It's strange to be here, in my second year of medical school, and still feel I don't belong. That I'm faking it, that it was a mistake that got me here in the first place. I had a conversation about a classmate, yesterday, who I dislike because he writes me off. I've also said some very un-inspired things in his presence. It was pointed out that he is very serious and intelligent and if he thinks I'm not up to that level, he's the sort of person who wouldn't consider interacting with me worth his time. True; but it hurts. I've had that said about me several times, and I'm afraid that they're not wrong. More afraid of that than anything else, I think.
And so, when people tell me I'm smart, it makes me sick. I don't feel it, so it's just more pressure to be something I'm not, and most likely not to succeed in doing. Test week depression, perhaps, but there are so many intelligent, quick people here--and I don't think I fit in that category. I know I don't work hard enough to be here--this will be the third day of testing, and I didn't study much at all yesterday afternoon. I was just sick of it, and I don't know how to study better, but that's not good enough. It feels like proof that I'm not good enough, while at the same time making it seem like completely my fault. What am I saying? It is completely my fault.
Agh. And see, here I am spewing venom in my own general direction, and I should be studying. I only have one hour left. And there should be no venom.
The counselor told me that I have to remove the word "should" from my vocabulary, that the way I use it is self-destructive. I feel destructive right now. Quite. I'm so tired.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
I think I might always be tired
It is I; I am here
Breathe softly in your trembling ear
Whisper past each icy tear
"Come back to sleep"--but dark things wait--
Creep in like cold and chill and fear.
Having trouble sleeping. Woke up in a cold sweat with the sheets soaking wet all around me. Had to strip the bed in the middle of the night and sleep in a heap of blankets that ended up being rather cozy.
Breathe softly in your trembling ear
Whisper past each icy tear
"Come back to sleep"--but dark things wait--
Creep in like cold and chill and fear.
Having trouble sleeping. Woke up in a cold sweat with the sheets soaking wet all around me. Had to strip the bed in the middle of the night and sleep in a heap of blankets that ended up being rather cozy.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Autopsy
I have literally failed at life today, in every possible way.
For starters, I saw an autopsy today as part of a requirement for my Pathology class. It. Was awful. Quite assuredly the worse thing I have ever experienced at any time during my dealings with all things medical. Including TV, drunk driving don't-end-up-like-these-mangled-scraps-of-humanity promotional videos, and odd bits of horror movies I've been unfortunate enough to stumble across.
It got to me. The smell was the first thing, though not the worst. It's fleshy and raw and meaty, I suppose, and the scent of blood just tastes like iron and rust in your mouth. I still can't get the taste out. The most disturbing thing about the smell of fresh death was that it was so horribly familiar. I've never been around anything like this--I've never even been hunting, been to slaughter houses, nothing--and yet I knew that smell. I don't know why, but I hated it.
I walked into the building sick already. I'm one of the types who don't eat for days when PMS hits, because the smell, thought, or mention of food makes me feel nauseated. And so I literally whimpered when I woke up this morning and realized that, yes, this was one of those days. They tell you to eat before you come in--well. That's funny. And so that blast of cold air with death in it hit me in the face, and I saw all these bodies in various stages of butchery almost immediately, and it took everything I had not to black out right then and there. I think I pulled it off pretty well, all things considered.
Autopsies are obscene. They cut her open with kitchen knives and used massive garden shears on her ribcage, and then they just started pulling things out, lungs and vessels, her liver, her heart. God. I think this really got to me more than I realized--I'm sitting here crying because I was so horrified and all I wanted to do was leave, but I couldn't. It's required. Why the hell they require something like that is beyond me. And it's gross, and I can't even apologize about it, because it's been trapped inside my head all day, and I want it out.
They weren't like cadavers, you know. Those don't look like people anymore. These do. Just stupid people with tattoos and scars and nail polish. So you have to desperately remind yourself that they aren't people anymore. Just lumps of meat, no more than a cat or dog lying dead in the gutter.
I don't think anybody realizes what autopsies actually look like. They're not that nice neat metal table with the body all pristine and sewed up, or laid open all clean like those idiotic TV shows. There's blood and fluid everywhere, spattered on masks and dripping on the floor, and pieces of stuff, and did you know that people don't die with their eyes closed? Her eyes were blue. At least they were until the coroner's assistant pulled her face off and folded it under her neck, ripped her scalp off her skull and took her brain. God. I couldn't watch that part. The smell of bone being sawed just added to the whole experience, if you know what I mean. But you don't. Of course you don't.
