterms yet."
How Smart Your Classmates Are
I'm standing in the kitchen and talking to my mother, who is folding laundry that was left on the dining room table.
"I hate peer review," I say, "I think it's a waste of my time."
"It's not," she adds.
"What do you mean?"
"You get to see how smart your classmates are."
"I hate peer review," I say, "I think it's a waste of my time."
"It's not," she adds.
"What do you mean?"
"You get to see how smart your classmates are."
The English Dilemma
"I'm sure you've turned in a paper where you said, 'this isn't my best work but...,' " the English instructor tells me during office hours last week. He is talking about his essay on inclusive classrooms for which he recently received an "A+." I read it, and while I prefer other works of his, his essay was excellent--hence the A.
This is a debate I'm currently having with myself. If I am to continue as an English major, either at the University where I was previously attending or another university like in the UC system, I will constantly be faced with critiques of my writing, constantly listening to criticisms (some of which I never agree with), and meeting head on with my shortcomings as a writer. Is it really worth all the trouble when the vast majority of my life, my creative writing has just been for myself, and a few other self-selective readers (on a blog, if someone doesn't like my entries, he/she just never comes back)? Do I even want to try to be published when I will likely receive rejections and negative feedback?
This is not to say that I don't endure praise on my essays. However, it comes laced with an acidic potion--always there is something faulty somewhere that can be improved upon. I told the English instructor on one of the last days of Engl 156 last semester, that I would never receive an 30/30 because he would always find "something wrong." Ironically, I would learn weeks later that he gave me a perfect score on my research paper. However, even then, he still had his doubts, and marked the essay as such.
Since the dawn, I have used my writing as therapy, for a way to explain all the horrible and enlightening events in my life--and all the engrossing people who I have met along the way. It has been mine, whereas in other aspects of my life, I have disgraced myself or bartered myself, collapsing under worldly pressures. To turn writing into a machine that fixates on a single goal (an A on the heading) is destructively limiting myself. In other words, to whore oneself out for grades.
Probably a few professors wouldn't agree with this, and would simply argue that criticism improves writing, not hinders it. I recently read an article on how to become an expert in something, and the writer noted that not only must you practice to become truly outstanding in an area, but you must extend yourself into the realm of being "uncomfortable" and "challenged." I write an essay, a professor, who has more education and experience than me, makes comments on my weaknesses, and therefore I have the opportunity to grow from good to great.
I see the article's point, and I don't dispute it. However, I lend to the idea that creative writing is not understood by all (professors or laymen alike), and that doesn't discount the writing itself. Just because you don't comprehend the symbolism in a paragraph doesn't mean it isn't wonderful--or inviting of true intellectual discourse.
Sometimes people just don't get it--whereas an audience of someone who has been in a psychiatric ward in a hospital will ingest and reflect upon the message completely.
This is a debate I'm currently having with myself. If I am to continue as an English major, either at the University where I was previously attending or another university like in the UC system, I will constantly be faced with critiques of my writing, constantly listening to criticisms (some of which I never agree with), and meeting head on with my shortcomings as a writer. Is it really worth all the trouble when the vast majority of my life, my creative writing has just been for myself, and a few other self-selective readers (on a blog, if someone doesn't like my entries, he/she just never comes back)? Do I even want to try to be published when I will likely receive rejections and negative feedback?
This is not to say that I don't endure praise on my essays. However, it comes laced with an acidic potion--always there is something faulty somewhere that can be improved upon. I told the English instructor on one of the last days of Engl 156 last semester, that I would never receive an 30/30 because he would always find "something wrong." Ironically, I would learn weeks later that he gave me a perfect score on my research paper. However, even then, he still had his doubts, and marked the essay as such.
Since the dawn, I have used my writing as therapy, for a way to explain all the horrible and enlightening events in my life--and all the engrossing people who I have met along the way. It has been mine, whereas in other aspects of my life, I have disgraced myself or bartered myself, collapsing under worldly pressures. To turn writing into a machine that fixates on a single goal (an A on the heading) is destructively limiting myself. In other words, to whore oneself out for grades.
