Pain and Pain

My mother complains that the Neurologist talks in circles, and that it's hard to get her to give a definitive answer for anything, which reminds me of the way neurology works, at least to our limited understanding. In psychiatry, the situation is similar, we can only give educated guesses. Will this medication help my depression? I don't know. Will I ever have psychotic symptoms again? I don't know. Will I pass this awful disease to my children? I don't know for sure. Maybe. 

One thing that the Neurologist was careful to note was the abdominal pain. Normally, I wouldn't think she'd be interested. It was deemed to be a OB/GYN problem. But still, the Neurologist insisted on making a possible connection, asking me if the doctor ever ruled out them being related.

"No, he did not," I answered plainly to her. "I just figured it was a coincidence."

The Neurologist just gives me a "hmph," as if she wasn't quite satisfied.

Footsteps

"Even in my lucky circumstances I am left with flickers of superstition and magical thinking, no matter how long it has been since I’ve realized that most of what I was taught as a child is not something I agree with as an adult."

--The New York Times, "The High Price of Leaving Ultra-Orthodox Life" by: Taffy Brodesser-Akner

When Real Animals Attack--You Know, Like Wild Ones

I was cleaning the kitchen when the front door of the house opened, and Mom and Dad entered--each carrying a days-old little baby lamb--one was grey and the other was black. "What the hell?" I said.

"Shhh!" Mom responded.

My parents stuffed the little lambs in a medium-size dog crate. Immediately, the lambs started crying.

"Those are not happy lambs," I said.

"Of course not, but better to be not happy than dead," Mom said back.

We have been having a problem with mountain lions on the ranch. One killed about five goats, and the game warden came out and shot it. (Dad showed me a picture of the cat with missing brain parts, and I told him to never do that again) This next mountain lion only killed one goat. But still, we're missing one lamb, and have never been able to find any body parts.

Under Threat

I'm complaining because I'm trying to finish my homework, and the dog is whining, even though I took her to the dog park to run around and also took her to class with me. "She thinks she's the most important thing in my life."

My mother responds, "She is the most important thing in your life."

About a week ago, the case manager, Beck and I were talking in a parking lot after just having been on a short walk. A homeless man started shouting at us, waiving his hands aggressively, and saying that I had refused to give him aride, using offensive language. I watched Beck as she turned from her usual timid self into "the protector." Her back stiffened, her ears pointed forward, and little hairs on her spine came up. She looked at him as if saying, "Don't move a fucking inch closer."

As the homeless man walked away, still yelling, I petted Beck and told her what a good girl she was.  

Honest Conversation

"Do you have depression?" The Engl 201B professor asks me during his office hours. He had sent me an email, asking if I would stop by and chat.

"Yes, that's part of it," I respond honestly.

Lessons From Serial

I've been listening to the Serial Podcast Season One (it's homework for COMM 215). The big question of the season is whether or not Adnan Syed killed his ex-girlfriend. The reporter, Sarah, ends up being ambivalent on whether or not he's guilty. One direction she constantly re-examines is: what is his personality? Is he a psychopath? No one really knows for sure (or at least if a psychologist evaluated Adnan, it wasn't shared on the podcast). The remarkable piece of the puzzle is what the defense attorney (she's part of the Innocent Project) said about that subject. She suggested that "you wouldn't be that lucky." And she stated that most of her clients were not psychopaths. They were either not guilty or--as she so eloquently puts it--dumb.

What led me to the question: why do we assume, after we break up with someone, that he/she is a cold, calculating liar? Oh, he lied to me the entire time. He just wanted x, y, and z. He didn't care about me.

But is that really true? The truth is, people with Antisocial Personality Disorder, while manipulative and without conscience, well, they are still in the minority. It would be extremely unlucky (and perhaps say something about your personality) if all you did was date them, one right after another.

So, why would I assume--and why would I debate--that Morpheus lied to me about how he felt. The odds are, he didn't. He was just an ordinary human being with his own faults--and you can still deeply hurt someone even if you are, in general, a kind and loving person--because we all do it. What we do know is that Morpheus lied on some occasions, or at least, liberally stretched the truth. But does that make him merciless? No, perhaps there is a much more boring and ordinary explanation.

Excellent Article on the Experience of Being a Psychotic Patient, Part II

"Freedom often ends up looking a lot like abandonment."

--"God Knows Where I Am" by Rachel Aviv, The New Yorker

Excellent Article on the Experience of Being a Psychotic Patient

"As of 1936, the hospital had sterilized a hundred and fifty-five patients, and later it began experimenting with newfangled remedies, like electroconvulsive therapy and insulin-induced comas; the shock of such procedures, it was thought, might clear patients’ minds."

--"God Knows Where I Am" by Rachel Aviv, The New Yorker

What's Wrong with Me?

