Savagely Still

"Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still."

--"The Waste Land" by T.S. Eliot

Why I Chose to Write "One Last Thought," Part III

(The opposite argument could be that he naturally and intrinsically never saw me as a student, but only after this conclusion, he therefore tightened the grip of the student role.)

Why I Chose to Write "One Last Thought," Part II

I don't want to appear self-indulgent when I write about this stuff, but then, perhaps that's the basis of all creative non-fiction writing (and if you want to press the issue, you could say that about novels and short stories since still authors are trying to infect audiences, just through the imagination of another world or bits-n-pieces of the real world). My poetry professor gave a long, encouraging speech about "shitty first drafts," and how it was a burden that all of us writers bear--we tend to write crappy words and the sentences and paragraphs that follow them--at least the first time around. We write too much, and have to narrow it down later as we finalize our ideas.

I've never found writing to be this way, but I'm sure that the English instructor would agree with my poetry professor that a work gets better the more you fuck with it. I see their point, but I often think of the rough draft as a purer expression of our conflict and subconscious drives that civil society (and the writers' community certainly fits into this) wants to tame and curb. But what made Marilyn Manson famous? From the interviews I've read, he's not that extreme, yes, he lives during the night and sleeps during the day, but he's never been diagnosed with a serious mental disorder like some of our other fated musicians--but what does Marilyn Manson do? He says all the shit that other musicians either see as too frightening or too base and coming from the marginalized culture and society that we want to cover up and avoid. In a way, I want to be the Marilyn Manson of literature. I want to say all the crap that others are afraid to. And I want it to hit like rock cocaine.

And what does that have to do with a love letter to the English instructor? Well, there's a start. Say something that everyone is thinking, but not saying because we think of ourselves as too polite and above our animalistic features. We think we're too civilized, and that notion would work if sex didn't interfere in just about every relationship you have with any one given individual.

Let's face the facts: the English instructor knew I was a woman (in my writings, I described myself as being bisexual, which is accurate). Not only did he recognize this fact and was cognizant of it, my gender and sexuality played into every word he spoke to me, and every sentence he wrote me. In every movement of his body, even as he sat behind the table at the front of the class while we were alone together. He was painfully aware of it. To this, I'm not at fault. And we got into this argument in poetry class, to what extent are women guilty of driving men to aggressive sex acts against females? My professor argued not at all. As a woman, we should be able to wear anything we fucking please, and walk anywhere at night without worrying about rape. So, what I mean to say is, I never wore anything provocative to class, and I never openly flirted with the man or otherwise tried to seduce him. I was just there, I just showed up and exercised my right to have an opinion.

Referring to me in this student role was just another PC way to put bars up around my female body. I realize that in the academic community, some of this is necessary. We can't have the disruption of a professor sleeping and possibly manipulating his students. Would the work ever get done?

So, yes, by speaking my mind in an email, I was putting the English instructor in an awkward position, and I am grossly conscious of that. However, most of us past fifteen know how to deal with rejection properly and how to dish it out as well. It's a skill, as they say, molded in fire.

And also, I doubt the English instructor was surprised by my email. Harry agrees with me on this. Harry said that the English instructor saw it coming, but was still alarmed by my frankness. Maybe the English instructor had a greater awareness of the issue than even I had since I thought we could easily have a platonic friendship.

That's why I just couldn't sit here silently. Because I knew that my options were not good. I couldn't stand the idea of pining away for him for years. At least if I forced the issue, he could turn me loose. Make him do it. I thought explaining myself was better than just coldly dropping our communication (there is some debate about how much that would have bothered him, perhaps not at all or only slightly, like a wistful, distant thought, "Huh, I wonder where [Jae] went? Hmmm, nevermind. Moving on"). 

The Stupid Fucking Dog

I started sobbing hysterically while talking to Mom about the night Dad threw down the dog, PeeWee because she was peeing on him.

"Why didn't you wake me up and tell me? Why didn't you tell me?" She keeps saying over and over again.

"I can't talk anymore!" I say as I run into my room to hide.

Someday I hope my overwhelming desire to escape domestication will end, instead of clinging to married men.

"Your Follow-Up Email to Mr. [the English Instructor] Was Very Moving"

"...a person who falls in love wants at least one other person in the world to see him or her whole. It doesn't seem like much to ask, but it is. Surely this is why writers write and artists create other kinds of art -- to get the world to see us as we are."

--Harry, in an email sent today

In the Middle of the Afternoon

I'm finishing my beer at 1:33pm, even though I have tons of homework to do. I recognize (and did so beforehand) that saying goodbye to the English instructor was going to be difficult.

However, I just want to fall back on bad habits, and fuck up my week.

I think I liked him a lot more than I was willing to admit, or I wouldn't be getting drunk.

"Do you think I want this?" I feel like telling him. " You're another married man with kids! Do I want to repeat past mistakes? Is this God fucking with me?"

Maybe.

More Fun in COMM Class

The COMM professor is leaning back in his chair at the front table, and says, "Do you know why drugs are bad?" He looks around the room at us. No one raise his/her hand.

I could think of a few reasons.

"Because," He continues, "They're so fucking good! Right? Right?"

The class lets out an amused laugh.

Just Call Me, Poetry Class

It's the end of poetry class, and I ask my poetry professor if I could get some help interpreting "The Wasteland" (for my essay that is due next coming Tuesday).

He explains that he'll be gone for family reasons. "But you can send me an email, or you can even call me."

I'm trying to figure out how calling his office phone would do any good since he'll be out of town. I pause.

"Just send me an email, asking for my cell number, and call me with questions and thoughts."

Okay, that's another new one for me.

Sometimes I want to tell the English instructor that I'm not trying to make his life more difficult, I'm not trying to undermine his relationship with the college nor his relationship with his wife, I'm just trying to find my way.

I imagined one of his responses:

"[Jae], you're an asshole. We had a nice little arraignment, exchanging generic emails, and you had to fuck it up by being horny."

Sorry!

I'm drinking a shitload of wine, because I'm in one of those moods.

Why I Chose to Write "One Last Thought"

Finals night of Engl 201A during winter semester, and I realize, "I'm in big fucking trouble," because I am growing more and more upset as the time draws closer to when I have to leave the English instructor, and I might never see him again. Was that a typical response after spending a few months talking to one of my professors? No, but then I never had to say goodbye to the Advisor or the LSU Professor, they were just always there, waiting for me to join them. It was unsaid that I was welcome to see them anytime I felt the need. They were the cornerstones of my sanity and of my college experience.

And there were others like them, people willing to educate me and be a support. I have forgotten these people due to the ECT, but I can still recall going over to my business law professor's house on the weekends and studying the material with him--with his daughter occasionally entering the room and then casually leaving us to our books and papers. There was nothing unusual or unethical about it--just a professor spending extra time to help a student.

During office hour last week, my Engl 201C professor (from this semester) commented on one of the advantages of staying local and going to the University to finish my degree in English (as opposed to going to UC-Berkeley) is that I can develop a deeper relationship with my professors because the program is smaller. He says, "It's not unusual for a student to go to the professor's house and have dinner."

Okay, I've never done that, but I've been in similar situations. At the University, no one thinks anything of it if a professor develops a personal relationship with his/her students. As the LSU Professor repeatedly cautioned me, it was inappropriate and ultimately career-altering if you have an affair with one of your current professors. After the class was over, no one gave a shit. He would know since the love of his life was a student of his, who he barely noticed while she was in his class, but only developed an attraction to her after she started doing work for the University and they were around each other some, a little while later. And he ultimately left his wife for her.

But that wasn't the story that inspired me to write the English instructor and tell him about my feelings and thoughts. The inspiration came from another story that the LSU Professor told me about another student, who he was attracted to. They developed a friendship, and he later told her how he felt. The student didn't seem fazed by it, and at one point left the area, just to come back for visits, and asked to stay at his house (and, apparently, his wife was also gone during this time). The LSU Professor told her he would buy her a hotel room because he didn't think it was a good idea that they stayed together in his house. Now, they write to each other through Facebook--the moral is that the situation wasn't a catastrophe. Two people recognized the attraction and then moved on.

Simple, right?

One of the more striking characteristics of a devoted professor is that it becomes personal--the professor identifies you as person, and goes beyond what's expected by administering additional help that is not expected. Or at least through my feeble mind, that's how I summarize it.

So, I figured (probably incorrectly) that if I confessed my feelings for the English instructor, either he would never speak to me again (for the obvious reasons) or he would just take it as a data point, and continue talking to me like I never said it at all.

People get frightened when something feels out of control, particularly emotions. And human emotions are threatening because they can be so unpredictable and chaotic.

Sometimes, I think that I just say shit for the shock factor, like how my COMM professor does, except my email "One Last Thought" to the English instructor could have been a lot more graphic ("If only I could sit on your face!" Etc).

"[Jae], have you no shame?"

