Creativity Without Constraint

"Creativity without constraint comes with responsibility. We do not make art in a vacuum isolated from sociopolitical context."

--" I Don't Want to Watch Slavery Fan Fiction," by Roxane Gay, The New York Times

From One of the Sides

For a few weeks now, I've been debating how much I should write about the English instructor. Occasionally, people reveal very personal details to me about their life, and I choose not to include it in any blog because I realize that that information is classified or given under the assumption that I won't spread it around like a gossip magazine. In another sense, I also believe that writing should be about everything and anything, and especially about all of the shit we want to keep hidden. However, in some cases, I'm making the direct decision to open up parts of people whom would rather just stay in some dark corner at the end of a long, dusty hallway. Is it really my decision to make?

Largely, people can't stop you from writing about them, especially if it's the true (Trump is figuring out this lesson).

Again, people trust you with certain information, and you have to respect that.

So, mostly, I couldn't write about the conversation I had with the English instructor at the coffee shop. Because if I write about myself, and how I feel about him, I then have to include some personal tid-bits about him. The conversation, realistically, wasn't that dramatic, but I couldn't help reading into it.

"He has a bunch of turds in his plate, and you want to get into the middle of it!" The LSU Professor said to me today over lunch. We were both standing on grass under a tree next to the restaurant, waiting for Beck to pee (she didn't, by the way).

"I know! But I go after the wounded birds," I said, and then I began making hand motions like I'm stroking the wings.

"And you want to help them," he concluded.

I repeated his words, "And I want to help them. I want to heal them."

While, ironically, I'm the one who needs the most help. Perhaps this drive inside of me is based on the premise that even if I can't be cured, it shouldn't stop me from trying to do the same for others. In a way, it's escaping your problems because you spend your time arguing about someone else's flaws, and the means to "fix" them.

Or maybe it's because you don't believe you deserve someone who loves you and pays attention to you. Instead, you're always trying to earn that privilege by "being there," and being a goddamn doormat--hell, I don't know.

On LinkedIn

A fellow writer wanted to connect with me through LinkedIn, so I made a profile for "Jae Jagger." Anyone who reads the blog, and is interested, is more than welcome to join me there. Details on my whereabouts, including where I went to school, have been changed to protect my identity and of the people whom I write about.

"Yet here we all are in our suits and work shirts/ joined in the brotherhood of espresso..."

"or how is it said? La fratellanza dell’espresso,
draining our little white cups
with a quick flourish of the wrist,
each of us tasting the same sweetness of life,
if you take a little sugar, and the bitterness
of its brevity, whether you choose to take sugar or not."

--Billy Collins, "I Am Not Italian"

Civilization Crashing

"Where they come together, I believe, is in their nostalgic and narrow view of American uniqueness. Huntington, like Trump, wanted America to be great, and came to long for a restoration of values and identity that he believed made the country not just great but a nation apart. However, if that path involves closing ourselves off, demonizing newcomers and demanding cultural fealty, then how different are we, really, from anywhere else? The central agony of the Trump era is that rather than becoming great, America is becoming unexceptional.

And that’s not a clash of civilizations. It’s a civilization crashing."

--"Samuel Huntington, a Prophet for the Trump Era," by Carlos Lozada, The Washington Post 

While doing my research for the movie "American Sniper" for English 201A, I read some of Huntington's work. This is an excellent article about the now-deceased professor and his writing. 

The Living and the Dead

"In a film, on the news, you watch a war. While in a war, you mostly hear it. Weapons are fired day and night, but only sometimes do you see them fired. As much as images, then, each battle takes on its own sounds."

--"The Living And The Dead,"  by James Verini, The New York Times Magazine

Reversing Regret

About a week later, she made a decision that nearly one million American women make each year: She would have an abortion. After reading about the abortion pill online, she made an appointment at a Planned Parenthood clinic a block from her downtown apartment. She would rather face her forgiving God, she thought, than her anti-abortion family and friends. ‘‘I didn’t want the baby, but I also didn’t want to have the abortion,’’ she said. ‘‘I just wanted it all to not exist, which is kind of what the pill allows a woman to think can happen.’’

--"A New Front in the War Over Reproductive Rights: 'Abortion-Pill Reversal,' " by Ruth Graham, The New York Times

Downgraded "Issues"

There are many words we put in front of ‘‘issues’’: ‘‘women’s,’’ ‘‘race,’’ ‘‘L.G.B.T.Q.,’’ and so on. They tend to function, intentionally or not, as big, rippling flags, signaling to anyone outside their scope that the problem can be respectfully ignored. Let somebody else worry about it: the people whose ‘‘issue’’ this is. (Never mind who made it an issue for them in the first place; it’s theirs to solve now.) To call something a ‘‘woman’s issue,’’ for instance, is to relegate it to the presumably small and narrow subset of human concerns of interest exclusively to women. ‘‘Women’s issues’’ might be used to mean ‘‘problems women are likely to face,’’ or it might be used to mean ‘‘problems women enjoy caring about’’ — as if problems were a matter of taste, like enjoying romantic comedies.