There was a massive fat black lady next to us. I don't know why she died--perhaps gunshot wounds. I didn't look very closely. When they rolled her over, all her fat moved and it looked like she would sit up at any moment. The coroners were making rude jokes about her. Maybe that's their way of dealing with what they do. I suppose you get used to it after a while, but it made me sick.
Towards the end, the people working on the body lifted it up to put a block under the back. They'd cut everything apart that was holding her together in front, and her shoulders flopped back to form a 90 degree angle where one normally doesn't exist. That was the worst moment, for me. People don't do that. They don't move like that unless they're so, so broken. I had to look at something else, hard like trying to memorize Braille, hard to remind myself that I could still breathe.
You keep thinking it will get better. That the worst moment had to be first walking in and seeing a person flayed open like a fish, thin wrist hanging off the table and dripping blood so slowly. And then you think, no, the worst moment must be watching one side of her face cave in because they just went through her neck to her throat, under her skin, and ripped something out--I didn't look closely enough to tell what. Surely that must be the worst moment, and it will be over soon. But then you realize the worst moment is when you accidentally look closely at the bag they've used to cover her brainless head, and realize it is actually semi-transparent, and that her twisted used-to-be-a-face is staring back but it's all wrong because they didn't pull it tight enough over her skull to fit the place it used to be; and then you finally get it, that there will always be a worst moment coming up until you get to walk out the door, so just expect it and look away when it comes.
I came home and scrubbed my hair twice. After that, I did almost nothing. The entire afternoon. Some of it was the I'm in physical pain, and that never helps concentration, but after this little exercise with words I'm starting to believe it was simply my lack of willingness to think about this morning. All afternoon it's felt like my mind has been shut down, just stopped, like I was trapped in honey or amber. And so I lost myself in stories, in being around people, in not thinking. It's been so discouraging and I was beating myself up pretty badly for my appalling lack of motivation--but it sort of makes sense now, for the first time. I've written about it, cried fairly hard, and for the first time in hours I feel like things are starting to move again--and that I might be able to sleep (and I'm hungry now). Still a bit bewildered by it. Still trying to process. I'm not done yet, either. I can feel it. My mind is still stumbling around it. But I think this was my problem today. Maybe my mind just shut down for a bit to protect itself.
I know a girl I met in a lunch line started crying when she tried to tell me how her autopsy experience went, so this isn't completely nuts. Steph told me they gave her a kid, and she didn't know if she could have gone through with it--but they switched her so she didn't have to watch. I don't know. I don't know why I had to experience that. Most people probably don't have my reaction, but still. At this point I can't see anything redeeming about watching a body being torn down piece by piece.
I'm so tired now. I couldn't sleep before--you might notice by the time stamp that it's almost midnight, and I generally turn into a pumpkin at about ten. As therapy, this has worked pretty well. But man. I can still smell it. I hate that. I just want to sleep.
For starters, I saw an autopsy today as part of a requirement for my Pathology class. It. Was awful. Quite assuredly the worse thing I have ever experienced at any time during my dealings with all things medical. Including TV, drunk driving don't-end-up-like-these-mangled-scraps-of-humanity promotional videos, and odd bits of horror movies I've been unfortunate enough to stumble across.
It got to me. The smell was the first thing, though not the worst. It's fleshy and raw and meaty, I suppose, and the scent of blood just tastes like iron and rust in your mouth. I still can't get the taste out. The most disturbing thing about the smell of fresh death was that it was so horribly familiar. I've never been around anything like this--I've never even been hunting, been to slaughter houses, nothing--and yet I knew that smell. I don't know why, but I hated it.
I walked into the building sick already. I'm one of the types who don't eat for days when PMS hits, because the smell, thought, or mention of food makes me feel nauseated. And so I literally whimpered when I woke up this morning and realized that, yes, this was one of those days. They tell you to eat before you come in--well. That's funny. And so that blast of cold air with death in it hit me in the face, and I saw all these bodies in various stages of butchery almost immediately, and it took everything I had not to black out right then and there. I think I pulled it off pretty well, all things considered.