"Nope, and if I really wanted into your pants by now, I would have mentioned something a long time ago, like i.e., pick a hotel room and we'll fuck."

But, alas, I do have some common decency (at least I like to think I do, but everyone can make their own judgements).

In reality, there's no good way to tell someone that you are not attracted to him/her when this person poses the question or explains his/her feelings. No good way, but there are some better ways. Yes, you will hurt feelings, but you can also give someone lasting dignity in a vulnerable situation.

Because being vulnerable is a part of the human experience. If you never doubt yourself, you fall starkly behind the truth.

Just a Little

You never really start to know someone until you push on him a little.

One Last Thought, Part [I Can't Fucking Remember]

After reading the English instructor's email in response to my "One Last Thought" a few times, I decided to send him this:

Dear Mr. [the English instructor], 

I guess what you must ask yourself (if you did, it didn't come out in your response) is: what do I have to gain by explaining my feelings for you, to the extent I did in the previous email? What did I have to gain praising your work, as you said? What did I have to gain by forwarding praise to the Department?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I wrote that email "One Last Thought" for myself, because I felt it was important for me to find some sense of closure (a horrible word that I venomously hate because closure is just a psychological blind spot that develops and evolves and grows like a cyst in the brain, as none of us are ever able to truly forget--unless you're me and have ECT. We just shuffle the books around on the shelf instead. Our interactions have already altered my life for the better, particularly your encouragement to continue my education, but rejection is so common, it has no teeth, just soft gums like an old woman sipping soup of her last meal. I have more fears of the elderly woman choking on the broth). 

You see, you can't put me in the student box because, simply, I don't belong there. You don't belong in the professor box, yes, you work, you have enthusiasm about your job, you spend an incredible amount of time in your role, you have dedicated a good part of your life to teaching and you are great at it, but what if someone only thought of you as a educator? Those people are not your friends. They would be limiting you when you are so much more than that. And what's frightening is that the more time you spend around someone, the harder it is to warp him/her and your perceptions of him/her into some handmade contraption built for your convenience. It's just a label, it doesn't define anyone, it doesn't encompass people's desires, motivations, and complex psyche.

 You can't build genuine, authentic, truly rewarding relationships (platonic or no) when you shove someone into some cage which he/she cannot fit into. Maybe doing so is safer so no one comes close enough in contact to harm, we could certainly argue that. But think about all the potential that remains in the human spirit, its almost infinite ability to connect--untouched--when you are insistent on segregating souls into these categories you see fit? 

I'm not asking you to like me, I'm not asking you to even talk to me, you have your rules about how you conduct your relationships with people, and I have to respect that--just like you should respect my wishes.

And to be honest, once in a while, I don't mind playing the fool. So, I kindly reject your offer, as stated in your email.

I apologize if I made you in any way uncomfortable. That was not my intent.

Goodbye,

[Jae]

Well, we all knew that the likelihood of this turning out in my favor was slim to none, and I do realize that no matter what anyone ever says, even if it is kindly delivered, no one likes to be rejected by someone whom he/she truly cares for.

I Am Who I Am

"I hate looking like this, I hate the body that I have. I want it to transform, and it is wrong that I have to wait until I’m an adult."

--quote from a transgender named Zak, The New York Times

Academic Dishonesty?

Dad is drawing right now on a big piece of white paper. I had an art project due for Art Appreciation tomorrow, and he wanted to do it.

I think technically that's academic dishonesty.

I haven't cheated on a paper, on a test, on a quiz, on anything at all since I was in the eighth grade (when I cheated extensively to keep up my A's, a period that started before middle school).

One Last Thought, Part V

"Although I don't know you at all, I know [Engl 201B Professor] better, to put it into perspective. I know I'm in love with your writing. I find you to be handsome and extremely smart and intriguing, if not sometimes a bit frustrating because you have an innate ability to dodge certain inquiries. And also, you know how to hide your emotions from your face."

 

--email titled "One Last Thought" sent to the English instructor early this morning. 

 

In Engl 201A last semester, our class spent some time reading and reviewing the book The Bean Trees by Kingsolver. As I've mentioned in previous entries, it wasn't one of my favorite novels. But in that book, the main character Taylor falls in love with Estevan, who is married to someone else. The night that his wife attempts suicide, Estevan goes over to Taylor's house, and eventually the two sleep together on the couch. Taylor leaves after a little while, kissing his palm as she goes. 

 

The question I got into with the English instructor was: why didn't she have sex with him? 

 

The English instructor's response was along the lines of "her maternal instinct kept her from doing it." 

I called bullshit (not literally, of course), and blamed it on how Taylor was socially and sexually awkward. 

 

The English instructor in turn replies, referring to the part of the novel where it says that Taylor had seen a few peckers in her life, that she was not naive. 

The more I think about this novel, and that particular situation, I believe that it was only fear holding her back. Fear of rejection, fear of intimacy, fears of all sorts. How could Taylor be better than the rest of us?

One Last Thought, Part IV

"Dear Mr. [The English instructor],

First, I must say that I wanted to be your friend, to know you truly and deeply like I've known few in my life, and I find those relationships to be very rewarding and fortunate for me.

Second, you have always treated me with the upmost respect and consideration, you have been very ethical and upright. You have politely maintained your boundaries as you see fit as both a married man and also as an educator, even strictly so, which is why this email is directed toward Mr. [the English instructor], not '[first name here].' In short, you have behaved admirably."

--email titled "One Last Thought" to the English instructor, sent early this morning

Recently, I read The New York Times, which featured an article about two people (woman and man) working together at a university in the same field, one of which was a junior faculty member, and the other had a more senior rank. They worked together, and predictably fell in love because they shared the same passions. Unfortunately for them, they were married to other people at the time, and they hid their affair from their spouses for ten years before finally confessing and getting a divorce. The article was unusual in the fact that these two scientists stayed together the rest of their lives, bonded by their mutual research and interests. 

Obviously if that type of storybook ending was more common, it wouldn't have been written about in the New York Times to begin with. 

It reminds me a bit of the story in Loving Frank the novel. He was married with kids (and never divorced his wife because she threatened to take them away from him if he did), and she was married with kids (after her divorce, she saw her children rarely). They both sacrificed a lot to be together, including at least partially the relationship they had with their kids. However, they loved each other with great affection, and remained together until the woman was killed by a disgruntled servant, many years later. 

Most, however, would find that falling in love with someone who is married is rather damning, an open wound of guilt and hypocrisy. 

Or rather, you can fall in love all you want as long as you don't act on your feelings. 

Some of the people who I have the most disrespect for are those who claim to want to be my friend, only they have an agenda to con me into sleeping with them or committing to them. I didn't want to make that mistake with the English instructor. While perhaps I didn't want to fuck him (debatable, right?), I didn't know exactly what I was after, and therefore, I was asking more than he could give me.

One Last Thought, Part III

"(This would have been a better short conversation in person, but alas!)

So, briefly, I don't expect a response to this email (what on earth would you say? 'Hmmm, thanks but I love my wife and children'). I will not contact you further.

If you take one thing from me, please remember to write your ass off, and get published!"

--email titled "One Last Thought" sent to the English instructor early this morning

Just so we understand each other, I was nearly drunk when I wrote that damn thing.

One Last Thought, Part II

"Unfortunately for myself, I feel like I'm falling in love with you. And I am absolutely very attracted to you. I haven't felt this way about someone in a very long time."

 

--email titled "One Last Thought" sent early this morning to the English instructor

 

Again, more fatalism, if I dive off a bridge, and I fall then someone will stretch out his/her arms to grab me and only find him/herself tumbling down with me to the fated crash at the end.

One Last Thought

"P.S. Please forgive me, I don't understand marriage nor children."

 

--email titled "One Last Thought" sent early this morning to the English instructor

I have sort of this fatalist view on romantic relationships, that no matter what I do, it will all end in tragedy and shame.

I've seen what married couples do to each other, how they hurt each other in gross ways that they would never allow themselves to do to a stranger. They seem bent on being cruel because they know they have a vow to keep them together, when really, their last concerns are their marriage.

Looking down the arm of I5 with the veins lit afire, shooting up electric heroin. 

The First Passion Since, The Weighed Words

"It seems that Mr. [The English instructor] is the first passion you've felt since Morpheus, so no wonder he's important to you. He has helped bring you back to life."

--Harry in today's email

In a lot of ways, I feel very grateful for that because for a long time, years, I never felt anything for any man at all--at least in the way of sexual and intellectual attraction (and how often do you find both in the same person?). After a while, I figured I was gone and cold forever, trapped in this wounded body that ached for resolution of the previous relationship--obsessed relentlessly without exception. 

I'm still that person--constantly thinking and dredging up any memories at all of Morpheus, but I found someone who gives me hope that--alas--I'm not dead after all. 

Fully Sexual

"...in literature down through the ages, it's easy to spot men's fear of the aggressive, fully sexual woman."