-- "Everywhere You Look, We've Downgraded Real Problems Into Mere 'Issues,' " by Carina Chocano, The New York Times


 

Daily Carb Struggle

"At almost every moment of the day I am accompanied by a pair of petulant, melodramatic children in my mind’s back seat. These children, Liking and Disliking, exert a distressing degree of control over just about everything I do. I walk past an ice-cream shop on the way home from a dinner at which I have stuffed myself to the point of belt-hole renegotiation, and Liking pipes up, describing a scoop of mint chip in pornographic detail. And so insistent is Liking’s voice, so vivid are the pleasures it manages to conjure, that I am, mere minutes after declaring that my new health regimen begins now, choosing between a waffle cone and a sugar cone."

--"Letter of Recommendation: Cold Showers," by Ben Dolnick, The New York Times

I struggle with this daily, thanks to carb-cravings from Seroquel. This afternoon, after I came back from an hour's worth of hiking, I finished off a Costco-size bag of multi-grain chips. Granted, there was only a relatively small amount in the bottom to eat, but who really needs chips? No one, I tell you, no one. 

"Lonely Women and Bad Booze..."

--Garth Brooks

For the first time in months, I thought about suicide today.

Yesterday, I kept trying to get ahold of Morpheus. I called his cell phone from my cell phone, and it went directly to voicemail. So, I left a message, and then I kept calling every couple of hours. Straight to voicemail. When I got home, I called him from the house phone, and he answered.

"This is [Morpheus]," he says.

I giggle. "What do you mean? You should know who this is by now..."

"Oh, I don't...You're not in my contact list. I don't recognize ***." he says, quoting three digits of my number. "Who is this?"

I realized he wasn't joking. He should know the number by now, we had this same conversation a few weeks ago. Plus, I included it in one of my recent txt-messages, and it's at the bottom of all my emails, etc. And we've had conversations in the past on this number.

"I'm getting ready to go to the fair," he tells me.

"Okay, well call me back if you want. Thank you. Goodbye," I say, and then I quickly hang up.

You Can't Contain the People You Love

"And I realized this, too: You can’t contain the people you love. You can’t contain your own love, either...

If I had learned anything from therapy, it was to pay attention to everything that lit a fire inside. Listen. Feel. Tend that flame...

Shortly after starting my new role, I went back to my therapist and told her: 'It’s been a year since we broke up. I thought my dream job and exercise would heal me, but I still think about him every day. What more can I do to let go?'

First, she told me a story about a man she loved in her early 20s, nearly 50 years ago, whom she still thinks about to this day. Then she said: 'You’re asking the wrong question. It’s not about getting over and letting go.'

'It’s about honoring what happened,' she said. 'You met a person who awoke something in you. A fire ignited. The work is to be grateful. Grateful every day that someone crossed your path and left a mark on you.' "

--"The 12-Hour Goodbye That Started Everything," by Miriam Johnson, The New York Times

In Case You Didn't Know and Weren't Wondering

I figured if the English instructor was going to write me, and say, "Oh my gosh! Can't wait to see you again. XXOO"--

Well, he would have already sent that email. 

The Sigma of Pain Control

"Half the country is on opiates," an elderly man says.

Sigh.

Progress

I'm 83% complete for my AA in English, not including the chemistry that I'm currently taking. That means in a couple of semesters, I will have completed a college degree, which would be amazing. Last year, I only got one B (in Art Appreciation), the rest were A's. I have no idea why I'm doing so well in school, but I have my doctors and my professors and my friends to thank for my progress. As my dad said a while back, my attitude has changed. I was in and out of psychiatric hospitals multiple times per year, and chronically suicidal. While my mood has dipped since my coffee with the English instructor (in addition to having the insurance refuse to pay for one of my antidepressants, so I've been without for about two weeks now), I am almost completely free of the more serious symptoms like apathy, fatigue, inability to concentrate, etc. I only have auditory hallucinations infrequently, maybe one or two every few weeks. All I've ever wanted since I was eighteen was to go to grad school, and officially be a member of the intellectual elite. My goals never included a lot of money, but just the ability and freedom to explore intellectual challenges and feats. Maybe by the time I'm forty, I will be there. I wanted to bet the English instructor on who would complete his/her Ph.D. first (he is ahead of me because he has already completed a Master's, but the kids will certainly slow down his progress).

It looks like this fall, I will be applying to UC-Berkeley, UCLA, Stanford University and UC-Santa Cruz. If I don't get accepted to any of those schools, I will return to the University here locally and finish my B.A. in English. What I'm trying to decide right now is whether or not I want to pursue being pre-med (I'm currently looking at finishing my chem series), and whether or not financial aid will pay for me to go.