In this article called "What's Wrong With Me?," the author describes nerve pain in a similar fashion of how I experience it, which led me to the question: do I have an autoimmune disorder that the doctors haven't figured out yet?

Yuppieville, Cultural Center of the State

Mom and I had talked about the Neurologist's results over the phone before I returned to home from school. When we started talking about it again in the front room, she said, "I'm happy for you."

"What--why?" I asked.

"Because you don't have MS," she said smiling. "You weren't worried about it?"

"Yes, I was, that's why I didn't go back to see [the Neurologist] on my follow up appointment back in September. Honestly I just didn't want to know."

Mom was diagnosed with degenerative disk disease when she was thirty-one. She told me that she didn't care about the label; she was just concerned about what she could and could not do. How it would potentially impact her life.

A couple weekends ago, Joseph took my family and I to see a cowboy documentary for its world premier (I joked to Joseph that Yuppieville was the cultural center of the state). It was actually about the reined-cow horse tradition, modern ranch life and the NRCHA competition. Most of the people interviewed for the film, I knew, and some of them, I got to know fairly well as a youth rider. Of course, watching a movie about horses and horse training was deeply moving for my mother and I. We have gone without horseback riding since her back condition became worse, and I gave it up for the same reason. I haven't been on the back of a horse in years, even though when I was eighteen, I promised myself that I would never give it up.  I promised myself that I would surround myself with horses all my living days, which was part of the motivation for becoming an equine veterinarian.

But life throws us barrers to our self-actualization.

The Relief, Part II

TXT-message from Harry today: "It was special for you."

My reply: "Yes, it was very special to me. But that's no great comfort when you are left wondering if it was special to him."

The Relief

About a week ago, I reach this emotional epiphany, and I decided that I don't care if I ever hear from Morpheus again, I don't care if he ever wants to see me because what we had is gone. Maybe it was special, maybe it wasn't, but I will never know. And I was being ridiculous trying to keep into contact witb him when he clearly doesn't want to speak to me. I was pathetic, and I needed to move on.

Popping Pills For Pain

Everytime I pop a pill (Norco), I wonder if I'm becoming addicted, even though I had those very same thoughts everytime I took Morphine, for a year. Am I sinking into some hole that I will be unable to get out of, that I will ruin my life over?

Somehow, I can't help but think that these are healthy fears.

The Tragedy of Wilson

Mom and I are standing in the hallway, and she's tearing up. "He cries to me about Wilson, that I killed his dog. That she just had the flu when we put her down," she tells me.

"But that's not true. The vet said the cancer had spread to her intestines."

Films

Joseph and I are in the theatre, and we're waiting for my parents to sit down.

He turns his head to me, and says smiling, "I love it when people call me 'a bald-faced liar' to my face. It's so funny!" He obviously doesn't find it humorous.

"You can't judge someone on one interaction," I say, defending the woman who had only asked if he knew the person he was holding the seats for.

"Yeah, well, I do anyway," he responds looking off onto the stage.

When People Tell You...Part II

"Everyone has things they have to deal with," my mother tells me.

"Yeah, Mom, but not only do I have physical issues, but I have a severe mental illness that is a mixture of bipolar and schizophrenia. I don't think it gets much worse than that!"

When People Tell You, "You're fat!" Or maybe just your doctors

"Your weight doesn't bother me," my mother says to me as she's sitting in the recliner. "But does it bother you? What do you think about it?"

I didn't have an immediate answer to this.

Doctor Days, Part IV

"Are you worried that I will get addicted to the Norco or have it affect my mood?" I ask the Neurologist.

She shakes her head. "No, not at all, what I am worried about though is the fact that we now know that Norco makes the neuropathy worse."

Doctor Days, Part III [REVISED]

The Neurologist shows me a couple of well-worn pages out of some anatomy picture book. "You have degenerative disk disease," she starts, which makes sense because my first back MRI about nine years ago showed mild changes. She rattles off a couple of words which I don't know. I think she mentions spondylosis. "You have arthritis from here to here," she points to the top of the spine down to its bottom. She is convinced that the periodic nerve pain I've been experiencing, the reason why I returned to her practice back in August of 2016, is all due to what's going on with my spine. The pain is intense, but fortunately, it's brief, lasting for about an hour each day, and seemingly unrelated to the back pain I deal with. It's called paresthesia. I don't often complain about it because while it is torture, some of the worst pain I've ever felt, about the time I think I can't take anymore, it goes away on its own. Showering, for whatever reason (The Neurologist thinks it's because of the heat), makes it worse; so, I often just use a small towel in a bowl of water and soap, and clean myself up that way (of course, I'm forced to take showers multi-times per week anyway).

"Will the paresthesia ever go away?" I ask her while she's taking notes at her desk.