Autopsies are obscene. They cut her open with kitchen knives and used massive garden shears on her ribcage, and then they just started pulling things out, lungs and vessels, her liver, her heart. God. I think this really got to me more than I realized--I'm sitting here crying because I was so horrified and all I wanted to do was leave, but I couldn't. It's required. Why the hell they require something like that is beyond me. And it's gross, and I can't even apologize about it, because it's been trapped inside my head all day, and I want it out.
They weren't like cadavers, you know. Those don't look like people anymore. These do. Just stupid people with tattoos and scars and nail polish. So you have to desperately remind yourself that they aren't people anymore. Just lumps of meat, no more than a cat or dog lying dead in the gutter.
I don't think anybody realizes what autopsies actually look like. They're not that nice neat metal table with the body all pristine and sewed up, or laid open all clean like those idiotic TV shows. There's blood and fluid everywhere, spattered on masks and dripping on the floor, and pieces of stuff, and did you know that people don't die with their eyes closed? Her eyes were blue. At least they were until the coroner's assistant pulled her face off and folded it under her neck, ripped her scalp off her skull and took her brain. God. I couldn't watch that part. The smell of bone being sawed just added to the whole experience, if you know what I mean. But you don't. Of course you don't.
There was a massive fat black lady next to us. I don't know why she died--perhaps gunshot wounds. I didn't look very closely. When they rolled her over, all her fat moved and it looked like she would sit up at any moment. The coroners were making rude jokes about her. Maybe that's their way of dealing with what they do. I suppose you get used to it after a while, but it made me sick.
Towards the end, the people working on the body lifted it up to put a block under the back. They'd cut everything apart that was holding her together in front, and her shoulders flopped back to form a 90 degree angle where one normally doesn't exist. That was the worst moment, for me. People don't do that. They don't move like that unless they're so, so broken. I had to look at something else, hard like trying to memorize Braille, hard to remind myself that I could still breathe.
You keep thinking it will get better. That the worst moment had to be first walking in and seeing a person flayed open like a fish, thin wrist hanging off the table and dripping blood so slowly. And then you think, no, the worst moment must be watching one side of her face cave in because they just went through her neck to her throat, under her skin, and ripped something out--I didn't look closely enough to tell what. Surely that must be the worst moment, and it will be over soon. But then you realize the worst moment is when you accidentally look closely at the bag they've used to cover her brainless head, and realize it is actually semi-transparent, and that her twisted used-to-be-a-face is staring back but it's all wrong because they didn't pull it tight enough over her skull to fit the place it used to be; and then you finally get it, that there will always be a worst moment coming up until you get to walk out the door, so just expect it and look away when it comes.
I came home and scrubbed my hair twice. After that, I did almost nothing. The entire afternoon. Some of it was the I'm in physical pain, and that never helps concentration, but after this little exercise with words I'm starting to believe it was simply my lack of willingness to think about this morning. All afternoon it's felt like my mind has been shut down, just stopped, like I was trapped in honey or amber. And so I lost myself in stories, in being around people, in not thinking. It's been so discouraging and I was beating myself up pretty badly for my appalling lack of motivation--but it sort of makes sense now, for the first time. I've written about it, cried fairly hard, and for the first time in hours I feel like things are starting to move again--and that I might be able to sleep (and I'm hungry now). Still a bit bewildered by it. Still trying to process. I'm not done yet, either. I can feel it. My mind is still stumbling around it. But I think this was my problem today. Maybe my mind just shut down for a bit to protect itself.
I know a girl I met in a lunch line started crying when she tried to tell me how her autopsy experience went, so this isn't completely nuts. Steph told me they gave her a kid, and she didn't know if she could have gone through with it--but they switched her so she didn't have to watch. I don't know. I don't know why I had to experience that. Most people probably don't have my reaction, but still. At this point I can't see anything redeeming about watching a body being torn down piece by piece.