--Harry, in today's email

An Intellectual on the Idea of Hope

“Hope implies a deep-seated trust in life that appears absurd to those who lack it … The worst is always what the hopeful are prepared for. Their trust in life would not be worth much if it had not survived disappointments in the past, while knowledge that the future holds further disappointments demonstrates the continuing need for hope … Improvidence, a blind faith that things will somehow work out for the best, furnishes a poor substitute for the disposition to see things through even when they don’t.”

--quote from Christopher Lasch, The New York Times

Argument and Debate, Part II

My COMM professor and I are debating (although not arguing) about abortion. We're both liberals, so we agree on pro-choice.

"Why should I be a slave to my fetus?" He tells me without apprehension even though women might find it shocking. But he does this regularly, saying dark or funny or outrageous things, just to get people's attention, and to make them think.

I smile at him. "You know, I've haven't heard that one before...I learned something in class."

He's walking to his Honda Civic (before in class, he explained that he didn't care about horsepower), and he laughs again.

Argument and Debate Class

"The only people who care about feminist issues are feminists," my COMM professor tells the class.

I interrupt his dialogue by saying, "That's harsh."

"Well, it's true," he says looking at me seriously.

For a postmodern man who doesn't believe in absolute truth, it was an unusual thing to say.

After class, when we were alone together, I repeated his words back to him.

He looks at me, smiles, and then laughs a little.

We're in on the joke.

The Troll of Internet Art

" 'The types of people who go to art school are often wealthy, and it’s a vacation for some of them,' he told me. Troemel was a contentious figure on campus. He dominated class discussions and was relentlessly critical of his fellow-students. 'I recognize it was obnoxious and pretentious and narcissistic and generally probably unbearable to be around,' he said."

--"The Troll of Internet Art" by Adrian Chen, The New Yorker 


At least I'm in good company.

The Entry I Should Know

Why do people fuck up their lives for sex or for getting high (or in some cases, both)?

Because people need to feel in the moment, in the present tense, and exhilarating experiences hands us that. 

Found That Place

For the first time in my life despite having been admitted into Stanford University hospital more than ten years ago, I walk with my dog Beck the outer rim of the college campus. Upon viewing it, I was overwhelmed with a sense of peace and calmness.

While talking to the Stanford psychiatric resident about my experience, I started to tear up.

I had found that place.

The Blog Entry I Didn't Want to Write

I didn't respond directly to the LSU Professor's warning about my "connections with school," because I felt it was misplaced anxiety. He was either worried I would have sex with the English instructor (and therefore fall in love with him, and have him return quietly back to his wife) or that I would develop a growing attachment to him anyway, even sans sex, and I would pine for him for years, in the similar manner in which I do for Morpheus. Notice how in his email, he never expressed concern over the fact that if the English instructor did sleep with a student or ex-student, he was risking his reputation as a professor, and also risking his marriage--and, most importantly, his relationship with his children.

I mean, yes, I did learn a lesson. While I can't credit myself for Morpheus' divorce, I can say that I probably didn't help the situation he had with his wife. There are scenarios in which a man or a woman can cheat on his/her spouse, once, maybe twice or three times, and no one ever finds out and no one fells in love and there are no emotional entanglements, and therefore the cheating has a minimal effect--I would argue it had no effect at all. I guess that sometimes a secret is just better kept, as a disclosure would hurt someone who never needs to know. Having an affair doesn't necessarily reflect how someone feels about his/her primary relationship, i.e. his/her spouse. But often it does, and that's where the responsibility of who is at fault becomes murky. Am I to blame for a marriage already in discord and disarray? Surely, I do share some of the guilt, even if the marriage is or was on the brink of separation. In my ignorant bliss, I always thought that Morpheus' marriage was Morpheus' problem, and that I was not a reflection in any way with how he handles his primary relationship. In other words, they were already doomed, so you might as well fuck someone else in the mean time. Unfortunately for me, Morpheus and his wife didn't declare divorce until much later on down the road, and by then it was too late for me.

What I learned the hard way is that if you cheat on your spouse or your boyfriend/girlfriend, no matter the circumstances (boredom, true love, you name it), this doesn't make you a bad person. It doesn't even make you an insensitive or untrustworthy person. In some ways, cheating means you're a victim of human passion or feelings of being unfulfilled. Obviously, the cheated will feel morally justified on being angry, upset, and even vengeful. And no one likes to be cheated on.

According to the LSU Professor, his misgivings are warranted. He believes that I'm beautiful (he's told me this before and often), and that just about any man would fuck me if I gave the slightest indication of mutual interest. I disagree with this viewpoint, mostly because whenever I look at myself in the mirror, I either think I'm ugly or that I'm attractive (depending on the day, and my hair and my weight and just my general mood at the time)--I rarely think any evaluation in the middle (like saying I'm average). When I was growing up, I viewed myself to be unattractive and overtly masculine. Recently, I have dealt with the hand that most men ignore me for a reason (although while I was stranded beside my SUV in the middle of the night downtown Yuppieville, several men flirted with me while I stood on the rainy sidewalk).

To be honest, I don't have a high opinion of men and their attitudes toward sex. I believe that almost all men would fuck someone on the side, to varying degrees of intimacy and length, no matter what their connection is like with their partner--for several reasons. Sometimes, it's just a matter of pride--a man can't turn down sex without feeling diminished in some way because being a player is cool and respected in our society. I don't buy into the evolutionary arguments that men just want to spread their seed--that's bullshit. When you talk more neural connections in the genitals, women have far more, and therefore, I believe with art and practice, women can obtain more intense orgasms than a man, and have a greater motivation to fuck around--but we don't as often, or at least, in our culture, we like to think we don't (I've never read hard data on who fucks around more on their spouses, men or women, although I'm sure it's out there somewhere).

Which leads me back to the English instructor specifically (although he has a generic name in this blog, he is to me very special). He will hardly look at me, and most of the time, doesn't look at me at all. Everything about him says, stand back--don't press on my boundaries. I find that to be highly intriguing--and irritating, if I'm being forthright. On some level, I expect all men to be under the influence of my charm--and the English instructor resists quite well. I do not think that the English instructor would have sex with me, even if I bluntly offered to meet him at a hotel for a one time experience. I believe he is a rarity that way (again, I don't say this as something to do with my attractiveness level, which is debatable, but more to do with his personality and value system).

So, the LSU Professor has nothing to fear. Except--

if he did call me up one day (not referring to the LSU Professor), and asked to meet me in a hotel, well, I'd probably go, knowing what a disaster would ensue.

Because I am too a victim to my passions and feelings of displacement in the world.

The Inconvenience

I went to my Engl 201C professor's office hours this afternoon, and I explained to him, "Usually, I like to get to know my professor a little bit before I approach him with a problem, but unfortunately, that's not the case today." I tell him that because of my chronic illness, my disability (I didn't mention my diagnosis), I had to drive to Stanford Outpatient once every three to four weeks on Wednesdays (I also included that Stanford wouldn't schedule on any other day). And that meant that I would be missing a bunch of lecture. I asked him that I would prefer not to drop the class, but if he felt I should, well, then, I would.

"Can you come to office hours on Monday or Tuesday at ten thirty?" He asks.

I think for a moment. "Yeah sure." I also say that I know that it's more work for him to repeat what he was going discuss in lecture with me in his office.

He tells me not to worry about it.

"Weak And Powerless"

On my answer to the study questions of "Weak And Powerless" (a song about drug addiction, particularly heroin and/or fentanyl), the poetry professor wrote, "[Jae], nicely done!"

I made up for the fact that he corrected me in class. 

The Beginnings of Poetry Class

I read an article recently that said if you blame yourself because of any number of faults that you may have on why someone broke up with you, then the time it takes to recover will be longer for you than someone who rationalizes the ending differently.

It's poetry class, and my poetry professor is sitting just next to me in a desk, as the students are gathered around in a big circle. He's a small, wiry man with a passion for his subject. Often, he divulges into topics that encompass politics and social issues. First class, he talked adamantly about heroin addiction and the opioid epidemic, telling us about "white china" (apparently heroin laced with fentanyl). And, my poetry professor doesn't mind telling students when they are wrong in interpreting the works. He corrected me once, to which I told the English instructor about it, saying, I didn't feel discouraged, but rather I felt challenged. The English instructor responded with a causal "good luck."

We're discussing the Beatles' song called "Eleanor Rigby." Later on in the class period, the poetry professor plays the song, which the music doesn't impress me.

In class, we talk about how single, older women are ostracized in society. I bring up the topic, and the poetry professor just nods his head in agreement until I'm finished. Then he adds his own comments.

My Art professor mentions a few hours later how our society is obsessed with youth and beauty, that it wasn't that way a few hundred years ago.

What Not To Say

"And I think this poem is boring," one of my classmates mentions during poetry lecture.

Lying to the Doctors

I'm now required to go up to Stanford Outpatient Psychiatric Clinic every 2-4 week for monitoring.