There was a time in my life (a long time) when I didn't believe I would ever complete my degree (I'm speaking to my Bachelor's) because of the damage that was done by the ECT, and because of my mood instability. Finishing classes and getting A's or B's seemed to be almost completely out of reach. People have told me frequently that I'm plenty smart enough to finish my undergrad (I recently re-read a nice letter that a counselor in the Disability department at the University wrote about me in efforts to get some W's). There have also been the doubters, particularly one of my past psychiatrists, and also a member of the Stanford hospital team (who has always been very kind to me, but he thought my disease had progressed too far to make college a practical option).

Of course, a lot of this progress is thanks to Engl 156, the intro class before you take freshman comp. I was scared to death that I would do poorly. Instead, I found my voice again, and was encouraged greatly by my professor. Without that support and positive experience, I might have never gone back to college. The ironic part is that the English instructor continues to be one of the most critical professors I've ever had. He demands perfection, which is unattainable, but in doing this, he is constantly saying that you can do better, you can do more, and everyone in college needs someone like that. The attention and the criticism makes you a better writer. There's no fear in messing up because you already know upon turning in the paper that he'll find something he doesn't like about it (one of my fond memories of Engl 201A is having him give me back my essay, and there was 3/4th of an entire page crossed out). But maybe when he gives compliments, they are genuine. One can only hope.

Bursting Those Bubbles

"I hate to burst your bubble, but I've slept with a lot of men I wasn't attracted to," I say. I have been attracted to very few men, especially when you consider how many women I've lusted for.

"I hate to burst your bubble," he retorts. "But I can't get it up unless I'm attracted to the woman."

"You can't just objectify her? You know, only look at pieces like the breasts or the ass."

He shakes his head. "Nope."

"You watch porn, right?"

"Yeah, everyone watches porn."

[Conversations with the LSU Professor.]

The Hiding Game

When Beck starts barking while I'm doing homework, I know she desires one of two things: go for a walk and/or wants me to find her ball for her. If I can't locate the ball, she's perfectly happy to continue barking until I get up off of the couch, and scurry around on my hands and knees, looking under furniture to see where she's hid the fucking ball. When I give it to her, she resumes playing with it until she pushes it under the table again or under the chair, and then she begins the process all over again, ad nauseam.

I wish I could go to my professor's office, and explain that I didn't get all my homework finished because I was too busy attending to my dog--you know, like one of those infants who can't fall asleep by him/herself, and requires that you rock him/her to slumber.

Just Passing Through

"If you really feel that way, maybe you should call him or email him," the LSU Professor tells me on Friday.

I shake my head. "No."

Life Among the Elites

She's a double doctorate at Stanford with an MD and a Ph.D. in "aging." She didn't give more details on her research interests. She just stares at me blankly with those big eyes.

"Was it a date?" She asks.

"No, it was just coffee." I explain to her that it brought up a lot of questions, and one of those questions was debating how attractive I am. Was I really stable enough for a real relationship? Etc.

She doesn't offer any advice or words of encouragement, she only eyes me carefully. "Well, it's good that you're asking those big questions," she finally offers.

Before I knew about her degrees, I told her how since I was eleven years old, I've wanted to go to medical school, but thought that the environment, the stress of being a medical student and then the hard hours of being a resident would make me sick. That I wouldn't be able to finish. I also expressed to her that I wanted to do research and teach, but I would need a Ph.D. as well.

Again, she sits there, and glares at me, as if just below the surface, she was debating how ridiculous it was for an average student like myself with an extraordinary disease could possibly manage a double doctorate. I mean, that's for really smart people like herself.

"Well, everyone has different abilities and desires," she says vaguely, as if that's a PC way of saying that some people just flunk out, and good for them! Because then, they will find what they really desire to do in life! God closes a door, and opens a window--bullshit.

Of course, she might not have been ridiculing me at all. Perhaps she was distracted because she knows she needs to pick up her dry cleaning or she won't have anything to wear to work tomorrow--and dammit, isn't it her parents' anniversary tomorrow too? Shit.

Thinking Back and Not Remembering

"You don't remember what you were like before the ECT," my mother tells me as she's standing in the doorway of the spare room. She tells me that I was so bright, and outgoing. "But you're getting it back," she says, trying to encourage me.

Yah-High

Morpheus has this idea of tough love when it comes to raising his son (he treats his daughters differently). He told me last time we saw each other that he wished he had a little league coach who woke up with him in the morning, and rallied him throughout the day. He also said that he wished someone would have told him when he was young that he was a "dumbass"; he stated that there's nothing wrong with telling your son he's a dumbass.

Of course, all of my psychology education has told me that it's wrong to call your child "stupid" or "inept" or some other version of that because then the child internalizes the message, and it's very difficult to rid oneself of the negativity once it's sprouted. No matter how smart one ends up.

The English instructor and I were talking about how a student in chemistry class brought her child into the room, and said that she couldn't attend lab and lecture because she didn't have a babysitter. The chemistry professor made a phone call, and found her one.

"How old was the child?" The English instructor said.