I'm so tired now. I couldn't sleep before--you might notice by the time stamp that it's almost midnight, and I generally turn into a pumpkin at about ten. As therapy, this has worked pretty well. But man. I can still smell it. I hate that. I just want to sleep.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
November holidays
My family's thanksgivings are different; I suppose you could say odd, or downright bizarre. One year we set someone on fire with Roman candles--another we played Rock Band so loudly and so badly that I think the neighbors complained. We've burned a field for the fun of it. And an old barn. And possible a house, although that was more a summer adventure. But you get the picture (fire). There have been bloody dog fights and embarrassing excursions to Jungle Jims. Something, always. When I called this morning, Grandma had already dropped the turkey on the floor and someone flooded the basement with a hose they left running outside, so it sounded like everything was shaping up rather nicely.
Thanksgiving was lonely this year. I called in and skyped with everyone, and dad showed me his cracker loaded with aunt Lori's Famous Cheeseball and some fresh jalepeno jelly. My little brother Alex talked to me for an hour last night about scuba diving and pornography and how difficult life is, sometimes. Aunt Paula took the phone and told me they'd been talking about my boyfriend and decided he had to go--stuff like that. Home stuff. Uncle Gary made aunt Lori angry because he ate all the crust off of her apple pie. Mom sent me a box with jars of canned tomato juice and dilled green beans, my favorites. Aunt Lori and mom showed me grandma, trying to move the turkey again, and giggled about it when she couldn't see us. The uncles were grumbling about the flooded basement and we decided to blame grandma for that, too, since they like her and she can get away with it. And guess what? They saved me a place at the big table this year. I've been trying to sit there since I graduated college, and this year there was finally an empty seat.
I thought that was actually a bit cruel.
I was disappointed in today. I keep thinking I'm going to recreate Thanksgiving like we do at home, and I'm starting to realize that until I have my own home, and my own family, I'm not going to be able to do that. It just won't work; I shouldn't have expected it.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Small things
Somewhere close, a dog is crying in the way dogs do when they feel that life is too sad not to voice. It's getting to me--I want to find it and love on it. Something in the sound is just so lonely. Forsaken. It tugs hard and something in me wants to respond.
Or it could just be a weird 'were type of animal trying to lure me out into the dark because it sounds pitiful and I just want to cuddle it--and then, as soon as I leave the safety of the light, it'll grind my bones and pickle my spleen and use my femurs as toothpicks. You just never know around here.
Demetri, the neighbor I complained about? We're doing better. He's still, at times, a world-class douche (think music at 2:00am), but now that he has a name and a history, it's easier to find a way to connect with him that isn't quite so uncomfortable. (Did I really just type that, and he really just turn his music on at a half-million decibels? Yes, yes he did). Anyway. He has a puppy. This little light tan pit bull puppy. And I know it'll probably grow up and be this vicious nasty biting thing because Demetri's little boy hits it and everybody is always screaming and unhappy in that house, but for now, it's just a puppy. And when nobody's outside and the puppy is in the yard, I'll sneak over and talk to it in puppy-speak through the fence. And it will wiggle everything behind its nose and lick my fingers and generally we're both just happy.
Speaking of little squishy things and happy; I did my first exam on a baby. And he was the most chubbly wubbly baby ever. And he LOVED ME. They warn us to be quick because babies will generally scream during exams, but every time I leaned over him, he just stared at me and smiled. It was so funny, too, because I was attempting to listen to his inspiratory strider (think wheezing), but he would see me and calm down and it would stop. The doctor threw up her hands and said, "You've healed him! He can go home!" It was great.
In other news. I was pretty desperate, these past few weeks. I skirt depression so often, now, and it felt like I was trying to claw my way out of a hole, and every bit of progress I made was lost just as quickly. I mentioned this before. Anyway, I had my first appointment with the new therapist. I like her. We worked out a basic plan for things I can incorporate into my life that will make me happier and feel more...human. Not quite as dark--more myself. I'm hopeful.
Or it could just be a weird 'were type of animal trying to lure me out into the dark because it sounds pitiful and I just want to cuddle it--and then, as soon as I leave the safety of the light, it'll grind my bones and pickle my spleen and use my femurs as toothpicks. You just never know around here.