I lie to my doctors, although I don't know why. They ask the usual questions: how much exercising am I getting? (I was honest here by telling them that I took a week off after the surgery, and then I haven't been hiking because the trails are either flooded out or muddy. Some trails are closed because of the rain. I just walk the dog on asphalt.)

How much have you been drinking?

I lied when I answer this, I say I haven't had a drink in two weeks. This isn't completely true. I had two glasses of wine a few days ago, but while I was on the opiates, I abstained.

Do you have a suicide plan?

No, I tell them, but this is just another lie. I think about running my SUV into the divider on the highway just about every day I travel to campus. But I don't think I would actually do it.

How much caffeine are you drinking? You said you were drinking 6 cups of coffee, but we asked that you cut that down a bit. 

I tell them I drink four cups a day, which is somewhat honest. Some days I drink four, some days I drink six.

How many hours of sleep are you getting?

I lie. I say nine when it's closer to ten to twelve, but I don't want them to conclude I'm getting more depressed because I'm sleeping longer. 

The lies themselves aren't interesting, I'm sure just about everyone has lied to their doctor at some point in time, but why do I feel like I have to lie at all? Aren't the doctors on my side? Aren't they just trying to help me?

"If you weren't so crazy, I'd think you were insane," the Joker in Suicide Squad, played expertly by Jared Leto. 

Argumentation COMM Class

He sits on the desk, and runs his hand through his blonde hair, often talking in such a manner that you wonder if he sees you at all or just running thoughts in his brain out through his mouth, in an aggressive manner, his voice slightly rising when he talks about politics.

During break, he whispers to me that someone would put a bullet in Trump's brain if it came down to starting a nuclear war. One of his military advisors would do the job.

"Dr. [last name]," I say, addressing him while his back is turned to me during the first class.

He turns around, smiles and says, "Call me [his initials]."

He does have a doctorate, and doctors like to be called doctors, it's only a natural show of respect.

"People are more impressed by the title than I am," he informs me.

Nope. Never.

"It's great that you've established connections at school. Just don't let [Jae] get hurt emotionally..."

--The LSU Professor's email to me this morning, possibly referring to my ongoing email exchange with Dr. G. Yancy, but it's more likely he's talking about my pen pal the English instructor.

i.e., don't fuck another married man with kids because it just ends poorly for you.

Students Trying Too Hard Because They Secretly Habor a Crush on Their Professor?

"...or perhaps because they think you're handsome, surely that's never swayed anyone."

--email sent to the English instructor today, explaining possible reasons why students "try too hard" in his classes

I'm such an asshole.

Close As Possible to the Inexpressible

"Often, I’ll have a scene of people having a conversation in a room. Then it turns out it’s either the wrong people or the wrong room, and I just have to keep going about it until I find the right people and the right room. It’s true that I’m oftentimes dealing with a crowd, and that’s extremely inconvenient for a writer, but there’s nothing I can do about that. … It’s hard to discuss, because it’s always sort of an exploration, and I usually don’t even know for a very long time, what it is that I’m exploring. So there’s a tremendous amount of exorcising that I do, carving away. These are very, very long stories that I write, but you could also call them extremely condensed novels. I feel like I start with a tremendous amount of material and just keep boiling it down. But yes, I want to get as close as possible to the inexpressible, and yet still communicate."

--Deborah Eisenburg

Give Me Some of These

I'm in a gurney, and the anesthesiologist just finally put in an I.V. (I was told that he regularly inserts I.V.'s in children, so comparatively, I was quite the challenge!). The OB/GYN doctor is standing over me in that thoughtful pose, he says, "And what would you like us to treat your pain with?"

Holy shit. I have a choice? "Norco's 7.5 work really well. Or maybe even some Tramadol." I watch his expression, it doesn't change.

Later, after I had woken up from the surgery, the nurse tossed me a prescription for Norco's 7.5mg--and also put a pain pill in my hand. She kept coming back in my room, asking, "Has it kicked in yet? You'll know when it kicks in."

Making Our Country a Far Better Place

"Rorty, in Achieving Our Country, shows unqualified admiration for the expansion of academic syllabi to include nonwhite and non-male authors, and describes such efforts as one means of awakening students to the 'humiliation which previous generations of Americans have inflicted on their fellow citizens.' He adds, without reservation, 'Encouraging students to be what mocking neoconservatives call ‘politically correct’ has made our country a far better place.' " [emphasis is my own]

--"Richard Rorty's Philosophical Argument for National Pride," by Stephen Metcalf, The New Yorker

The Last Minute Review

It's one of the last few days of Engl 201A, and it's just the English instructor and I left in the classroom. He's in a desk next to me. We are reviewing my paper on the opioid epidemic.

"Do you think that sounds cliche?" I say, pointing to a phrase on the first page.

"Yes," he agrees. He has the essay on his desk, and a pen in his hand.

I delicately reach over, and cautiously take the pen away from him with the single thought that this is the closest I've ever gotten to him.

I cross out half of my sentence, and then hand the pen back.

He takes it without touching me.

"Going to bed with cute guys just because she could--she had gotten that out of her system long ago."

--The Chieu Hoi Saloon by Mike Harris, pg. 211

Does Jesus Give a Shit? (My Asshole Statement)

"I don't think Jesus gives a shit about my blood work results."

--my TXT-message to Joseph, after he said "Thank Jesus" when I told him my blood work always came back fine, as if it was divine intervention that I'm (mostly) healthy, instead of it being contributed to healthy life choices.

Memory Loss and the Perspective

"You're going to get your A.A., then your B.A., then your Master's and then finally your Ph.D.," my mother sings to me while she's cooking dinner (a rare event, I must confess, Dad does the cooking almost without fail).

We briefly revisit the barriers to success, mainly my memory loss due to the ECT, a subject which my mother likes to comment on.

"What they did to you was a crime," my mother continues while mashing hamburger, referring to Stanford's insistence for eighteen months of electroshock therapy. She constantly reminds me of the things I've lost--anywhere from something as inconsequential as a viewing of a film or something more seriously like all my pre-calc and trig work (remarkably I received A's in those subjects). She'll ask me about memories of my childhood, and I won't be able to remember. She'll ask about college, and I won't remember.

I have only one picture of Joseph and I having sex, although we must have had sex more than once. But that's all I can recall. Us in the missionary position, him blissfully ignoring me due to his loss of perspective from the pleasure.

I have no memories of Hades, although I know that I went with him to Las Vegas, and then I visited him in Michigan. Everything else, I have written down. I don't even have an image of his face. I couldn't even tell you if I ever really loved him because I have no mental proof of any emotion I might have held for him. Was he a mistake? I can't discern because you need to know past and present actions to make that kind of judgment. To be honest, I feel nothing for him.

I know I had a lot of casual sex, because I wrote about it, but I can't remember a single countenance. Or any other body part. It's simply not there. I couldn't describe how many men I've slept with, much less what the experience was like.

I figured this absence of memory would be a safeguard for seeing Morpheus again in September of last year. I assumed that he would no longer turn me on nor would I be attracted to him. After all, it happened so long ago, and how can one man hold so much power? I have only a few scattered sequence of events, most of which don't make any sense because these are just moments in time, nothing connecting them to me or him. Nothing before, nothing after. But I saw him that night, and realized I was still in love with him.

In movies, it's sometimes assumed that if you forget who you are, you can become anyone, or more cheerily, someone better. I have an innate feeling that this is false.  Did I change? Yes, but not because I lost a large chunk of my identity. The illness changed me, not the treatment. I became more passive, more isolated, more humble, and in some instances, less compassionate because I was breathing out apathy. Now I had no reasons for acting the way I did/do, I just continue to be a self I am not familiar with.

Debating Politics of Identity

Dr. Yancy sent me this link, and I just now listened to it.

Yep, I'm the Service Person, Here for My Dog

Beck is technically a service dog, but I haven't been taking her into town very often, and I won't enter a building with her unless she's wearing her vest.

My mother makes fun of both her and me by saying, "Beck needs a service person!"

In Response to "Really Kind of an Asshole"

Amara,

If you were really an asshole, number one, you wouldn't know you were an asshole, you would just be inconsiderate to other people's feelings, emotions and values, either through ignorance or by manipulation. Which you're not and you don't do. You are conscious of how you might affect others. You are sensitive to your surroundings, including the people in it. And for the record, myself included, sometimes in life, we act like assholes because we're angry or upset or just being selfish--that's okay, because that means we're human. And those who love us, readily forgive us. We must forgive ourselves in the process.

Online And Scared

"And what was this tipping point?

It was the moment when we realized that a critical mass of our lives and work had shifted away from the terrestrial world to a realm known as 'cyberspace.' That is to say, a critical mass of our interactions had moved to a realm where we’re all connected but no one’s in charge.