Probably a few professors wouldn't agree with this, and would simply argue that criticism improves writing, not hinders it. I recently read an article on how to become an expert in something, and the writer noted that not only must you practice to become truly outstanding in an area, but you must extend yourself into the realm of being "uncomfortable" and "challenged." I write an essay, a professor, who has more education and experience than me, makes comments on my weaknesses, and therefore I have the opportunity to grow from good to great.
I see the article's point, and I don't dispute it. However, I lend to the idea that creative writing is not understood by all (professors or laymen alike), and that doesn't discount the writing itself. Just because you don't comprehend the symbolism in a paragraph doesn't mean it isn't wonderful--or inviting of true intellectual discourse.
Sometimes people just don't get it--whereas an audience of someone who has been in a psychiatric ward in a hospital will ingest and reflect upon the message completely.
"Rate My Professor" And Other Contrasts
I attempt to build a rapport with all of my professors (mostly through popping in during office hours), not just the ones I find handsome or charming.
Although, I've yet to find a professor who I didn't see as interesting since they tend to be deep thinking, complicated and driven people--and, comfortably, they are liberals.
The Engl 201B professor is like most people--if you sit still enough, silent enough, he starts opening up and talking about himself. I just left Engl 201B professor's office, where he told me about how the health of his parents is declining. And he was noticeably upset.
The English instructor, however, is very different. He hardly ever offers personal information or personal opinion on certain texts, and usually it is to answer a direct question (sometimes he even averts the inquiry, reminding me of Clinton when she was asked by the debate mediator about her special favors for people who donated to the Clinton Foundation--sometimes he just politely dodges). Usually if I make an effort and take an interest, after a few months, I know someone better.
That said, the English instructor's biggest asset (something that he does better than anyone else I've met) is his ability to relate to a younger generation. I hate to call them "eighteen-year-olds" because some are slightly older than that. He talks to them like they are people, not just students, casting aside some formalities while holding on to certain, necessary boundaries. He can engage them, joke with them and get them to laugh and to discuss with him and among themselves. He does this better than even I do (I feel that the whole class of Engl 201A doesn't like me, with the possible exception of one student, for whom English is a second language). On "Rate My Professor" website, there is not a single, negative comment about him on it (at least not since I last checked). All is lavish praise.
Concurrently, I feel like he lumps me into this "student role," for which I cannot escape. I'm sure there are many reasons for this, the most obvious being that I actually am a student in his class. In response, I spend way too much time trying to impress him with my writing (in the atypical hope that he will see me as primarily a writer, not someone who is "beneath" him as all students are a caste below their professors). My mother has noticed this, and told me a couple weekends ago, "Just write the damn essay already!"
My Engl 201B Professor obviously likes me. He smiles when he sees me, and he puts up with my many remarks in class, saying once at the end of our period, "Thank you." I'm assuming he was referring to the fact that I carried most of the conversation. Other students in the class have warmed up to me as well. One of my mates, who sits in the front row with me, asks every day, "What did you think of the reading?" For a seventeen-year-old at a community college, he is unusually articulate, and has scored higher than me on a couple of quizzes, getting a 100% on each.
Although, I've yet to find a professor who I didn't see as interesting since they tend to be deep thinking, complicated and driven people--and, comfortably, they are liberals.
The Engl 201B professor is like most people--if you sit still enough, silent enough, he starts opening up and talking about himself. I just left Engl 201B professor's office, where he told me about how the health of his parents is declining. And he was noticeably upset.
The English instructor, however, is very different. He hardly ever offers personal information or personal opinion on certain texts, and usually it is to answer a direct question (sometimes he even averts the inquiry, reminding me of Clinton when she was asked by the debate mediator about her special favors for people who donated to the Clinton Foundation--sometimes he just politely dodges). Usually if I make an effort and take an interest, after a few months, I know someone better.