Demetri, the neighbor I complained about? We're doing better. He's still, at times, a world-class douche (think music at 2:00am), but now that he has a name and a history, it's easier to find a way to connect with him that isn't quite so uncomfortable. (Did I really just type that, and he really just turn his music on at a half-million decibels? Yes, yes he did). Anyway. He has a puppy. This little light tan pit bull puppy. And I know it'll probably grow up and be this vicious nasty biting thing because Demetri's little boy hits it and everybody is always screaming and unhappy in that house, but for now, it's just a puppy. And when nobody's outside and the puppy is in the yard, I'll sneak over and talk to it in puppy-speak through the fence. And it will wiggle everything behind its nose and lick my fingers and generally we're both just happy.
Speaking of little squishy things and happy; I did my first exam on a baby. And he was the most chubbly wubbly baby ever. And he LOVED ME. They warn us to be quick because babies will generally scream during exams, but every time I leaned over him, he just stared at me and smiled. It was so funny, too, because I was attempting to listen to his inspiratory strider (think wheezing), but he would see me and calm down and it would stop. The doctor threw up her hands and said, "You've healed him! He can go home!" It was great.
In other news. I was pretty desperate, these past few weeks. I skirt depression so often, now, and it felt like I was trying to claw my way out of a hole, and every bit of progress I made was lost just as quickly. I mentioned this before. Anyway, I had my first appointment with the new therapist. I like her. We worked out a basic plan for things I can incorporate into my life that will make me happier and feel more...human. Not quite as dark--more myself. I'm hopeful.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Ducks and stuff
More updates. But first, some pictures.
There was a boy in my life this summer. Actually, we just celebrated our one year anniversary. I was pretty excited about it. Thought I'd share. I'm allowed to do whatever I want, on here. -grins-
There was also a duck.
Yes, this duck. I called her Duckers. Because I'm all original and crap.
There was a boy in my life this summer. Actually, we just celebrated our one year anniversary. I was pretty excited about it. Thought I'd share. I'm allowed to do whatever I want, on here. -grins-
Yes, this duck. I called her Duckers. Because I'm all original and crap.
She's the only duck I've raised who actually thought she was People.
You would not believe how this thing ATE. I was actually sort of jealous.
Our turkey was sitting on chicken eggs, and the ducks got into the nest, and, well...it's complicated.
I'm getting spoiled...won't know what to do without a summer of ducks.
Oh, and I learned how to wakeboard. :-D
Now that the pictures are out of the way, my study break is up. Besides, the other stuff I'm inclined to chat about doesn't really go with ducks and lakes--it'll hold for another post. Perhaps tonight, while it's still fresh.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
No title
I need to make another counseling appointment.
After my last bout with the first counselor, I ended up seeing the psychiatrist. We get along well, and I've been back since then. We decided meds weren't an issue--rather, I told him there were issues, and he listened. We talked about strategies to live life healthier, and to some extent, they've worked.
I never counted on being a bad patient. They say doctors are the worst--I guess I'd agree.
I had two things I was supposed to do, the last time I left the office. Schedule a sleep study, and make an appointment with a better therapist. I have numbers and recommendations for both. I've done neither. It's been over a month, now.
I always wait until things get bad again before I do anything. I put stuff off, brush it aside. I do this with so many things, not just this. The psych guy said it's because I'm controlling. Hard to put a good slant on that one, eh? But he said one reason for this might be that I hate feeling tied down to obligation or schedules, and if I don't want to do something, I simply don't do it. I don't get it, myself.
But. Life is feeling a bit gray again. Sleep doesn't rest me, I can't concentrate or study, and even when good things happen in daily life, I'm not happy for long before I become sad and afraid and weary. I waste time, copious amounts of time. I've studied so little for the hours I've had today, and yet all I want to do is turn off the light, crawl in bed, and listen to the rain fall until I go to sleep...sleep through the weekend, in the dark, by myself. And it's not even 9pm yet.
After my last bout with the first counselor, I ended up seeing the psychiatrist. We get along well, and I've been back since then. We decided meds weren't an issue--rather, I told him there were issues, and he listened. We talked about strategies to live life healthier, and to some extent, they've worked.
I never counted on being a bad patient. They say doctors are the worst--I guess I'd agree.
I had two things I was supposed to do, the last time I left the office. Schedule a sleep study, and make an appointment with a better therapist. I have numbers and recommendations for both. I've done neither. It's been over a month, now.