After all, there are no stoplights in cyberspace, no police officers walking the beat, no courts, no judges, no God who smites evil and rewards good, and certainly no '1-800-Call-If-Putin-Hacks-Your-Election.' "

--"Online and Scared," by Thomas Friedman, the New York Times

Increasingly Lonely Hope

"On the other hand, he [Obama] continued, white Americans should acknowledge that 'the effects of slavery and Jim Crow didn’t suddenly vanish in the sixties; that when minority groups voice discontent, they’re not just engaging in reverse racism or practicing political correctness; that when they wage peaceful protest, they’re not demanding special treatment but the equal treatment our Founders promised.' "

--"The Increasingly Lonely Hope of Barack Obama," by Cunningham, the New Yorker

Don't Know Why: The Morpheus Story

I've managed to eat the whole burrito when I only meant to eat half, but shit, food has been tempting me lately.

"I'm thinking of the word 'entrapment,' but that's not it," The LSU Professor tells me, explaining that when Morpheus sees me (for instance, when he visualizes me as a person in his head), he sees a committed relationship, something that might grab him up and tie him down.

I'm not sure what I think of this working theory. And that's all it is, just theories and second-guessing and small talk. Nothing ever gets done, Morpheus still ignores my TXT-messages and my calls, and I have no idea why.

"It brings up a lot of questions, and most of them aren't nice," I respond.

"Like what?"

"Like the reason why he won't see me is because he's not attracted to me anymore," I continue.

"You must know on several levels that that isn't true."

Again, I don't have a good answer to this.

"It had been a paradise of sorts--not lost so much as carelessly mislaid."

--The Chieu Hoi Saloon by Mike Harris, pg. 215

PeeWee's Story: I'll Be the One

My mother said to me, not too long ago, "I've never seen your father be mean to an animal."

Well, I have, just from fragment of memories, piece of the leftovers from the ECT.

PeeWee, breathless and either scared or excited, hops up onto the dog bed, and begins to pee on it, completely unashamed, in this distant fog of her cognitive decline, as it's called in dogs.

My father yells and picks her up, and when he realizes that she won't stop peeing, and therefore now covering him in urine, he angrily tosses her back down on the bed.

Eventually, he takes her outside, and while doing so, calls her "the devil."

I want to tell him that if he ever throws her down on the ground again, that I'll be the one to euthanize her, since no one else has the balls.

The Oncoming Train, Part IV

"Remember I told you about the English instructor?" I say, actually using his blog-nickname, figuring the LSU Professor wouldn't recognize his last name.

The LSU Professor is driving me through a town, which is largely a Latino community, and we've just had Mexican food. "Oh, the one you're in love with!"

I can't tell if he's teasing me or if he's serious. "Okay, let's just not go there."

The Oncoming Train, Part III

Whoa, honey! That one's mine. Get your own.

Whenever the women in Engl 201A would gather around the English instructor and compete for his attention, even if it was something as simple as a sign off on a draft or other noncritical questions, I would get a little jealous.

For some reason, of which I don't have a good explanation, I was more comfortable in class when his attention was on me. Like I was officially included, and also in control. To a lesser extent, this is also true in Engl 201B with my other professor. If I was speaking in either class, I felt a restless sense of anxiety in my chest and limbs slowly dissipate. I needed almost constant reassurance that I was worthy enough to add something special to the group.

My Engl 201B professor did not hide the fact that he liked me. He would call on me every time that my hand was raised, and he let me lead the other students. Once, he paused in his lecture, looked at me and smiled and said, "[Jae], you're doing a great job. Let the other students answer some questions." We were in on it together, like a team. Some of the other students felt this, and would come to me for help, one girl asked me for the correct answer on a quiz (after the quiz was graded, of course!).

Nothing is more annoying than having someone who is completely oblivious to the fact that he/she is dominating the conversation, and not letting others speak their minds--as if the only important point of view is that of the classroom tyrant. I once explained to the English instructor, in response to his A+ paper on inclusive classrooms, that I grew into that role, not because it was natural to me. In fact, I was a shy child with what was assumed to be an intellectual disability, but I learned by six grade that I could scare the other kids from bullying me by challenging and standing up to the teacher. So, that's how I cope. Now, it's such a part of my ingrained response to the classroom setting that it would take much effort and discomfort on my psyche to change it.

The English instructor did allow me to say whatever I wanted, only stopping me on a couple of occasions in which, as he referred to it, it was the right place to move on to other subjects due to time constraints.

What's so important about being heard in a classroom? I'm not entirely sure since most people have difficulties in changing their views on any heated subject. I didn't exactly stride into the class with the intention of influencing minds. And the more I talked, the more I felt estranged from the other students.

The Oncoming Train, Part II

"You can't be the first student who has noticed how attractive he is. He seems to have been careful so far to maintain professional boundaries [with you]." 

--Harry via email

 There were definitely pretty girls in that class of Engl 201A, girls who were twenty-years-old at the most with long, blonde hair, coming into class with big tits and a bare midriff and a slender frame. A typical man's candy, which was exactly the point. I didn't even dress like that when I was a private dancer, walking around at night dressed in next-to-nothing didn't seem like good common sense at that point in my life. But going to class, sure, why not?

I never saw the English instructor do more than smile at them--which he did with everyone, even the plainer students as well (and the men). Me? I was watching the girl, staring right at her chest, wondering how God gave her that body, and she wasn't making money with it (maybe she was!). And what on earth possessed her to show up to lecture wearing that white, tight t-shirt, surely she was planning on taking over the world--at least the world that resides on campus. Taking them down, one man at a time.

Unfortunately for the class, the women were mostly mute--besides me, of course. There didn't seem to be much extroverted female personality in that room. 

And yes, of course, the women smiled right on back.

Memories of Morpheus: September of 2016

I don't remember the last time I got naked for someone, even though for a significant period in my life, I took off my clothes for a living--in the dark and in the bright light--for pleasure.

In September of 2016, when I met up with Morpheus at his large house in the best of what exists for neighborhoods in Yuppieville, I didn't remove my dress then either.

In bed, he wasn't happy with his pants down and me sucking his dick. He politely pulls me up, and starts to grab at my jeans, all the while with me saying teasingly, "No! No!" He keeps trying to untangle me, ignoring my playful cries. Eventually, he wins, and takes off my pants.

But my University sweatshirt stayed on even though there was no glow or a particle of light in the room, just the TV bouncing colors around in the background.

Yes, It's Your Parents' Fault

"Indeed, researchers said, people who have insecure attachment models tend to be drawn to those who fit their expectations, even if they are treated badly."

--"Yes, It's Your Parents' Fault," by Kate Murphy, the New York Times

Insecure and Avoidant

"Insecure avoidant adults tend to have trouble with intimacy and are more likely to leave relationships, particularly if they are going well. They may not return calls and resist talking about their feelings."

--"Yes, It's Your Parents' Fault" by Kate Murphy, The New York Times

Communication Thin and Brittle

"...and I tell my students that’s what makes email such an incendiary form of communication: all those dampening and texturing dimensions of the communication go away, and so the communication becomes all the more thin and brittle, and to try and get some of it back we start inserting emoticons, and so on. In all this, the properly 'human' is only part of the story; it’s nested in a larger, and in many ways nonhuman, set of contexts and forces."

--"Is Humanism Really Humane?" by Lennard and Wolfe, The New York Times

When We Are Busy

"I don't think there's time for you," the LSU Professor tells me, looking somewhat saddened to say that."He has four things going on, his wife, his children, his job and his land."

I had just briefly described how Morpheus makes his money, which I believe is mostly through commission, bartering deals for farmers or growers with big name companies, including Walmart. He also owns land and farms himself.

The LSU Professor seems a little taken back by this, telling me that taking care of land demanded a lot of time.

A Pest

The LSU Professor at the coffee shop brings up the idea that my TXT-messages (and most recently my lengthy voicemail message I left on Wednesday) to Morpheus are therapeutic, which is why I do it. It is a bit of the unburdening of the soul, as if I was a convicted criminal facing lethal injection in the near future.

He also brings up the fact that maybe I'm crossing Morpheus' boundaries by still forcing communication upon him, like a needy, crying child tugging at a sweaty pant leg of a parent who is desperately just trying to clean house and make dinner--can't you tell you're distracting me, slowing me down, and making yourself a pest? "I'm sure you've already thought of that," the LSU Professor says, at least giving me some credit.

I had. If I was in Morpheus' position, would I want my ex-lover to contact me, repeatedly after I've ignored her for three months?

Well--

A Dialogue Without Gratuitous Attacks

"There were also a few insults. An anonymous reader shared their wish for everyone on our Race/Related team to be deported. It represented the negative extreme of 2016, while also delivering an instructive reminder that some of our fellow citizens are not interested in having a dialogue without gratuitous attacks, and more than a few still cling to the belief that the United States can once again look like it did in the 1950s, before the Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965 greatly expanded the American palette."