"No, but we can blunt the effect with medication." She lists a few drugs, asking me if I've ever taken any of them.

"I've taken Lyrica."

"I want to start you on Cymbalta, it will help with the neuropathy, but also has an antidepressant effect. So, we'll switch you from Lexapro to Cymbalta."

I pause at this, only because while I've been on the Lexapro, my depression has been at its lowest level for years. I can only recall a few short periods in my life when my illness was any better.

She draws a crude line in the form of a rollercoaster. "First, your mood might dip down like this, but then it should come back up. If you really feel like you're crashing, call me....Do you want to wait to see what Stanford says?"

"I think we should start immediately." I trust her, she's not a psychiatrist, but then again, she is very smart. Probably, short of a few physicians at Stanford, the most intelligent doctor I've had. 

Doctor Days, Part II

The Neurologist is a small woman for her height, probably wearing a size two or size four. She's assessing my reflexes when she states bluntly, "You've gained weight."

I don't know how she remembered, as she hasn't seen me regularly for years. "Yes."

"Do you know why?"

"Yes, it happened with me being put on Seroquel."

"It's going to make everything worse, your back pain, your neck problems. You've tried to lose weight on your own, and it's not working. You should join a group like OA. Do you know OA?"

"Yes." We say "overeaters anonymous" in unison.

"At your age, it's harder to lose weight and will only get harder, so you need to do it now." She pauses. "I see weight gain as an untreated mental illness, and they are making that worse by having you take Seroquel."

I don't see obesity as a mental illness, and most psychiatrists would agree with me, although there is a binge eating disorder which leads to weight gain, but that's a separate, specialized condition. I don't binge eat, not like I did when I was actively bulimic. But is it possible that my weight gain is caused by psychiatric symptoms? Sure. I'll buy that.

The reputation of gaining weight on Seroquel is legendary. As I surfed multiple patient sites about the drug, I read over and over again sad stories of people packing on the pounds, being horrified by their appearance, and yet, they continued to take the drug because they needed it. Me? At a size four/six at the time I started the antipsychotic, I bravely thought that it wouldn't happen to me. That I could somehow manage it.

Doctor Days

The Neurologist is close to me, just off to my right side, and she says while resting her hand on my arm, "I don't want you to have a stroke."

Poetry? Who? Me?

Thanks to the poetry professor's encouragement (which he gave to everyone in our class, not just me), I will be submitting an revised version of my poem, "Hospital's Hallway" to a local contest, even though it's the first poem I've written in recent memory.

President Trump's Tweets? And Alternative Facts

"It is the function of the individual, not the government, to sift the true from the false, the relevant from the irrelevant, the rational from the appeal to prejudice."

--The Yale Law Journal

I wonder if this applies to President Trump's tweets. 

Does Science Care About Jesus?

In Engl 201C class (which essentially is deductive reasoning skills mixed with literature and writing), we were discussing the "acceptability" of the statement, "Some men are mortal." I said it was acceptable, and the professor said it wasn't--because all men are mortal, not just some. I argued what about Jesus?

"I don't think science cares about Jesus," my professor replied.

I laughed a little at that. "We don't know for sure that he died, we haven't found his DNA...now, that doesn't mean he did exist, but still, we can't rule it out." Maybe Jesus was raised from the dead. How would I know?

One of the girls a few rows behind me, seemed agitated and annoyed, but holding more anxiety than anything else. "Can we just move on?" She suggested a different problem on the practice midterm.

The professor smiles at her kindly. "There are 28 different brains in this room, who all think in different ways and have different needs. We will get to your needs next."

In another comment, the professor said, "If you want to run away from discussions like these, don't be a philosophy major."

During COMM class, which was a bit odd considering the professor was in an accident, hit by a car while on a crosswalk, he told me and the rest of the group plainly, "I don't feel comfortable discussing god. That's a question for office hours."

After lecture, I apologize to him for bringing up the subject (I asked him what his opinion was on the presence of God).

This is a man who told our class a story about one of his students being sexually assaulted by his fellow friends while he was passed out drunk.

We can talk about a guy cramming up some guy's ass a Snickers bar in a condom, but we can't debate the existence of God?

I don't have the arrogance of an atheist (how do you know there's no God?) nor do I have the faith of a Christian or more broadly, that of a believer. God, to me, is an important topic, and as much as sex, it reigns first in my mind. I will more often argue for the existence of God more than I will propose the opposite.

Yea, I Did

I officially submitted my essay called "While I Perish Beside the Sea" (in reference to a poem) to the New York Times Modern Love College Essay contest. Within seconds, I received this email: "Thank you for submitting to the Modern Love College Essay Contest. Your entry has been received. Results will be announced in late April..."