That said, the English instructor's biggest asset (something that he does better than anyone else I've met) is his ability to relate to a younger generation. I hate to call them "eighteen-year-olds" because some are slightly older than that. He talks to them like they are people, not just students, casting aside some formalities while holding on to certain, necessary boundaries. He can engage them, joke with them and get them to laugh and to discuss with him and among themselves. He does this better than even I do (I feel that the whole class of Engl 201A doesn't like me, with the possible exception of one student, for whom English is a second language). On "Rate My Professor" website, there is not a single, negative comment about him on it (at least not since I last checked). All is lavish praise.
Concurrently, I feel like he lumps me into this "student role," for which I cannot escape. I'm sure there are many reasons for this, the most obvious being that I actually am a student in his class. In response, I spend way too much time trying to impress him with my writing (in the atypical hope that he will see me as primarily a writer, not someone who is "beneath" him as all students are a caste below their professors). My mother has noticed this, and told me a couple weekends ago, "Just write the damn essay already!"
My Engl 201B Professor obviously likes me. He smiles when he sees me, and he puts up with my many remarks in class, saying once at the end of our period, "Thank you." I'm assuming he was referring to the fact that I carried most of the conversation. Other students in the class have warmed up to me as well. One of my mates, who sits in the front row with me, asks every day, "What did you think of the reading?" For a seventeen-year-old at a community college, he is unusually articulate, and has scored higher than me on a couple of quizzes, getting a 100% on each.
"Am I My Brother's Keeper?"
"And the LORD said unto Cain, Where is Abel thy brother? And he said, I know not: Am I my brother's keeper?" Genesis 4:9
You know you're getting old when you don't wear yoga pants to class.
I'm sitting outside of the English instructor's temporary office (which he apparently shares with two other professors), waiting for him to arrive for office hours. I have my book, assigned reading for Engl 201A called The Bean Trees (still haven't figured out what the fuck is a "bean tree"), and I am doggedly reading along.
A pretty, thin girl with long, pretty blonde hair approaches me. "Are you waiting for [the English instructor]?"
I look up, and say, "Yes."
She glances in the window of the doorway, and then remarks, "Is he sometimes late?"
Do I look like I'm head of the English instructor's schedule or perhaps his secretary? "Yes," I repeat. "Sometimes he is late, and sometimes he doesn't show up at all."
She lets out a dramatic sigh. "I really need to speak to him. I'm really sick, and I won't make it to class today."
"Do you have his cellphone number?" I suggest. Personally, even if I was dying in the Stanford University hospital's ER, I wouldn't call a professor's cellphone number about missing class. But this is the year 2016, and maybe the social rules are different now.
"Yes..." She mumbles. "I guess I'll just email him." She leaves.
You know you're getting old when you don't wear yoga pants to class.
I'm sitting outside of the English instructor's temporary office (which he apparently shares with two other professors), waiting for him to arrive for office hours. I have my book, assigned reading for Engl 201A called The Bean Trees (still haven't figured out what the fuck is a "bean tree"), and I am doggedly reading along.
A pretty, thin girl with long, pretty blonde hair approaches me. "Are you waiting for [the English instructor]?"
I look up, and say, "Yes."
She glances in the window of the doorway, and then remarks, "Is he sometimes late?"
Do I look like I'm head of the English instructor's schedule or perhaps his secretary? "Yes," I repeat. "Sometimes he is late, and sometimes he doesn't show up at all."
She lets out a dramatic sigh. "I really need to speak to him. I'm really sick, and I won't make it to class today."
"Do you have his cellphone number?" I suggest. Personally, even if I was dying in the Stanford University hospital's ER, I wouldn't call a professor's cellphone number about missing class. But this is the year 2016, and maybe the social rules are different now.
"Yes..." She mumbles. "I guess I'll just email him." She leaves.
Try the Aspirin
I've been eating the dead dog's tramadol because I have lower abdominal pain that no one can explain.