I always wait until things get bad again before I do anything. I put stuff off, brush it aside. I do this with so many things, not just this. The psych guy said it's because I'm controlling. Hard to put a good slant on that one, eh? But he said one reason for this might be that I hate feeling tied down to obligation or schedules, and if I don't want to do something, I simply don't do it. I don't get it, myself.
But. Life is feeling a bit gray again. Sleep doesn't rest me, I can't concentrate or study, and even when good things happen in daily life, I'm not happy for long before I become sad and afraid and weary. I waste time, copious amounts of time. I've studied so little for the hours I've had today, and yet all I want to do is turn off the light, crawl in bed, and listen to the rain fall until I go to sleep...sleep through the weekend, in the dark, by myself. And it's not even 9pm yet.
Friday, October 26, 2012
Late
Whew.
I didn't think test week could get much worse. Until they decided not to give us a weekend to relax--they had to post grades two hours after we all clicked "submit". And let me tell you, things were not pretty this time. I have to figure out a better system--something needs to change, or else the graduating class of 2015 is going to be one very small person short! Oh look. I made a pun. Or something. It wasn't very funny.
The next thing was an embarrassing encounter with my roommates's best friend. She has a tumblr blog online, and occasionally Steph will show me stuff the friend has posted. Well, when she did it a few days ago, I asked what the url was so I could check out what other stuff she had. Steph told me that she wasn't allowed to give it out, since it was personal.
My train of thought was, "Are you serious? It's on the internet. Nothing is personal on the internet. All right, I don't want to get you in trouble, I'll just find it myself." And five minutes later, I had. Oh, don't get me wrong, she doesn't have her name up as far as I know--but I knew a website she'd been on, and it was easy enough from there.
And I enjoyed her thoughts. I liked the pictures she posted. But I made the mistake of telling Steph what I'd done. Unbeknownst to me, she thought it her duty as a friend to tell. I've known the other girl's been peeved at me for days, but I thought it was for something else. And when I apologized for the something else, tonight, she confronted me about her blog.
It wasn't the time to argue about her definitions of private, or how I don't really understand where she's coming from--obviously, she felt her right to remain anonymous on a public forum was ignored. And that's the only important thing, I suppose. Even if I don't get it. She's pretty sensitive to stuff like that, and I'm wondering if any chance at a friendship is shot because of it. We'll see.
I'm a bit peeved at Steph, though. Way to throw that one in. Really. I mean, sure, tell her I "violated her privacy" if you think that falls under "best friend" duties. But tell me first. Give me a chance to go to her and tell her myself, apologize, whatever it takes. We're supposed to be friends too, and that was pretty shabby.
And I ended this long and not-what-I-thought-it-was-going-to-be day with yet another mistake. I made an assumption I shouldn't have--and I ended up being really embarrassed. And now I'm curled up on the couch, listening to the quiet of the house and wondering why life is so messy and disappointing sometimes.
Everything is just so much more sad when I'm so tired.
I didn't think test week could get much worse. Until they decided not to give us a weekend to relax--they had to post grades two hours after we all clicked "submit". And let me tell you, things were not pretty this time. I have to figure out a better system--something needs to change, or else the graduating class of 2015 is going to be one very small person short! Oh look. I made a pun. Or something. It wasn't very funny.
The next thing was an embarrassing encounter with my roommates's best friend. She has a tumblr blog online, and occasionally Steph will show me stuff the friend has posted. Well, when she did it a few days ago, I asked what the url was so I could check out what other stuff she had. Steph told me that she wasn't allowed to give it out, since it was personal.
My train of thought was, "Are you serious? It's on the internet. Nothing is personal on the internet. All right, I don't want to get you in trouble, I'll just find it myself." And five minutes later, I had. Oh, don't get me wrong, she doesn't have her name up as far as I know--but I knew a website she'd been on, and it was easy enough from there.
And I enjoyed her thoughts. I liked the pictures she posted. But I made the mistake of telling Steph what I'd done. Unbeknownst to me, she thought it her duty as a friend to tell. I've known the other girl's been peeved at me for days, but I thought it was for something else. And when I apologized for the something else, tonight, she confronted me about her blog.