Since the poetry professor help me edit and shape the work, I emailed him today to let him know that I had gone and actually done the deed--and to thank him. He responded, "And remember, the reward was just having a reason to write it! Actually winning a contest is the proverbial 'snow ball's change in hell!' :)"

To which, I corrected him, "O ye of little faith. Won't you be surprised when I get it published?"

He conceded, "I'm sure you'll be published if not this time very soon..."

This is the first time ever in my life that I have submitted something for publication. And I'm thirty-three-years-old. About time, right?

While I Perish Beside the Sea

"There won't be another one like it," the poetry professor says. "But the odds are you won't win, just because that's the way these contests go, not having anything to do with the quality of your work."

Which makes me wonder why I'm avoiding doing other types of homework (I'm still behind in my COMM freedom of speech project by about three weeks) in order to write an essay, hopefully one I'm proud of, with the idea that it will never be published and all will be lost!

"I wouldn't water it down for the sake of your audience," the poetry professors tells me at some point, which is what I wanted to hear. I wanted to be given the freedom to write all the nonsense I desired, as I explained to the poetry professor, I love the sound of my own voice.

In the beginning of the essay, I quote the English instructor, and probably the best poem I've ever seen of his. I quote the most easily understandable portion, even though with just those few lines, you can't really determine that it's a poem about suicide. The subject of death by one's own hands is romantized by him, but I still feel like it's a beautiful piece. This way, if I'm published, he's published, and everyone who writes wants to be published by the New York Times at some point in his/her lifetime. It's a minor way of saying thank you.

I don't think that the Times will skip over my essay because "it's not good enough," I worry more about the fact that the essay isn't appropriate, either because of the language and the extensive length of metaphors and symbolism (Morpheus' name in there is "Hunter," get it? Right?) or because of the subject material. And, of course, the essay has to resonate emotionally with the audience and/or the judges of the contest. They may feel that the style is wonderful, but if they don't connect or see value in the characters, they'll quickly become bored and pass over it to the next contestant. I think it's important because I lived through it, but you have to make it important to complete strangers, who may have a hard time connecting psychologically and sympathizing with a sex worker.

Speech We Hate Safeguarding the Speech We Love

These authors also examined First Amendment romanticism and the idea that only by protecting “the speech we hate” can we safeguard the speech we love.

 

--Harvard Civil Rights-Civil Liberties Law Review, by Delgado

Take Your Medicine

Last night around 11:30, Mom walks into the TV room. She asks me, "What are you doing still up?"

I'm binge watching True Blood, so I don't respond.

"Have you taken your meds yet?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I feel stressed out."

"That's exactly why you should take your meds."

"...for reality over beauty..."

--British Renaissance, Dr. James Fox

Press Pause on Psychotic Symptoms, Part II

Luckily, the voices went away sometime early Sunday morning, or I should say, I gained control over them sometime on Sunday. It's almost as if they're always there, just below the surface, and when I weaken in any psychological way, they are able to overcome me, and their speech becomes much louder.

God and the Auditory Hallucinations: Not A Spiritual Pathway

Of course, my case manager, as much as I've grown to like her over the past eleven months, had no idea what to say when I confessed that I was hearing voices again. Her reaction surprised me because the program I'm in, ran by a nonprofit organization employed by county mental health, conducts probably almost exclusively with people with severe mental illness, not your garden-variety of high functioning depression or mild-to-moderate anxiety (which can be awful in its own right, even if you can still dress yourself for work, and sit at your desk like a zombie for eight hours). No, these are often people with psychotic disorders. Schizoaffective disorder is a bit of a hybrid, the best of a mood disorder (joking!) and the symptoms of schizophrenia, although typically not as severe as seen in those who have schizophrenia. So, my case manager should know how to handle a patient dealing with psychotic symptoms.

She launched into, "Do you know the UK and how they view auditory hallucinations?"

"Yes, they see it more as a spiritual crisis." I don't know that for sure, I just remember her telling me about it.

She then talks about shamans.

I interrupted her, "Not to be rude, but I don't want to talk about shamans." I find the whole idea ridiculous, perhaps because I was a Reformed Protestant, probably because we believed that all of the prophets of God have already lived and died (we, of course, exclude Muhammad in this group). There is no one else, at least not until the Second Coming. Therefore, if someone claims to hear directly from the dead or from God, he/she is being occupied by either a demon or the devil himself. I take the agnostic version of this, which means, if you think God is that booming voice outside of your head, it's probably just a neurological, sick joke. In a more friendly sense, we are all tested in our walk through life. No, you don't have a direct link to God or angels just because you're up for days on end, and seeing your dead sister sitting on your bed.

My case manager is a Christian--a lesbian Christian, which I find hard to digest, but I've only questioned her about it once. She has a good answer, that God loves all of His creation, and therefore loves her as she is. Good answer if you skip over other more hateful verses in the Bible, and just choose to see what you want to see. The issue with Reformed Protestants is the fact that God is not the nice God of your more mainstream churches--He is wrathful and will put your ass in hell just because you were born (and under the Original Sin). Babies who die before they are old enough to ask for the Holy Spirit to come into their soul? They go to hell. Accept it. It's a fact. Going to hell. 