When I went to an urgent care center and completed a few laboratory tests (not pregnant and no urinary or kidney infection), I asked for some type of pain killer or perhaps even (human) tramadol, thinking that tramadol wasn't a narcotic (I was wrong on that fact; it's a synthetic opioid, which has a low abuse potential).
The PA looked at me and frowned, saying, "Try the ibuprofen."
When I went to an urgent care center and completed a few laboratory tests (not pregnant and no urinary or kidney infection), I asked for some type of pain killer or perhaps even (human) tramadol, thinking that tramadol wasn't a narcotic (I was wrong on that fact; it's a synthetic opioid, which has a low abuse potential).
The PA looked at me and frowned, saying, "Try the ibuprofen."
Thursday, October 20, 2016
The Midterm in English 201A
I can't tell if he likes me or merely tolerates me. Which has been a problem I've been struggling with lately.
Yesterday, hysterical, I called my mother (who just finished with work and was driving home), freaking out about the midterm in English 201A that I was just about to sit down and take.
"You are more than one test," she offered. "I'm so proud of you, Dad is so proud of you. I will be proud of you no matter how well you do on this midterm."
In English 156 (same instructor, remember), I got a D+ on the midterm, despite re-reading all the assigned works. I sat down in class to take it, and felt overwhelmed and stupid. Nothing came up into my brain. I didn't even bother with doing the last part, which was writing an in class essay.
I found myself in English 201A writing and writing on the in-class essay with no end in sight. I was genuinely enraged by the article "House Calls..." (which was part of our course) because it claimed that Gregory House, the TV character, was a more "real" depiction of a doctor than the previous generation of shows.
As someone who spends way too much time at Stanford University Hospital, both in the ER and in the psychiatric ward, I know hospital doctors. They don't have time to be assholes. They have too many patients to deal with to insult family or friends or the patient him/herself. And the vast majority of them get into the profession because they genuinely want to help people and save lives. Strange, I know, in this cynical world, but every doctor I've talk to or read about has said the same.
But, alas, the exam only called for four paragraphs (minimum), not four pages (which is what I did write).
Even then, the English instructor might give me a poor grade on the in-class essay because I didn't exactly follow directions. I just reacted about an issue that had been building for the past six or seven weeks.
During office hours on Monday, I asked the English instructor if he had time to read something that was not a part of class. He said yes.
I handed him the first part of a fiction piece (novel or short story or who knows?) that I had written years before, probably while I was manic or otherwise in the throws of a mood episode.
He grabs his pen in his left hand, and reads--frowning slightly but not writing on the paper, not correcting, which is probably an improvement no matter what his expression held.
"I think it's the most experimental of anything I've written--or at least what I have record of," I say before I hand it over to him.
"You might want to give this to [the English professor of 201B]; he's better with creative writing," he says finally.
"But you--"
He interrupts me, says something I don't remember. Then he asks, "How long did it take you to write this? A few hours? A few days?"
"I don't remember."
He finds this amusing, and repeats himself. "A couple of hours?"
"I don't know. Probably, yeah." I have a feeling that the words just gushed out of me like they do when I'm on the edge--before the ECT treatments, and probably during a time when I wasn't medicated. I do know that it's the first draft.
"I see that this is a recurring theme for you. Many writers are like that. They find it cathartic to write about the same thing, over and over again. Would you agree?"
He's talking about my constant investigation into mental illness, but he won't say "mental illness" probably out of sensitivity for me and the issue, although I'm so immersed in it that I see it everywhere--and have no trouble speaking about it to a few other people.
Yesterday, hysterical, I called my mother (who just finished with work and was driving home), freaking out about the midterm in English 201A that I was just about to sit down and take.
"You are more than one test," she offered. "I'm so proud of you, Dad is so proud of you. I will be proud of you no matter how well you do on this midterm."
In English 156 (same instructor, remember), I got a D+ on the midterm, despite re-reading all the assigned works. I sat down in class to take it, and felt overwhelmed and stupid. Nothing came up into my brain. I didn't even bother with doing the last part, which was writing an in class essay.