"I don't know," I replied. "I don't know anything about children. He was about yay-high." I hold my hand up to about table height.

The English instructor finds this to be amusing.

"Yeah, I had bad experiences with strange babysitters," I continued.

"It's child neglect," the English instructor said strongly.

"You want to tell my mother that?"

"Well, if you've told her then it's not going to do any good for me to tell her."

Nevermind, Back to Being An Idiot

"I know this question is beyond the scope of the class, but how does the structure of trans fat affect the cardiovascular system?" I ask during class since the chemistry professor was discussing the differences among all these different fats.

"Are you really asking that question now?" He responds.

Kiss Kiss

The LSU Professor is pointing to the twenty-something's woman behind me. He says, "Now, wear that shirt when you meet again for coffee."

I turn my head and look. The woman is pretty, and has a lovely tan. The shirt she's wearing? It's open in the back, the two sides of it are only held together with a single thread.

He makes a comment about how easy it is to seduce men.

"You're Trying To Save Me," Part II

Harry reassures me that he doesn't know the five stages of writing either. I mean, if a man from Harvard, doesn't know--

Why should I?

The Candy

I walk up to the chemistry professor as he's sitting behind his table at the front of class. "I was wondering if--when you have time, if you could look over my grades for me, and tell me what should be my goals for the next midterm and final if I want to get an A in the class," I tell him.

He sighs, and I can't tell if he's really irritated or pretending to be. "You should have asked me this ten minutes ago."

In his defense, it was time to start lab.

He gets me into a private room, and says, "If you want an A in this class, you have to get an A on the midterm and final. I will not give you an A unless you get A's on the tests."

I nod.

The chemistry professor then tries to comfort me by saying that he got B's in some of his chemistry classes. 

Later, during lecture, for reasons I don't understand, he gave me a candy from the bag he had in the front of the room. The candy is for students who attempt problems on the board, only I haven't been up there in about a week.

I Miss Dancing

On Sunday, I have to clean my bathroom, so I put on some ol' hip-hop from the 2000's, and I dance like I'm up on stage next to a pole all the while wiping down the mirrors and counters. I miss dancing, I tell myself. In a few weeks, maybe during break, I'll go downtown during the weekend, and go to a club. I'll have a few drinks, and I'll find someone on the floor who interests me, and I'll fuck his brains out. And then I'll leave without giving my phone number. Maybe I'll even use my stagename.

Don't You Ever Say, Part III

"You're not selfish," the LSU Professor tells me over coffee. He then shows me an email from an ex-girlfriend, the Horse Lady, who wrote about her high-conflict relationship with her live in boyfriend (although it's hard to tell how much of a boyfriend he is). She claimed that he yells at her, and she yells at him.

I told the LSU Professor, who looks down on her inability to control her temper, that I too lost my cool with my mother, yelling, "Fuck you!" twice.

He just shook his head.

Since Saturday, my mood has dipped, as it's done several times over the past six months (usually returning to normal within a few days). It's a classic case of I like a boy, but he doesn't like me that way. Or maybe he does, and he's just really good at hiding it.

The English instructor entered to the cafe in a ball cap and glasses.

I recognized the glasses, but I was wondering if I would see those shoes of his again. You know, the tan dress shoes that he wears while teaching class. Something familiar. 

At three o' three in the afternoon, I had decided he wasn't going to show, and was very motivated to make this time profitable by doing chemistry homework. When he walked in, I didn't even look up. So, he's here, I say to myself, mildly surprised. I give a casual wave, and he says something about getting a drink. No hug, no big smile.

I'm going to convince him that I'm not that happy to see him. I'm interested in that far off way, like I have better things to do (that would be chemistry homework), but since you drove to see me, I guess I'll make pleasant conversation with you. At least I have the dog with me, who will protect me.

The English instructor stretches his hand out to Beck, and she starts to shake. She's never met him before. He makes some comment about how a service dog shouldn't act that way. When she saw the poetry professor again a couple weeks previous, as she had been in his class all semester, she put her head in his lap, something that she's never done before to someone besides her family. The poetry professor talked to her, and petted her.

I'm thinking maybe she needs time to get used to the English instructor because he's tall. I want to tell him that she'll grow used to him over time, as she sees him more, but I don't want him to think that I assume we'll keep seeing each other. So, I don't say anything.

Or maybe she senses impending doom.  Like a dog who can sniff out bombs, only she can smell romantic tragedies right before they explode.

The English instructor gets a bagel, but he doesn't butter it or put cream cheese on it. He breaks it up into little pieces, completely dry, and eats it.

He reminds me of Morpheus this way. Morpheus ate two tacos from Burger King without even a napkin. He just gingerly put it in his mouth, never making a mess. It's as if his mother told him people in high status have great table manners, and he tattooed that into his memory, and held on to it since then.