In return, God gets a shitty deal. We pledge our loyalties to Jesus and the Holy Spirit, and we have a get out of jail free card, the ability to sin in any manner we like, to our own destruction, and we are allowed into heaven because why? We asked for God to dwell in us, because we have faith. Problem solved. I'm an asshole, but I tell Jesus I'm an asshole, and I get to go to Heaven. One student asked our ex-pastor/English/history teacher in high school, then what was the motivation for doing good if we can just get away with whatever we like? He responded that the Holy Spirit makes us want to be good and decent people, even if we fail part of the time. That the Holy Spirit guides us.

There is some wisdom in believing in a God, even if there isn't actually one. Why? Because if you're wrong, you go to hell. And the idea of being tortured for all eternity doesn't really appeal to anyone. 

More Thoughts on the Modern Love Contest

Most people have been encouraging when I tell them I'm writing an esasy for the New York Times, but I'm not sure anyone thinks I'll actually be published (the prize money is a grand, money of which I could greatly use).

I started talking to the poetry professor about how I'm having writer's block and procastinating, and that I need some kind of--

He interrupts me, "You need a deadline." His voice turns to mock sternness, "Have a rough draft done by Tuesday, that will give you two or three days to do some editing."

I've decided if I'm going to write honestly, I can't afford to have anyone at the school read it first, partially because I don't want to be judged by what I say. This means that I won't have the great advantage of having someone do some extensive editing.

Press Pause on Psychotic Symptoms

For about a year now until just recently, I hadn't had any auditory hallucinations. Sometimes, at different periods, I would focus and try to get them to bubble up to the surface of my consciousness, but when I listened, I couldn't hear them. Or maybe they would say a phrase and then politely die off.

A couple days ago, they stretched themselves up, fingers tapping just beneath the membrane of my sea of consciousness. And then, they started rattling along, saying all the awful crap that even a sane person could imagine having damaging effects--whispers like, "you're a stupid bitch, and you're gonna die...just kill her, just slit her throat..." (the voices don't care much for my case manager)

I recognize the fact that the voices come from me, and perhaps are parts of me, even though they are often male, and often louder than my cognitions. I have a horrible fear that I am somehow doing this to myself, that I am willingly making myself sick by allowing or even encouraging these voices to prattle on and on. Surely, I could just shut them off if I wanted to.

Most people don't think as they are going about their day, "Hey, I could go crazy today, it just might happen." But I contemplate that often throughout most of my waking hours. Will today be the day that I go back to psychosis and leave reality behind? How long will I be gone? And what will have happened to me by the time I make it back?

Infantilizing and The Responsibilities of Free Speech

The American Association of University Professors last year warned: “The presumption that students need to be protected rather than challenged in a classroom is at once infantilizing and anti-intellectual.”

--"Chicago School of Free Speech," The Wall Street Journal, by L. Gordon Crovitzk

I don't know why educators should stand back and allow bullying of classmates under the premise of freedom of speech.  

Talks With Mom

There are two primary sources of conflict at home, one of which is PeeWee, who makes messes where ever she's allowed to be, and two, the chores of the house in general--who will do what and when, and who isn't doing enough.

For the most part, everyone gets along, although Mom admitted to me over the weekend that sometimes she gets cranky for no reason, and then she asks me, "What are the reasons for you being cranky [today]?"

"Because I'm in pain," I answer simply.

"Maybe he should ask your doctor for more pain pills," she recommends, which is a great idea except my GP gave me ten pills of Vicodin's, and I went through them in three days (they are supposed to last me about a week). Technically, taking that many pills each day isn't excessive, but it doesn't look good. You are should take the medication as dictated by your doctor--or else.

This morning I called Mom at work to ask her if the dishes in the dishwasher were clean (yes, they are).

After we talked about the weather, Mom paused, and then said, "[Jae]." She paused again. "I just wanted to say how proud of you I am."

"I know, it's like finally I got my shit together."

"No, it's not just that, what you're doing in school. You grew up to be a good person."

The Problem Is, I Haven't Written It Yet

"I was wondering if I could bring by something to show you," I ask the poetry professor who has me stopped in the computer lab.

"Yeah, sure...more poems?" He seems excited by this prospect.

"No," I pause. "That essay for the New York Times, would you read it? Later?"

"Anytime," he says and then walks off a little ways.