--The New York Times talking about reader feedback in one of the newsletters

Obama and The Affirmative Action

"Starting in 1995, though, with Adarand Constructors v. Pena, the Court, in an opinion by Sandra Day O’Connor, began applying 'strict scrutiny' to laws that favor racial minorities—viewing affirmative action, in effect, as a form of racial discrimination. O’Connor’s opinion drew a stinging dissent from John Paul Stevens. 'There is no moral or constitutional equivalence between a policy that is designed to perpetuate a caste system and one that seeks to eradicate racial subordination,' he wrote. 'Invidious discrimination is an engine of oppression, subjugating a disfavored group to enhance or maintain the power of the majority. Remedial race-based preferences reflect the opposite impulse: a desire to foster equality in society.' In its embrace of judicial oversight of affirmative action, Obama’s view appears closer to O’Connor’s than to Stevens’s."

--"The Obama Brief," by Toobin, The New Yorker

The Trials of Driving a Piece of Shit That Has Over 250,000 Thousand Miles

It is raining heavily, and I'm driving through downtown Yuppieville after dropping Joseph off at his apartment complex (of which he offered me a room for $700, like that was a deal). I notice the CD player goes dark, discontinuing Shinedown's throaty spell. Once that happens, the battery light shows on the dash, and then the ABS light blinks and stills, and yet, the airbag symbol arises. I immediate dial the house phone, and I get my father on the phone, knowing that this didn't mean good things for my SUV.

"[enter every cuss word known to man]!" I sound. "It just died on me." I was able to pull off to the side of the street, parked in the red zone, just outside the very bar I drank two glasses of wine in, before I met up with Joseph. I try to turn over the engine, and only a soft, clicking noise would emanate. The last thing I want is a Yuppieville police officer on a Saturday night, asking me how much I had to drink while I'm standing next to my decapitated Mazda.

Dad sounds removed, and oddly puzzled.

So, I stand in the rain, waiting for the fucking tow truck to show. The driver calls me, and asks for an address.

"I don't have one, I'm next to [Yuppieville bar]. I mean, I can google it, if you want me to." I'm pissed off because I have to pee.

"Oh, I could google it too," he replies, and then hangs up.

I watch a few minutes later as a tow truck drives by without even noticing me, so I chase his ass down the block, in the wet, in high heeled black boots.

My dad assures me tonight, after spending several hours trying to figure out what exactly is wrong with the Mazda since the shop I had it towed to is closed on Sundays. He says to me, "You look at it like it's a lifeline, but I just see it as a $1,500 piece of shit."

The Oncoming Train

"I could see that train coming far down the tracks. As could he, I'm sure."

--email via Harry, in response to my explanation of my feelings for the English instructor

Arguing About Joseph

"Just so you know, I am not dressing up for Joseph tonight," I tell my mother, who is fixing herself up in the master bedroom's bathroom. "He doesn't need the encouragement."

"You are going to dinner!" Mom says to me.

"We are going to [name of restaurant], it's little more than a buffet," I respond, raising my voice slightly.

"That doesn't matter, you are going to dinner," she says as she comes out of the bathroom. She looks at me, "How many times have I told you that those boots do not go with those pants? At least pull the pant leg down over the boots."

"Mom, you can't. They're skinny jeans."

"Then wear another pair of pants!"

Sex? Nevermind.

"Sex is never far from a man's mind," The LSU Professor told me, one of the last times we sat down together and talked.

The Veneer

"I know Joseph has this veneer of a nice guy," I say to my mother, who is out of sight and doing laundry in another room, "But he thinks with his dick!" I'm surprisingly angry. My best male friends entertain (i.e. take me to lunch or dinner) me, but they don't expect anything in return besides engaging conversation. Joseph, on the other hand, has been calling me and wanting to take me out--to lead up to the big finish line, which is getting me naked and submissive.

"All guys think with their dick, most women know that," my mother yells back.

Scared? Maybe So

"He's scared of you," The LSU Professor tells me while we're both sitting outside of a corporate cafe with Beck at my side. "You have all of those saved emails, I'm assuming you do..." He mentioned the possibility of suing Morpheus, although I didn't at the time quite figure out what the LSU Professor meant. As far as I know, ignoring someone, even someone you had an extended relationship with, is not a civil offense nor is it criminal. It's simply called having a broken heart, not an act you can receive punishment for.

And what damage could I potentially do? I already told the Wife about our affair back in February of 2011, marking the beginning of my descend into psychotic chaos. There is no greater blow that I could wield. That's it. That's the big bomb going off. No matter whatever I do in the present or in the future, I could never amend for that.

The Opioid Argument

Stanford Outpatient Psychiatric Clinic is now handling my medication management, with the insistence that I receive psychotherapy somewhere local, and also that county mental health does "case management," which I'm not sure what that means.

The doctors at Stanford on my last visit shared two concerns with me: one, obviously my caffeine intake, which they explained was unusually high (although I don't drink near the coffee or soda that my mother does), and two, the potential prospect of me abusing or becoming addicted to opiates. You would think that being on morphine for a year, and other opiates before and after that, when I titrated down off of the opioids, that they would be comfortable with the idea that I didn't become an addict.

"How are you going to manage your pain after the surgery?" The attending physician asked me.

I shrugged. What I didn't say: I was out of the dead dog's tramadol, and was essentially on my own with it came to dealing with the pain.

He continued, stating that I should avoid painkillers unless I really needed them and if they were the only effective treatment available, and that I should only take a couple of pills after surgery, and that he hoped my surgeon wouldn't give me "thirty pills," because it was dangerous to have that many tablets of opioids loose in the house.

"Opiates make you feel good in the short term, but they're not good in the long term," the attending told me.

I've heard the lecture "opioids are bad" before, and often throughout my experience with painkillers. Many doctors expressed adamantly that I should not be on morphine considering my age, the lack of evidence of what was causing the pain, and the prior diagnosis of a mental illness (which raises the likelihood that I would become addicted because I would be "self-medicating").

I expressed to my case manager and to my mother that eventually I will have to have the pain talk with one of my doctors, and basically hit them up for opiates, although I would be comfortable with just receiving tramadol again, which is a relatively mild opioid. However, when asking for pain killers, doctors can have a variety of reactions, including sympathy, righteous anger or indignation, and apathy. You never know what you're going to get until you just ask, which is a humiliating experience. Doctors are afraid to take a patient at his/her word when it comes to physical suffering since often such suffering is not visible on the outside.

I am more liberal with the use of pain killers than the current attitude within the medical community and in the media dictates regarding these drugs--probably because I have never dealt with addiction myself. However, while I can see (and know because I've read up on it) that substance abuse is a grave matter, so is being in extreme pain. I think it's a pointless argument to decide which is worse. What we also know from research and data is that people who have noncancer, chronic pain are not  the majority of those who become addicted to opioids. The vast population of abusers are those who received pills from friends or family, either given to them or sold to them. While pain patients do become addicted, they shouldn't be our target for the war on opioids--and by posing restrictions and barriers to pain relievers, we are unjustly increasing the toll that pain has on both the body and the mind for patients.

This Isn't Real

I had a really bad visual hallucination not last night, but the night before. In the middle of the early hours, I saw a man standing in my room, smoking a cigarette. I kept saying to myself, as the anxiety increased, This isn't real, this isn't real...

Overprivileged Students Squabbling

"His complaints against 'political correctness' conjure a world of absurdist campus politics, where overprivileged students squabble over gender pronouns and the fine points of racial victimization. 'Media elites' come in for special attack, cordoned off in pens to be mocked and jeered at during rallies, labeled both liars and incompetents."

--"How 'Elites' Became One of the Nastiest Epithets in American Politics" by Beverly Gage, the New York Times Magazine

The Brain and the Attraction [Revised]

I wondered if the writers' group was thinking what I was thinking.

Notice how she brings the handsome English professor to the group. And how she hasn't invited the others, who she deems are less attractive. 

I haven't even noticed that he's attractive. Honestly, it's slipped my mind. I never think of sex when I'm in the classroom--that would just be uncouth. 

 Just so we're clear, it's not like I spent my hours in lecture thinking about screwing my English instructor. Most of the time, I was too busy contemplating how much I disliked my classmates.

Why I Don't Date--Or For That Matter, Don't Have Children

I'm sitting outside of a coffeeshop with the LSU Professor, and I have Beck with me. I bend down, and she lifts up her muzzle, and kisses me on the mouth.

"You don't know where that mouth's been," he says, slightly shocked.

"You know what? I'd rather have her kiss me than [ex-boyfriend]," I respond.

"Poor [ex-boyfriend]," the LSU Professor says, grimacing.

Hollow Sound

"The cue had made a hollow sound--though wasn't a head stuffed with brains and water and shit, without any empty space inside?...Not a mark. Just skin. Glowing, perfectly white. Then, when the blood poured out, it seemed to spill from nowhere."

--pg. 13 of The Chieu Hoi Saloon by Mike Harris

Iris, Part II

"you lay there in repose,
languishing among the embers
of an English afternoon."