I see under his shirt, on his right arm, the English instructor has a tattoo, but I don't ask about it. I wonder if he was once wild and crazy (maybe still is on his time off?), the kind of guy who drank cheap tequila until he stumbled home with his buddies or an equally drunk girl, to have confusing drunk sex with the woman, only to wake up the next morning wondering what happened after he left the bar. Or maybe I just think he should be more like me.

Don't You Ever Say, Part II

Right after we sat down, the LSU Professor says, "You want and deserve a relationship..." He pauses, and then continues, "Right?"

When I was young, maybe twelve or thirteen years old, I believed already that no man would ever love me because I was ugly. I would never marry.

That's a young age to have such an idea cemented into your head. Most therapists would quickly ask where I got those ideas from, but as I've explained to psychiatric professionals before, I don't know. I don't know if the kids at school teased me--or if somehow by watching my parents fight that I absorbed such a philosophy. What was it exactly? Who planted the seed of such a horrific idea?

Of course, as I got older, that changed. It became no one would ever want me because I'm fucked up.

My last case manager was convinced that most of my interpersonal relationship problems were from these very negative thoughts that I carry around day in and day out. If only I could believe that I was worth it, then--then--the right man would fall into my lap or I would fall into his, and life would be grand. Or at the very least, I would stop waiting for a man to love me when it was obvious that he didn't.

But that day will likely never come because the hardest part about recovering from depression is turning those thoughts around. 

The LSU Professor said today that I never had the best examples to follow. That I've become numb to their insults. That I don't even view it as being abnormal.

Don't You Ever Say I Just Walked Away

"Don’t you ever say I just walked away/
I will always want you"

--"Wrecking Ball" by Miley C.

 I called an emergency meeting with the LSU Professor for Monday, and we arranged a time that worked for both of us. We met at the Brown Mustang.

"You know the odds aren't good," he says solemnly.

"The odds are never good," I respond.

"Yes, they are," he continues, and he names Joseph as an example.

Be with Joseph, even though the sex was boring and vanilla, and you won't have to face the fact that you're single, an only child, childless, and likely to end up in an assisted living facility completely alone with no family left alive.

Or you could just be an asshole, and hit on married men for the rest of your existence, because we know they don't pose much of a threat.

The Highest Divorce Rates for Academics? Jury is Out

"English professors have the highest divorce rate," the poetry professor told me the last time we got together.

I quickly realized that he wasn't joking.

"Because we are so involved in our classes," he continues.

Send the Fucking Love Letter

Even the LSU Professor tells me to not deal with "absolutes," i.e. don't tell the English instructor you're not going to write him when everyone knows that eventually, your guard will be lowered, and you'll send a stupid email sometime around 11:00pm after you've been alone for a while and drinking. So, my best friend thinks that I can't hold to my word (this is probably because for years I've been determined to cut all communication with Morpheus, and year after year, I never manage to do it).

The LSU Professor also thinks that it's too late to not fall in love with him (the English instructor). He says the bullet has already lodged itself in my chest.

I, of course, disagree because I operate on some personal delusion that at this point, I can just walk away (politely, of course), and never get hurt because of him. Like two innocent strangers meeting over a tasty craft beer at a local bar. They eye each other, one of them flirts to see if the other is interested, and when no one makes a move, they both just go to their respective homes and pout--and vomit and deal with a hangover the next morning.

I only wrote that stupid fucking email (where I said I was falling in love with him) because I had the unfortunate and misguided notion that he had a primary relationship already established. You don't go around writing love letters to people who are actually single because if you honest-to-god want to date another single individual, you save your declarations of love for the proper time (usually weeks or even months into a real relationship), you don't just blurt it out. You only embarrass yourself when you feel doomed to begin with (I could be doomed anyway, but alas!). Hence, my mistake. It probably would have been easier to talk the man into a cup of coffee if he was under the unfortunate and mistaken notion that I wasn't attracted to him, and was completely free of any and all emotions. People find stoicism very comforting, which is why it's so popular, and passed down from one generation to another. It is useful. If you want to force someone to reject you because you believe he/she will reject you later anyway, fine, send the fucking love letter.

"You're Trying to Save Me"

--"The Monster" by Rihanna

The English instructor looks at me as we both were sitting at the cafe, and says, "What are the five stages of the writing process?"

Okay, I wasn't prepared for this one. If I had been, I would have brought my notes from Engl 156 and Engl 201A, instead of dragging along my chemistry book, notes, and my mother's laptop (since my MacAir died recently). I only remembered two.

Later, he in his forceful way would ask, "What is the thesis statement?"

Is this a dick measuring contest to see who's smarter? I pause. I give an answer. It's half wrong. [I know what a thesis statement is, I just didn't remember his definition.]

"A Normal Life is Boring..."

--"Lose Yourself," by Eminem

I probably talked too much about the poetry professor, but he is an interesting person with interesting ideas, and a mutual point between us. At one point, the English instructor told me that I talked more about department gossip than what I'm actually doing with my English degree.