The problem is, I haven't written it yet, even though after I did some homework, working on my free speech project in COMM class, I had some time to write, and I spent it reading the news. I'm trying to imagine a cohesive essay on both the English instructor and Morpheus from the perspective of a retired sex worker, since traditionally they haven't been well represented in mainstream media, unless connected to trafficking or drug addiction. I can't remember ever reading an article in the New York Times about prostitution of the middle or high class. Another problem: it would be difficult, if not down right dumb, to have English professors read an essay about the English instructor, when it could take them about two seconds to figure out who I'm talking about (lovingly, of course). Oh, yeah, tall, handsome guy who teaches Engl 156 and Engl 201A. Partially because the division is so small. Obviously, the English instructor didn't do anything wrong, inappropriate or unethical, so if other professors learn about my feelings for him, it really shouldn't matter. However, I still can't help but think that would raise more eyebrows than even my confession of being a sex worker. At least the eyebrows and grins of the local community college (the audience who reads the Modern Love column probably wouldn't care if he was a professor or a dean or someone else in charge at a university). Today, I ran across an article in an academic journal about how ridiculous it is to stigmatize students who have sex with their professors. If only everyone shared that opinion.

Another issue is: I don't have a good ending to write. The English instructor would probably appreciate it if I never contacted him again, and I have little communication with Morpheus. I didn't end up in a happy, healthy committed relationship, so no one is going to have the feeling of resolution that other writings could perhaps provide. Could that be a bit of a letdown or would it just be a more realistic perspective? What I don't want to do is fall into the trap that being a prostitute is a negative experience because in many ways, it's not. And it would be unfair to other sex workers if I portrayed it that way.

Not All A's Are Created Equal

"Did you tell him that you still won't sleep with him?" says my mother in response to me telling her that I received high praise and a 100% on my poetry analysis paper.

"Do you find it so hard to believe that I could get an A on a paper that the only way is if the professor wants to sleep with me?" I say. Wow, I got all A's in two semesters of the English instructor's classes, did I really miss something there? 

"How do you know so much about him personally?" She asks about the poetry professor.

"Because he told me...he's a good guy, trust me," I assert. I had only told her that he probably was just recently divorced, I didn't think it was improper for him to disclose this.

Free Speech: An Excuse to Coddle Assholes and Idiots

"For too long, a flawed notion of 'free speech' has allowed individuals in positions of power to spread racist pseudoscience in academic institutions, dehumanizing and subjugating people of color and gender minorities."

--by Elizabeth Siyuan Lee, the New York Times, "Discord at Middlebury: Students on the Anti-Murray Protests"

One of the many issues surrounding free speech on college campuses is the fact that freedom of speech grants tyranny of the discussion by allowing dominant voices to drown out and overpower those marginalized groups like minorities, who often don't feel like they can assert themselves in a heated debate, especially when slurs (or worse) are being used against them.

The Reality of L.A. Homelessness

"Recently he saw a man planted on the sidewalk on Sunset Boulevard, next to a smattering of rotten food. His skin had peeled off his lower body."

--"For people dying on L.A. streets, he offers help, and he won't take no for an answer," The Los Angeles Times, by Steve Lopez

Romantic Regime

"You only do all this if you’ve set up a framework in which exit is not an easy option, in which you’re assured the other person’s love is not going away, and in which the only way to survive the crises is to go deeper into the relationship itself."

--"What Romantic Regime Are You In?", The New York Times, by David Brooks

Intellectual Diversity on College Campuses, Part II

"David Horowitz's rationale for his ad campaign is to enliven campus debate and expose the prevailing liberal orthodoxy for the corrupting force that it is..."

--Elizabeth Bakalar, "The Ad that Made a Campus Roar," the New York Times

Intellectual Diversity on College Campuses

"Not all viewpoints deserve equal respect—the greatest respect goes to those views that are backed by the weight of evidence and sound argument—but we should at least be tolerant and open and civil toward a diverse range of views." 

--J. Martin Rochester

The Dense, Dry Desert of a Psyche's Deliberation

I hear my name being called as I head out of the computer lap to grab a cup of coffee. It's the poetry professor.

"[Jae]!" He says.

I see he is walking out of the English division faculty hallway.

"Your paper was phenomenal," he says to me smiling. "I gave you a 100, and I never do that."

"Wow! That means so much to me," I respond, and I'm considering if I stand here long enough, I'll start crying.

"I'm thinking about showing some of the sample essays, and I would use yours."

The Question Why and Morpheus

Why did I send Morpheus all those TXT-messages?

Part of it was because I wanted him to know that I loved him no matter what--no matter the fight or how angry I might become. Part of it was because I needed to talk to him as a way to sooth myself, to process what has happened between us. Part of it was the vain hope that somehow, someway he would be moved to respond.

Body Images

Yesterday, by pure luck, I happenstance on an article in the Huffington Post for body positivity by an author who formly had anorexia and gained weight. In her "before" photo, she was obviously much smaller than I've ever been (probably by about twenty pounds), but in her "after" photo, she was about the same size as I am now--and the striking element of the article was the fact that she was still beautiful.