--author: M.H., "Iris"

The Things We Do for Lust

"Know at least this, he enjoyed being with you," the LSU Professor says sincerely. He pauses and then plays with me, "He was having sex with you while his wife was pregnant with number three!"

For some reason, which is probably rude and unethical on my part, I laugh at this, thinking back to fucking him and seeing the baby's crib off to the side of the bed.

Does Pain Block Thinking?

"If you are in so much pain, why did you forget your blood work?" My mother asks me.

Today, I was supposed to go under surgery to discover why I've been having moderate-to-severe lower abdominal pain for the past, roughly, two months. However, the surgeon and anesthesiologist refused to do the procedure because I didn't get my blood work done a few days before we were scheduled. So, I'm having to postpone it. I told the LSU Professor because I knew he was worrying, and forgot to tell Joseph. So, guess who called me this afternoon, wondering how I'm feeling? And telling me how wonderful it was to talk to me?

The only Joseph.

God's Plans And Other Bullshit

It's writers' group, and Harry has just shared part of one of the chapters that he's working on, what he calls his "Indian novel." He wrote, partially, about prostitution and, vaguely, about sex.

The English instructor is still sitting in the corner with a legal pad in his lap, and a pen in his left hand, looking almost natural, as if his life doesn't include anything besides giving feedback and critiquing--his hand turned awkwardly, as most of us who are lefties do, scribbling away. He looks mad almost, in the classical sense of the word, and genius in the way that we think of geniuses being intense and under the touch of the gods. I often find myself wanting to write to him that "God' had given him his gift, but find it to be inappropriate for these circumstances. Perhaps he holds that there's more chance and luck to life than planned purpose. Plus, assuming God granted you this destiny of becoming a accomplished writer, you are under great distress and stress to fulfill God's plans for yourself--whereas an atheist can simply shrug at the compliments, and believe that the world determines our outcome, and therefore feel aptly powerless to do better. While many Christians will say that God gave them blessings, fewer still believe that He placed any special attention to making it happen. If God is all-powerful, then He must be removed from the plights of man, as being a caring God cripples His perspective, and narrows it. One man's suffering means another man's gain. Who is more important? The Christian? Ha.

Someone in the group says, "...business to come."

"No pun intended," the English instructor snaps.

I let out a cross between a giggle and a short, sturdy laugh. I didn't even catch that, I think to myself.

When The Writing Was Great

Harry and I are at my favorite Italian restaurant in Yuppieville, and we're settled in at the bar. I got there early because I want some time to calm down and drink a glass of wine (which was not wise considering the medications I mixed with the booze).

We were talking about when we write, our creative schedules so to speak.

"You know when I wrote the most?" I say. "Early in the morning when I was manic. And I thought it was great stuff."

"It was great," Harry says. "I remember."

Essay on Writing and Returning to College

After my psychotic episode in 2011, most of my readership disappeared, which was only natural because I wrote about the crazy shit rattling around in my brain, I was paranoid, delusional and also hallucinating--and for whatever god forsaken reason, I put it all down in blogs. Almost everyone left. After that episode and after the ECT treatments, which affected my cognitive function a long with my memory, perhaps even causing permanent brain damage (I read rumors of that side effect every now and again, usually by those opponents of the treatment), I felt like I couldn't write at the level to entertain an audience, and was fairly sure that level of finesse would never come back to me.

Despite Stanford's insistence that I return to writing, I begrudgingly wrote a few sentences about my time at the hospital in a paper bound journal, but nothing more.  The doctors and nurses would come to me, asking me if I had written, and what I wrote about--determined to force me to "put pen to paper," as the English instructor would say. I resented that they wanted me to create when I had no creativity anymore to share.

When the staff at Stanford University hospital suggested in the late winter of 2016 that I return to college--again, I resented them and their encouragements. I couldn't perform at the college level anymore, I had proven that by failing out of the University, and similarly failing several courses at the community college. One of my psychiatrists, who was local, told me I would continue to fail, and the research psychiatrist at Stanford, who performed the ECT, insisted that college was not for me--it wasn't "flexible" enough.

So, instead of standing up for myself during January of 2016 while I was hospitalized, and telling those Stanford doctors that I refused, I enrolled. I picked the easiest course I could, a basic English class--where I luckily met the English instructor.

There are many reasons why I like the English instructor, why I even went to the English division chair with a multiple paragraph warm glow of admiration and praise, but perhaps, as often in life, it is the first impression that I find to be the most striking (I've written about him during the first class of Engl 156, how he seemed preoccupied, and was undoubtedly frowning while trying to get the computer to work in the front of the class--how I felt like exiting at that very moment and never going back). I took a huge risk with my first writing assignment, writing about being a prostitute, someone with mental illness, and also about my romantic relationship with a married man. The English instructor never judged me--or if he did, he was polite enough to keep his opinions about my unlikely lifestyle to himself. He was, however, not satisfied with one draft, he kept after me to review, revise and then turn in again. Along the way, I found my voice--I felt like I was accomplishing something, the first time in a long time to have such a sense of self.

I saved his remarks and grading on my final draft, as I've saved all of them. On this one particularly, though, he wrote that my essay was "easily" one of the best he's ever read. I wasn't sure at the time if he meant in class, of students, or if he meant ever in his whole reading life, including me along with the greats of short story writers. I never asked--because that's not important.

If Engl 156 had gone south, I would have left the class, withdrawn, and would not have returned to college, possibly ever.

I often disagree with the English instructor, especially during discussions with the journal topics. I understand students have their own disinterested opinions on subjects that reveals their prejudice and bias and what could even be seen as their hatred, but the English instructor, never in class, corrects them nor does he ever blatantly disagree with them (the closest he's come is in correcting me because I said my classmates were "white and privileged"). He lets them have their way for a few minutes. I find that to be infuriating, which I can say now that I have passed his two classes without favoritism. I understand that the English instructor is hoping to create an open dialogue with the students, to teach them to formulate their own stances on different ideas without swaying them either way. I find this to be ideological, but wrong in practice. Assholes say asshole things, and someone should stand up to them, and reply with a logical, cold argument without name calling (ironic, right? Since I just call them "assholes"). Someone in the front of the class, where the argument is more likely to be received. Of course, never have I found that the English instructor was particularly disturbed by anything that the students were saying. He never revealed his political orientation, or any of his personal or political views. Most professors come into class with firmly held beliefs, which they promote their points of view venomously. The English instructor remains to be one of the few exceptions.

What is interesting, and not immediately obvious, is the fact that while the English instructor keeps his opinions tightly held to his chest, from my personal conversations with him, and because of his writing, I know that he thinks about these ideas (and others) often and intimately. His aloofness is not a product of any innocence or naivete on his part (much less ignorance). It's more likely a function of his every day armor. While I disagree with letting students say anything that comes to their mouth without proper recourse, I can admire a man who does not get himself dirty (nor diminished in any way) by trying to dig out the dirty deeds of the common eighteen year old. Perhaps he no longer views them as children, and therefore feels no need to reprimand them.

And so reminds me of my greatest difficulty in returning to school--not my performance, which I thought would hold me back, but it was my relationship with my fellow students which caused the most stress and second-guessing. I thought multiple times of withdrawing from both Engl 156 and Engl 201A because of my classmates. I was, and remain to be, appalled at their conservative talk, which almost seems humorously infantile--and perhaps I'm the only one who sees them as the kids who they truly are. In that sense, the English instructor holds more respect for them, sees a brighter future in them, and has more hope.

Backwards Look at Having Babies, Part II

"Would I bond with the baby? Ha! They hadn't even cut the umbilical cord when they first handed him to me. He was so big and heavy -- over 10 pounds -- and such a personage, this brand-new human being suddenly right there, in my arms. Bonding took about a nanosecond. I loved the kid like crazy, and still do."

--an email from Harry

Not Good Conversation Starter

One thing you don't do is criticize someone's family the first time you meet him/her.

The English instructor, during writers' group, spoke briefly of himself as a way of getting to know the room of people.

One of the group members asks, incredulously, "You have five kids?" Her mouth is open in an "O."

I watch the English instructor's face for any signs of irritation or annoyance. He displays neither when he answers, "Yes."

Backwards Look at Gender Roles and Having Babies

Joseph is an animated person, almost reminding me of someone who is hypomanic. At one point while we were walking down a sidewalk, he became enthralled with what he was talking about, and started to jump up and down.

While we were eating dinner at the sober and clean party, the food being horrible, especially for the fifteen dollar price tag, he (for whatever reason) started talking about how relationships develop when the woman carries a child inside her.

"Many women I have talked to have said that they saw themselves as mothers--many--," he emphasized, "But not the men. You ask a man if he sees himself with a child, and he'll say no."

Hmmm--the only thing I hate worse than typical gender roles is the so-called evolutionary biology thought to be behind the mating practices of the sexes, you know, the female being able to form a bond with a baby that a man simply can't because of the actions of hormones like oxytocin, and so forth. According to recent research, a woman's brain undergoes changes during pregnancy and after birth for as long as two years from the time the baby was born--even involved Dad's don't experience this re-modeling of the brain.