I found myself in English 201A writing and writing on the in-class essay with no end in sight. I was genuinely enraged by the article "House Calls..." (which was part of our course) because it claimed that Gregory House, the TV character, was a more "real" depiction of a doctor than the previous generation of shows.
As someone who spends way too much time at Stanford University Hospital, both in the ER and in the psychiatric ward, I know hospital doctors. They don't have time to be assholes. They have too many patients to deal with to insult family or friends or the patient him/herself. And the vast majority of them get into the profession because they genuinely want to help people and save lives. Strange, I know, in this cynical world, but every doctor I've talk to or read about has said the same.
But, alas, the exam only called for four paragraphs (minimum), not four pages (which is what I did write).
Even then, the English instructor might give me a poor grade on the in-class essay because I didn't exactly follow directions. I just reacted about an issue that had been building for the past six or seven weeks.
During office hours on Monday, I asked the English instructor if he had time to read something that was not a part of class. He said yes.
I handed him the first part of a fiction piece (novel or short story or who knows?) that I had written years before, probably while I was manic or otherwise in the throws of a mood episode.
He grabs his pen in his left hand, and reads--frowning slightly but not writing on the paper, not correcting, which is probably an improvement no matter what his expression held.
"I think it's the most experimental of anything I've written--or at least what I have record of," I say before I hand it over to him.
"You might want to give this to [the English professor of 201B]; he's better with creative writing," he says finally.
"But you--"
He interrupts me, says something I don't remember. Then he asks, "How long did it take you to write this? A few hours? A few days?"
"I don't remember."
He finds this amusing, and repeats himself. "A couple of hours?"
"I don't know. Probably, yeah." I have a feeling that the words just gushed out of me like they do when I'm on the edge--before the ECT treatments, and probably during a time when I wasn't medicated. I do know that it's the first draft.
"I see that this is a recurring theme for you. Many writers are like that. They find it cathartic to write about the same thing, over and over again. Would you agree?"
He's talking about my constant investigation into mental illness, but he won't say "mental illness" probably out of sensitivity for me and the issue, although I'm so immersed in it that I see it everywhere--and have no trouble speaking about it to a few other people.
Wednesday, October 19, 2016
Why Writers Are the Worst Procrastinators
"If you’ve spent most of your life cruising ahead on natural ability,
doing what came easily and quickly, every word you write becomes a test
of just how much ability you have, every article a referendum on how
good a writer you are. As long as you have not written that article,
that speech, that novel, it could still be good. Before you take to the
keys, you are Proust and Oscar Wilde and George Orwell all rolled up
into one delicious package. By the time you’re finished, you’re more
like one of those 1940’s pulp hacks who strung hundred-page paragraphs
together with semicolons because it was too much effort to figure out
where the sentence should end...Rather, they seem to be paralyzed by the prospect of writing something that isn’t very good...the people who dislike challenges think that talent is a fixed thing
that you’re either born with or not. The people who relish them think
that it’s something you can nourish by doing stuff you’re not good at...Finding out that you’re not as good as you thought is not an opportunity
to improve; it’s a signal that you should maybe look into a less
demanding career, like mopping floors...They fear nothing so much as finding out that they never had what it takes."
-- by Megan Mcardle, The Atlantic
(http://www.theatlantic.com/business/archive/2014/02/why-writers-are-the-worst-procrastinators/283773/)
-- by Megan Mcardle, The Atlantic
(http://www.theatlantic.com/business/archive/2014/02/why-writers-are-the-worst-procrastinators/283773/)
Wednesday, October 12, 2016
And Wait
I must be more attractive with a glass of booze in my hand.
He stands next to the bar, one eye on the TV, talking to me about baseball.
I went to the hotel bar to get completely intoxicated, but found myself only sipping on the Grey Goose and OJ. I couldn't stomach the rest, something about it being too sweet for gulping.