Maybe He's Single

For some reason, the poetry professor told the class that he's moving. "I gave my house to my kids and my ex-wife," he confessed. Then he canceled the next class.

I sent him a note today, asking if he was okay, since I empathize with someone who's going through a divorce.

He responded within minutes, and said that it had been "a crazy four days."

The Unfortunate Ramblings, Part IV

"You have put more emotion into him, more than anywhere else, ever in your life," The LSU Professor tells me.

Just an Observation, Part II

"Is it a self-worth issue?" My case manager questions me.

"Good question. I don't know," I respond, although I have a feeling that might be something to do with it.

"Do you think he'll ever be available to you?"

I want to tell her no, that I think we'll always be on the margins of each other's lives, but I have this undying hope that I'm wrong.

The Resulting, Unfortunate Ramblings

"You don't know if [Morpheus] was in love with you, do you?" The LSU Professor questions me.

I don't have much for memories, but I did some reviewing of my relationship with Morpheus as written in blog entries and journal entries because I will be writing about him for the Modern Love column for the New York Times. He told me on several occasions, not frequently, that he was in love with me. Do you believe him? Well, no one except Morpheus knows the truth, and I have a definite feeling that even he can't explain how he feels towards me.

The Unfortunate Ramblings, Part III

"I have to be careful with you because of your bipolar [disorder], and your resulting fragility," the LSU Professor tells me before we started arguing.

The Unfortunate Ramblings, Part II

Feeling upset and vulnerable yesterday, I TXT-messaged Morpheus about an hour after my fight with the LSU Professor. "Call me please, if you can."

Morpheus messages me a few minutes later, "Yes, soon as done."

The Unfortunate Ramblings

The meeting started out on edge because a few days before, I had told the LSU Professor that Morpheus had contacted me. He IM'ed me back, asking if I would see him, and added, "Will [Morpheus] be there?" For whatever reason, I was insulted by a rather benign remark. I felt mocked, and I told the LSU Professor so. He apologized to me in person as we were sitting down to have lunch.

But then, somehow, the conversation slipped into how Joseph treats me (and I feel about Joseph) and how I treat Morpheus (and how Morpheus feels about me). Trust me, I didn't appreciate the comparison. Just a few minutes ago, Joseph TXT-messaged me, "Dont u ever forget that i Love u." What's wrong with having traits in common with Joseph, who is an upstanding citizen (a little bit of a homophobic asshole when talking about gay rights) and who genuinely, despite my resistance, cares for me, and perhaps loves me? A person could do much worse (and that's, of course, the point). If you want to argue that I should love Joseph because he cares about me and has solid employment, I would argue that this isn't 1917, but rather 2017 when women can get married for reasons other than economic security, and oh, yes, to a man who won't hit me (even when I really deserve it) because he's a gentleman that way.

"Don't you see the similarities?" The LSU Professor tells me.

"Well, I hope [Morpheus] doesn't feel about me the way I feel about Joseph," I remark, feeling rising anger.

"Why? Joseph's a nice guy, there's nothing wrong with him."

"Because the sex is boring, and I'm not attracted to him. I would hope that the sex wasn't boring between [Morpheus] and I. But maybe it was."

"You want to believe that [Morpheus] is still attracted to you." (author's note: I'm not sure on the exact nature of this quote)

Doesn't everyone? You don't want to be around a romantic partner who has sex with you, not because you're hot and great in bed, but because you're easily available and you don't complain much? "Maybe he's not. That's my prevailing theory, that he's not attracted to me anymore, and he realized it at some point in the night when we last saw each other in September, which is why he hasn't called."

In some later remark, the LSU Professor tells me, "Your emotions inhibits your logic."

Fucking great. "I'm insulted by that. I have thought of everything," I respond, referring to the fact that I have carefully considered all options and viewpoints on the Morpheus mystery, including everything from he's so in love with me that he's afraid to be with me and commit to me because he has "avoidant, insecure attachment style"--to--he's just using me when he's bored, lonely and horny.

"Well, I'm sorry--" The LSU Professor starts.

I figure he's going to apologize at this point.

"--that you're human." He stares at me. He then, for reasons I'm not aware of, launches into a rant about how horrible it was for Morpheus to have sex with me while his wife was pregnant, "for you and for the baby."

"What does his wife being pregnant have anything to do with me?" I say, as I'm remembering a conversation I had with Morpheus, years ago, telling him that the worst part of number three (who grew up to be beautiful like her parents) was the fact that it had nothing to do with me. It was about him and his feelings for his wife.

"Because he made you promises, and he didn't tell you he was sleeping with his wife."