While we were sitting down together, in some kind of enthusiastic rush, I mentioned to the English instructor that I was going to open mic night with the poetry professor and his daughter, and since he had a guitar, he should go with us (because that wouldn't be awkward, right?). The English instructor just smiles, and says, "it's interesting that you said his daughter is coming." I am not dating the poetry professor, and if I was, I would at least call him by his first name!

I honestly thought about inviting the poetry professor to go with me and my parents to a concert since he loves music so much, but I thought that my parents might get the wrong idea, and why would the poetry professor like to hang out with my parents?

"I'm Friends With the Monster That's Under My Bed"

--"The Monster," Rihanna, a song done by people who've never experienced psychosis. 

After meeting with the English instructor for coffee, I immediately wanted to drive to a bar, and have a drink. Being that I don't have the money to waste on booze, I motivated myself to go to the gym instead. Of course, at five o' clock on a Saturday, there weren't many people in the gym. I thought about all those Saturday nights that I spent chasing men around, and partying.

In some effort to boost my self-esteem as I drove away from the cafe, I reminded myself that I chew up and spit men out, that's what I do, and it usually doesn't take long, maybe a few hours, maybe a few days, but it happens, over and over again. I can't count the number of men I've rejected or fucked. Is it petty arrogance or just self-preservation? Probably both.

The truth is, I don't feel like that girl anymore. When Morpheus talked about how I don't have that confidence anymore, he was right. It's gone. I'm not sure what happened, maybe it was years alone and a sudden, large weight gain. Now, I don't like undressing for myself, much less anyone else. Far cry from getting up on a stage, swinging around on a pole, and stripping nude for an audience.

It's easy to romanticize my stripping days, as the LSU Professor and Harry like to remind me that during that period, I didn't seem to like myself very much then either.

I don't remember liking myself when I was at my thinnest (right before I started taking the Seroquel). I've heard that from several anorexic sources that even at ninety pounds, they found some way to hate themselves, thinking that finally being thin enough, their low self-worth would blossom into a blind sense of superiority. It never does, except in recovery, when a person learns to dispels all of those negative thoughts. 

"Get Along with the Voices Inside of My Head"

"Yeah, you think I'm crazy..."

--Rihanna, "The Monster"

"Everyone needs someone to talk to," The LSU Professor tells me Friday afternoon as we sat down at a cafe. "You should be flattered that he's going to coffee with you." He then describes having a crush on some German professor in college, who he said was really hot, but never had much contact with.

The LSU professor makes me promise that after I meet the English instructor for coffee that I immediately TXT-message to let him know what happened. After all, I had been debating for a week straight of bailing out on the English instructor for a garden variety set of reasons. The LSU Professor and I talked about it for a little while, and he only asked me, poking his finger into my chest, "What does your heart tell you?"

Of course, at the time, on Friday, I didn't really know. After meeting with the English instructor at a busy cafe somewhere south of where I live on Saturday, I did as a promised, and I let the LSU Professor what happened. He's immediately giddy, and sends back, "Don't sleep with him tonight. But if you do, keep a diary! I'll write a movie script on this one, and u and I can retire!"

[for the record, the English instructor in no way suggested the idea that we sleep together. That was the LSU Professor's own interpretation....I TXT-messaged the LSU Professor back, and told him that the English instructor had already left, hence we wouldn't be fucking, at least not this afternoon]

The Sense of Foreboding

This man is going to break my heart. 

"I feel like there's this bullet with his name on it heading straight for my chest." [TXT-message to the LSU Professor from this morning]

I know what you're thinking, you're thinking you can't judge the future of an entire, projected relationship after one very small cup of coffee. You would be right, except that fifty percent of that equation you already know--yourself and how you react under certain circumstances. After thirty-four years on this planet, there isn't much I do or think that surprises me. Other people still surprise me, yesterday's coffee with the English instructor would be included in that. But me? No, most of that shit I've either gone over with a therapist and/or in writing or otherwise digested in my brain at night while I'm waiting to go to sleep (which is when I most often think about Morpheus, and replay, over and over again, words I'd tell him if he was beside me, yes, I'm that pathetic, don't judge).

Does that mean that there are no depths to myself that I have yet to discover? Of course not. I'm sure somewhere deep inside, I'm a really complicated person, just like the rest of the population, but some visions are so blatantly obvious that it's like you're driving down the road, and you see this semi stopped in the middle of the street, blocking both lines with its trailer. You keep driving, and driving and driving, never mind the danger, and you just collide into it, totaling your car, and putting yourself in the ICU of the local hospital for a few days or maybe even a week. Yeah, a bit like that.

I promised myself that I would never love another man like I love Morpheus. It's like suffering from chronic cough, and being convinced you have lung cancer--your life is over (plus, you've been smoking two packs a day since you were sixteen years old). Your last days will be spent on a morphine drip somewhere sterile and lonely with nurses coldly patting your hand as they pass by. Instead of just thinking you got a cold, and will make a complete recovery in a few days.  At thirty-four, can I really predict that I'll never fall in love again like I did in 2007? Afraid, you can because every time you come close, well, you can just run the fuck away while you're still able. Before someone comes up close and grabs you by your jugular, squeezing the oxygen out of your brain.