It was the place where I first got drunk, sometime between 2005 and 2006 (but honestly, I don't remember what year; I just recall that I was dating Lucky at the time, and I was in my first manic episode).
Pushed a little too hard, and I'm revolting.
I know I have better uses for my time--like writing at least one of the two essays due this week. I could be walking the dog, as she sits in the backseat of the SUV in the hotel parking lot. I could be reading articles besides what comes up in my Facebook account--maybe something to do with Islam (for my paper).
I think about calling someone, but I don't know who--so I just sit there for a little while, and wait.
He stands next to the bar, one eye on the TV, talking to me about baseball.
I went to the hotel bar to get completely intoxicated, but found myself only sipping on the Grey Goose and OJ. I couldn't stomach the rest, something about it being too sweet for gulping.
It was the place where I first got drunk, sometime between 2005 and 2006 (but honestly, I don't remember what year; I just recall that I was dating Lucky at the time, and I was in my first manic episode).
Pushed a little too hard, and I'm revolting.
I know I have better uses for my time--like writing at least one of the two essays due this week. I could be walking the dog, as she sits in the backseat of the SUV in the hotel parking lot. I could be reading articles besides what comes up in my Facebook account--maybe something to do with Islam (for my paper).
I think about calling someone, but I don't know who--so I just sit there for a little while, and wait.
Thursday, October 6, 2016
September 11
"America did not change on September 11. It only became more itself."
--by Robert Kagan [2003]
--by Robert Kagan [2003]
Islam vs Christianity
"Believers across Christianity and Islam rightly hold to truth being independent of the observer. Traditionally, however, many Christians and most Muslims have held a rather naive position on how this truth is revealed and received. They have assumed truth to remain unaffected by this process of descent and reception. They have also assumed that somehow our historical and contextual location does not shape truth as we perceive it."
--by David Singh
(http://www.edinburgh2010.org/fileadmin/files/edinburgh2010/files/docs/1._david_Singh.pdf)
--by David Singh
(http://www.edinburgh2010.org/fileadmin/files/edinburgh2010/files/docs/1._david_Singh.pdf)
Wednesday, October 5, 2016
Not A Good Spot
"Not a good spot in life and no room to have a relationship...So sorry." --Morpheus via TXT-message today.
"...Do you want to cut off all communication?" My response.
"Just for the time...I can't commit to anything right now and I don't have any answers."
"I never asked for a committed relationship. I just asked that we spend time together and support each other. 'No room for a relationship' is usually to soften the blow of saying, 'You're just not the right person for me.' I know because I've used that tired line myself more than once," my TXT-message moments later.
"...Do you want to cut off all communication?" My response.
"Just for the time...I can't commit to anything right now and I don't have any answers."
"I never asked for a committed relationship. I just asked that we spend time together and support each other. 'No room for a relationship' is usually to soften the blow of saying, 'You're just not the right person for me.' I know because I've used that tired line myself more than once," my TXT-message moments later.
Tuesday, October 4, 2016
Why It Never Really Seems to End, Part II
The man openly admits that he cares naught for my emotions. Is this evidence of a pathology or is it just a sign of a man drowning?
I Hate U, I Love U
I hate you I love you
I hate that I love you
Don't want to, but I can't put
Nobody else above you
I hate you I love you
I hate that I want you
You want her, you need her
And I'll never be her
--by Gnash, "I Hate U, I Love U"
I hate that I love you
Don't want to, but I can't put
Nobody else above you
I hate you I love you
I hate that I want you
You want her, you need her
And I'll never be her
--by Gnash, "I Hate U, I Love U"
Monday, October 3, 2016
Why It Never Really Seems to End
"Are you so engulfed by your own crisis and dilemmas that you hold no empathy towards me?" I write on Sunday to Morpheus via TXT-message.
"Unfortunately that's exactly what's going on...Sorry," he responds moments later.
"Unfortunately that's exactly what's going on...Sorry," he responds moments later.
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