"I kind of assumed once she moved back into the house again and they were sharing the same bed, that he was fucking her again." I'm getting pretty heated at this point.

The LSU Professor says something I don't remember.

"You don't know what happened. Maybe they were in bed together, and she climbed on top of him and started stroking him, is he going to say no to that? Would you? It's not like he got her pregnant on purpose. It was a complete surprise."

"But he should have told you."

"He did! Within weeks of finding out. And the only reason why I remember that is because I wrote about it."

"I have never slept with two women at the same time," he argues.

"What does that matter? You're just imposing your value system on this. Lots of people have sex with more than one person, like polyamory or non-monogamy...I never called you foolish for [girlfriend 1] or [girlfriend 2]."

"I'm not calling you foolish."

"You think I was too dumb to figure out he was sleeping with his wife."

"Hey, I never said anything about your intelligence. You are very smart."

And then we argued more over the same subjects.

Just An Observation

My case manager and I are standing on a sidewalk, just outside of the building that houses the non-profit organization that has been taking care of me for the past eleven months.

"So, why are you so attracted to him?" She says.

"Can I be crude?"

She smiles. "Sure."

"Because he's handsome and smart and charming and has a big dick."

She laughs as she says, "There are other big dicks out there."

Engl 201C Essay Number One

"Part of that indifference sprang from my experience that often sex was stale and predictably boring and unpleasant. The large men would barrel on top of me, panting in a dog-like display of sloppy pleasure and tongues wagging in a pagan prayer, eyes pressed closed or held stupidly in a blank stare, thrusting and pounding like swinging hammers on the marbled statute spine of Venus, coming only to awareness after they’ve spoiled their sticky mess all over my bottom and soiled the sheets." 

--"Mania's Merry-Go-Round," by Jae Jagger

Quality of English Professors

I showed up to my Engl 201C professor's office two days in a row, once to ask about the prospects at teaching university level English, and then again to ask about how he liked my paper.

He praised my paper, and then handed it back to me.

"I was planning on writing about my first john," I say, watching his face closely. "Now, if anything like this offends you, let me know."

He replied of course not, and then proceeded to tell me about other students who have come forward with true stories of war and also of sexual assault and abuse. He stops suddenly, and says, "I'm sorry. Have I offended you?"

I had to reach up and wipe away a tear in my eye. "No...no. I'm just getting a little misty." I have been surprised at the level of quality professors in the English division at the community college. All of them so far have been very helpful and willing to go above and beyond the call of duty. I called my poetry professor on his cellphone because I was doing homework, and I didn't understand one of his study questions. Instead of pointing the finger at me for not comprehending the material, he apologized and said that maybe the question was unclear.

Morpheus Speaks After Months of Silence

Sometimes, I don't know why I do the things I do, which is probably a common human experience. I have been sending Morpheus a TXT-message about every week to two weeks, depending. And I called him about a month ago. It has been nothing but silence. Yesterday, I sent him one while I was studying at the computer lab on campus, saying similiar to "Just TXT-message me to let me know you're okay." I waited a few minutes, and didn't receive a response. I dream about him frequently, he's always some distorted figure in some way, and often his wife (ex?) is included.

That evening I was carrying on a short conversation with Harry via TXT-message when I received two messages back to back. I opened the window to view Harry's message, and saw that he only sent one. The messaging app displayed that I had one from Morpheus, even though it's been months since I've heard anything, he said something along the lines of, "hey, yea, everything is good."

If a friend asked me if he should stop TXT-messaging an ex every two weeks for months without an answer, I would probably tell him to quit it. After all, silence is an answer. But I can't take my own best advice.

And what kind of disturbed person can't let go of a failed relationship?

Well, you're looking at her.

Just Say No to Staring

Outside of the classroom, he strokes my back, and then says, "It's been a long time."

I immediately think, don't fucking touch me, but I give a soft laugh, "It's been what? Twenty-four hours?"

He stares at me intently, like he's just gazing at my face without interpreting the words. He gives no indication if his previous comment was joking or serious. "I was wondering if I could get your number and take you out to eat sometime."

I pause, which gives me away. But eventually I agree to meet him for coffee because while I don't initially like him, it's hard to defend my opinion since I know so little about him. He was just a student in the back of the class, and now he's crept up to sit behind me. We've had maybe two, brief conversations, certainly not enough evidence to conclude that he's a creep. But I still get that unsettled feeling. I wonder what about me it was today to call such attention to myself. I'm wearing a plain white sweater with my usual jeans and boots. Why did he notice me at all?

He buys me a cup of coffee, which I appreciate because the coffee stand only takes cash, and I didn't have any on me. I was feeling drowsy from the Norco.

"Okay, well, I'll see you tomorrow," I say, thinking we have class together the next day. "Oh, I don't mean tomorrow."

"Yeah, we could meet tomorrow," he replies.