:::cough:::

I'm sure he's a nice person (he seems to be a little angry, but I suspect he has good reasons for being so). He actually talked about himself, which was refreshing and desirable (I was beginning to think that he just avoids all personal topics as a matter of principle--more rattling of that small, yellow ball inside the big, red rubber dog toy). I'm sure he wouldn't string me along for ten years, and then tell me frankly that he's fucking twenty-year-olds out of sport, boredom and horniness--oh, yes--and because he just can't stand to be alone). But that doesn't mean that I wouldn't fall in love with him anyway, and pine away for him for years.

Being around him just reminds me that I'm alive, that I didn't die after all, and that I can still be thrilled by someone.

During coffee, he said quickly (he was talking fast the whole time) that he would have to go in a few minutes, and then like clockwork, he got up after a little while, said "thank you for putting me on the couch," and then said, "keep in touch," which under most circumstances, I would interpret that as, if I never heard from you again, that would be fine. 

People say that when they don't want to say, let's see each other next week at five o' clock down at Henry's (there's no Henry's in my town).  

For the most part of the next twenty-four hours, I didn't know how to respond. I told myself as I was leaving the cafe that I should just run the fuck away (notice the theme?), and never contact him again. (I immediately thought after we shared coffee about drinking myself silly, but I didn't have the money to burn, and decided to just go to the gym, and lift weights and do some cardio--I drank afterwards while I was at home). He wasn't likely to go out of his way, and randomly email me or call me. After a while, I thought that would be rude of me to just not say anything; besides, somewhere in the back of his brain, in one small, fleeting moment as he's getting ready to watch the news, he might wonder why he never heard from me again (sure). So, I sent him an email, saying that I enjoyed our talk, and that I thought it would be best and fair that if he wanted to meet up again, he should initiate. I also left my cell phone number, saying he could call it anytime he wanted or needed to talk (sure).

Dilemma Over PeeWee

My mother told me yesterday, "They must have damaged your brain because you don't have compassion for others anymore." She also called me "selfish" because I won't help take care of PeeWee. It's true, I don't take care of PeeWee because I disagree with how she's treated. She should be put down, she has horrible quality of life, and to keep her alive just so people don't feel any guilt is selfish, and I told my mother so after she attacked me personally. No, I will not participate in what I view as cruelty.

My mother's argument is that in the mean time, between now and when the dog is euthanized, I should treat her kindly. I understand that point of view, and I don't necessarily disagree with it; however, it upsets me greatly to handle the dog at all. It's sort of like how doctors in war zones don't get to know their patients' names because to do so makes the work too personal and taxing (even though this isn't an accurate analogy, it's the best one I can come up with).

My mother told me several times that it isn't her decision to put the dog down; it's my father's. 

Your Beach Body

"We regret to inform you that your beach body, slated for arrival in early June of this year, will be delayed, perhaps indefinitely. A number of factors, all under your direct control, have contributed to this unfortunate setback.

First and foremost, you are still eating a lot of food. While you have done an excellent job of including more vegetables in your diet, you have also included more of everything else, like cake. In the past month alone, you have eaten cake on eight occasions. None of which were birthday-related."

--"Your Beach Body," The New Yorker by Colin Nissan

I Couldn't Help Myself

It's strange because the poetry professor hugged me twice while I was having coffee with him, the Engl 201B professor hugs me whenever he sees me and insists that I call him by his first name (which I've gotten in the habit of doing), and yet, with the English instructor, whom I've had much more interaction with, well, he never hugs me, he never tells me to call him by his first name, and in the latest email he reiterated "the boundaries." He writes, "In terms of coffee, I am open to that as long as we both agree that we are meeting exclusively [my emphasis] for academic or intellectual discourse. I would like to be clear about those parameters and my desire to maintain them."

I get it, I mean, I understand I'm not to show up with one of those tops that makes your boobs sit up and beg (you know those tops, guys and girls). And after the conversation, I have to keep my panties on (it could be really difficult though). I can't slip a hotel key over to his side of the table, and then wink aggressively, all the while telling him that if he doesn't say anything, neither will I (famous last words, although I never said such to Morpheus). I can't wear heavy makeup, and one of those bright red bras beneath a light, white, flowing top (again, with the boobs), and I can't just claim I'm wearing stripper heels because later that afternoon, I have a "show to do." More winking. I can't bend my beautiful ass over, feigning to pick up a pen, so he can see my red (again) thong. Okay, I use to have a beautiful ass, but moving on--

Or get him drunk (I wonder what he's like drunk). Or slip my foot down the inside of his thigh, and then molest his crotch with my toes.

(I could go on. Should I go on? Is anyone else listening?)