"And homosexual couples never mature this way because they don't have the added responsibility of the possibility that someone might get pregnant," he continues.

Whoa. Some transmen want to carry a baby, and even nurse this child, what is called "chest feeding." And I'm not quite sure how or why someone would conclude that gays don't understand the gravity of having a family--and all the duties that is encompassed in that.

Feeling Like A Piece of Shit (It's Just a Blog Post!)

"I also lacked perspective, by the way, because, Jesus, it was just a blog post! I know this now and I knew it then, but boy did I hate myself for not knowing how to move on and succeed."

--by Kelly Stout, "You're Not a Piece of Shit, But I Know You Feel Like One," Jezebel

The Thumbs Up

"[The English instructor] is modest, but he is a very talented writer," I speak to the writers' group, without looking in The English instructor's direction.

We Become Animals

"What would you do with that horse?" The Advisor comments, making the connection between a basic intellect that does respond to interaction and does recognize his/her master, and a human being with dementia--that you slowly become nothing more than a drooling, sputtering animal.

I snort at this idea, and then regret making such a dismissive sound.

Can I Eat After Graduating with a B.A. in English?

"I was an English major, but I wanted to eat regularly," the Advisor tells me over lunch.

Time Out

"You talk to us at our level," the grumpy, older student tells the Engl 201A class, directing her attention to the English instructor during finals' night.

It's just before the beginning of writers' group, and the English instructor is sitting in what looks like a one person, pink couch. He's a little too big and tall to be seated in the corner of the room, and because of the small space, his knees are drawn up under him like how a horse will gather its legs and bends its joints as it sleeps on its side. He's looking down, and not talking to anyone.

Maybe he's shy? I think. How can he be shy? He stands up to a crowd and spouts a whole range of ideas and principles as his job, joking constantly, and playing with the dynamics of the group and he's never been shy about it. If anything, he is gregarious and extroverted.

I'm making conversation with Harry, but realize that I can't just leave the English instructor sitting in the corner like he's on a time out. I ask, just as another group member asks him something completely different, "How's your morning going, [the English instructor]?"

He turns his head briefly in my direction, but makes no eye contact, and he gives the other member his attention.

The Quality of Friendships

Joseph calls me yesterday after he finds out that I'm going under surgery on Thursday. Our conversation leads to the quality of our friendships.

Joseph had mentioned that he had difficulty in finding "intelligent friends," and therefore "loved" me.

I explain happily that I have three supportive, caring friends (which are the Advisor, the LSU Professor, and, of course, Harry), who have all taught at the University at some point and are all very bright and open-minded. I also mention that I have a couple of girl friends, who I don't talk to as much, but are important as well (and equally intellectual).

True Love, Always (Best in Platonic Form)

I'm sitting next to the Advisor, and he's just the next chair over on my right. We have finished our meals.

While he's talking to me, I realize, he loves me.

No Go, Part III

One of the group members during the session asked the English instructor, "Are you a friend of [Jae]'s?"

He replied, "I was her professor for two classes at [the community college]." Therefore avoiding any possible admission on his part. He reminded me of the clever Hillary Clinton. She can delicately dodge any question.

No, actually, we can't stand each other, I hear him say in the back of my mind.

No Go, Part II

Harry comes up to me at the end of writers' group, hours after the English instructor left, and he says, "I know from your blog entries that [the English instructor] must be an outstanding teacher, and he is handsome too!"

I just nod my head, and smile.

No Go

The LSU Professor and I are talking about the possible and rumored sexual interaction between professors and students in their class.

"It's just not worth it," The LSU Professor says, and then he starts to laugh. "It's not like you can hide it from the rest of the class!"

I'm laughing too as he's making faces.

Not On a First-Name Basis

I invited the English instructor to writers' group with the mindset that he wouldn't attend, either because he didn't have the free time or that he did have the free time, but would rather use it scrubbing the toilets, especially the bowl, which is everyone's favorite part.

Then Monday morning (of writers' group), the English instructor sends me an email, just as I'm heading out the door to attend, that he will come but only able to spend more or less an hour there. Was that okay? 

I don't reply because I assume he's not coming or that he won't get the email in time to make any kind of difference. Like all his students, I have his cell phone number, but I've made a rule that I won't call him or leave him a TXT-message until we are at least on a first-name basis (isn't that polite? After all, what could be so important that I need to call him for?).

I show up to group early because I don't want the English instructor to arrive before I do, become discouraged because he doesn't know anyone, and then leave (even though, he's not coming at all, right?).

The English instructor pulls open the door a few minutes later.

"Everyone, this is Mr. [the English instructor]," I say to our little group.

"Call me [first name]," he says, obviously talking to everyone in the room, except me, of course. In one of the last classes in Engl 201A, a student referred to him by his first name. At first, I didn't know who she was talking about, and then seconds later, I realize that I'm instantaneously jealous. What kind of relationship do they have that she calls him by his nickname? What the hell! 

Later, after the English instructor is gone, one of our group members commented that she was glad he had showed up, and how great it was that I called him by his last name, that "he deserves it."

Iris

"I must etch my name
in to the prow of the fated barge.
Only then may I ascend
the crucifix of my choice.

That is, unless He--"

--author: M.H.

An email to the English instructor, dated yesterday: "Please consider extensively and seriously of writing your ass off, getting some feedback and put together a collection of poems for publication--and keep at it until you do get published."

Do Write

"Now, go home and write about this," The Advisor says as we are just finishing up lunch at a local German restaurant. He was referring to our conversation about his mother (who died from dementia), and my grandmother, who is still alive but ailing.

Skirts From Long, Long Ago

I'm prancing around the house in black pantyhose and a short skirt that would be longer if it wasn't too tight around my stomach and on what I called to my mother "knock off" black boots.

"Was that skirt twenty pounds ago?" My mother comments when she takes a look at me in my bedroom.

I nervously pull at the skirt, "Fifteen or twenty pounds, yeah." I bought it months ago, and it was loose then.

"Let me look at you," she says as I spin around. She insists that I go to a New Year's Eve party in either dress pants or a skirt, even though the get-together is for recovering addicts who are essentially homeless. A bit like going to the Christmas party for the other people with severe mental illness who make up my current therapeutic program. No one is going to dress up. People can barely afford Walmart jeans and t-shirts. "What else do you have?"She runs her hands over the small selection of clothes I have, much of which I can't fit into. I have more pairs of jeans and dress pants in sizes four and six than I could ever need--buying them out of vanity that I could actually fit into something that small. Now, they are useless, and the odds are fairly good that I will never be able to dress myself in them again, as our body is just organized on the imperative that we need to keep all the weight we gain, and therefore we mustn't lose those precious pounds which could save us in a famine.

"That's all I have, I can't fit into anything else, the rest of my clothes are in the garage," I answer. I have two rows of clothes in a closed room in a shop.

Sexism in A.I.

"Similarly, conversations like mine with Alexa and Siri reveal more about human expectations than they do about A.I. By creating interactions that encourage consumers to understand the objects that serve them as women, technologists abet the prejudice by which women are considered objects. They may overlook this hazard in part because these workers are, for the most part, men."

--"The Bot Politic," by Jacqueline Feldman, The New Yorker

The Tinder Experience, Part VII

When you talk to me like I'm a prostitute, it makes me want to charge you.

Feminism Lost

"Others worry that the women’s movement has spent too much time policing language and behavior, blaming and shaming at the expense of dialogue. That, Professor Williams argues, can make misogyny attractive to the white working class, a way to rebel against condescending elites."

--by Susan Chira, "Feminism Lost. Now What?," The New York Times

For some reason, a few people out there equate rudeness (that they are oblivious to) to freedom of speech, as if you are given the right to be an asshole (however, "assholeness" is protected by the Court, unless the hate speech is meant to incite immediate violence). Political correctness does not censor people; it simply recognizes the difference among us in life experience, our priorities and values in a respectful manner. Being polite and considerate to your audience (of one or more) is a delicate art that we could all use more practice in.

Bisexual Women at a Party for Recovering Addicts

Joseph and I are at a clean and sober party for recovering addicts. A pretty, young woman comes up to him, they exchange greetings, she looks at me briefly and then floats on past.

"I wonder if she's bisexual," I say, giddy from two shots of Grey Goose that I had in a bar, waiting to meet up with him.

He instantly smiles, "How did you know? No, really, how did you know?"

I just shrug.

Really, That Many? Guess Who's a Kiss Ass?

For some reason, of which I can't remember now, the English instructor has his school email inbox open and plastered all over the screen in front of class while we were all waiting for lecture to begin. Just the first, few messages were projected. Three of them were from me.

I was horribly embarrassed, and said to myself, "I'm famous."

The Tinder [Tender] Experience, Part VI

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