Honestly, I wanted to tell him in an email (or I could just call him up on the phone randomly, that would freak his ass out) that if I really, really, really wanted to fuck him, I would have directly brought the topic up. 

I understand that men don't like unwelcomed sexual advances any more than women do (there's some research to suggest that this isn't true, but let's pretend it's true). But reminding me that I'm on a short leash sort of pisses me off in a way that's hard to describe. I mean, I didn't bring the subject up (coffee, yes, sex, no). I didn't even flirt. I've been practically mute, and it's hard for me, really it is to not just talk about sex whenever I want to. I even said in my email that I liked having conversations with intelligent people, I did not say, "I like having brief conversations with sexy, married men, who I then fuck in strange, cheap hotel rooms."

I had a little bit of insight as I was debating my response. You see, the English instructor is like this toy I bought Beck. It's a big, red plastic ball with a little tennis ball inside of it, that rattles around whenever you play with it, and if you manage to clamp down in just the right spot, the ball lets out a squealing noise. But you can never get to the tennis ball that remains on the inside, you just just see it moving around in there, and no matter how many times you crunch on it, the yellow ball in the middle remains. It's unattainable, but fun to chase around the house.

I did respond, even though I had to will myself to say something polite. I mean, I could have been rude and frank, and then he would never have coffee with me--which is not the outcome I want, even if I have to feign not being insulted. I wrote back, "Perfect. This absolves me from directing the conversation. I will leave that in your capable hands."

Wink.

All the Better

When I said I was more attractive to the poetry professor than to the dog walker (guy I went out with once whom I met on Bumble), the LSU Professor was quickly confused, and assumed I was also dating the poetry professor (not true). I did, however, have coffee with the poetry professor, and he was his usual, charismatic self, all energy and focus. His first question to me was, "Have you been writing?" (Yes, but I didn't tell him what) He found another poetry contest for me to enter, even though the entries can be from anywhere, the competition will likely be only local (I don't have a poem to enter).

I showed the LSU Professor the dick pic I was sent by another stranger from Bumble, and the LSU Professor added that that man did not exist--there was no way that some guy with that big of a dick, and six-pack abs would contact me. It was automatically a scam (I did tell the LSU Professor that the picture could have originated in some am porn scene). I was debating (still am) taking the risk anyway. Since I've seen other pictures of the guy, I do know that at least one point in his young life, he was fit and in shape.

I did ask the English instructor out to coffee, explaining that I have already invited several other [community college] professors, i.e. don't think you're super special or anything. While criticizing my poem "Hospital's Hallway," the English instructor misconstrued it, and saw a reference to him (or at least to his class, even though that wasn't true). I did think about writing an entire column on him for the New York Times, but backed out when I realized that very few people who I know could ever read it. Of course, I haven't heard back from him. His response time has been lengthening, even though he apologizes, and says he's busy (which, understandably, he is).

Unpredictably, I am an A chemistry student, the first ever in my life, even though as told previously, I've taken the course a few different times over the length of my education. My chemistry professor even smiled at me the other morning, and asked how I was doing. At my last evaluation, he shared with me that I had an A in the class, and that he "wasn't worried" about me. That being said, I only scored an 87% on the midterm when there were about six A's in the class as a whole.

Chemistry is exhausting. Three days a week (Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday), I'm in class from eight thirty in the morning until roughly four pm. Sometime in there, the class goes on break for thirty minutes to an hour, depending on how everyone does in the lab, and how quickly they finish. I find lab to be boring, and I had to force myself to go through all the steps, thereby deciding that I will never be a research scientist, and spend my waking days in a lab, conducting experiments that 99% of the time never lead to anything significant or meaningful. Seeing patients, and you at least have the opportunity to solve puzzles in fifteen minutes or less. And then you are faced with another, new challenge coming from patient B sitting in the waiting room.

By the time Thursday comes around, I am finished studying chemistry. This past Friday, I didn't open my books once. I just couldn't motivate myself to focus on the subject.

I haven't heard from Morpheus since leaving that last voicemail message, which I assume is because he needs to think about it for a while, and decide if/when he wants to respond. It could be weeks, months, or maybe even longer. I've decided that as much as I encouraged him to sleep around after he was declared newly single, I don't want to stand by and idly witness it. I can't be a part of his life while he's wandering around in the dark, trying to determine if he could ever commit himself to a woman again. The LSU Professor said, referring to my relationship with Morpheus, that there would be dips and valleys, but the important part is that it's on a positive slope (he is a physics professor after all). I'm not quite sure what that meant. Is that supposed to be that even though it seems like we're not making progress, maybe we, in the larger picture, are? Is it all going to make sense some grand day in the future?

The LSU Professor told me bluntly that he's never gotten over anyone. He still thinks about them, and loves them (mainly, his ex-girlfriend, Greta, who remains to be the love of his life). I told the LSU Professor that I had this epiphany. I didn't need to get over Morpheus, I just had to act like I have. Sure, a few close friends might realize that I still obsess, but if the world at large has no idea, all the better.