It wasn't the time to argue about her definitions of private, or how I don't really understand where she's coming from--obviously, she felt her right to remain anonymous on a public forum was ignored. And that's the only important thing, I suppose. Even if I don't get it. She's pretty sensitive to stuff like that, and I'm wondering if any chance at a friendship is shot because of it. We'll see.
I'm a bit peeved at Steph, though. Way to throw that one in. Really. I mean, sure, tell her I "violated her privacy" if you think that falls under "best friend" duties. But tell me first. Give me a chance to go to her and tell her myself, apologize, whatever it takes. We're supposed to be friends too, and that was pretty shabby.
And I ended this long and not-what-I-thought-it-was-going-to-be day with yet another mistake. I made an assumption I shouldn't have--and I ended up being really embarrassed. And now I'm curled up on the couch, listening to the quiet of the house and wondering why life is so messy and disappointing sometimes.
Everything is just so much more sad when I'm so tired.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
dark places
I don't write much anymore. I miss it--there's something about getting things onto paper that makes them more tangible, easier to handle and analyze. I write when my thoughts are disordered and hard to deal with, mostly--the process of finding the right words and making something unique and flowing is one of the best ways I know to get rid of the panic of dealing with it alone.
I've always loved the idea of journals. I have several--one for poetry, one for personal stories, and one that was meant to be a sketch journal. The poems haven't been added to in over a year--the stories require time to be written that I don't have. Sketching makes my life so much better, but again, time is lacking, and I'm a perfectionist when it comes to creating (not the perfectionism that requires "perfect", so much, but the kind that goes for a certain feeling, a nuance), so there are only a few pages filled.
I've gotten used to being dissatisfied when I read back through the stories I've written over the years. You see, I mostly write when I'm in pain. Exhausted. Lonely. Distressed, and trying to work out tumbling, spinning thoughts in my head. And so it's mostly a chronicle of sadness, which doesn't reflect what life is really like for me. Usually.
When I'm happy, I'm too busy living a story to find time to write it down. And that in itself is rather sad, in a way. I miss putting soul to paper, and I miss sharing. So, I suppose, what pulls it back out of me is a desperate attempt to make sense of the world again, and to restore myself a bit by creating. It makes things lighter in a very dark place.
I've always loved the idea of journals. I have several--one for poetry, one for personal stories, and one that was meant to be a sketch journal. The poems haven't been added to in over a year--the stories require time to be written that I don't have. Sketching makes my life so much better, but again, time is lacking, and I'm a perfectionist when it comes to creating (not the perfectionism that requires "perfect", so much, but the kind that goes for a certain feeling, a nuance), so there are only a few pages filled.
I've gotten used to being dissatisfied when I read back through the stories I've written over the years. You see, I mostly write when I'm in pain. Exhausted. Lonely. Distressed, and trying to work out tumbling, spinning thoughts in my head. And so it's mostly a chronicle of sadness, which doesn't reflect what life is really like for me. Usually.
When I'm happy, I'm too busy living a story to find time to write it down. And that in itself is rather sad, in a way. I miss putting soul to paper, and I miss sharing. So, I suppose, what pulls it back out of me is a desperate attempt to make sense of the world again, and to restore myself a bit by creating. It makes things lighter in a very dark place.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
...
I miss the turning of seasons. It seems stagnant here, as though time drags, perhaps stops, nothing to differentiate my days. There are no mornings of waking to rain and gray skies, and no chance of those magical moments where you wake up to falling snow. I used to love those mornings. They didn't happen often, at Southern, but when they did come it was the best feeling. So much promise in waking up and realizing, from the glow or slant of light or perhaps just a sense of difference that something good had happened--and then getting to dash into Bec's room, jump on her bed, and wake her up. It was the only circumstance in which I could ever get away with something like that. -grins- it's hard to be angry when you're running around the Village in pajamas and rain boots, throwing snow and laughing with people you never usually talk to.
That doesn't happen here. There are no trees that I see change from day to day--oh, I miss maple trees. That smoke-blackened bark, and the sheer brilliance of the yellow and orange against it. The closest thing here, I suppose, is the tangerine tree out back, just barely starting to lighten the solid green of the fruit. But even that is almost imperceptibly slow.
That doesn't happen here. There are no trees that I see change from day to day--oh, I miss maple trees. That smoke-blackened bark, and the sheer brilliance of the yellow and orange against it. The closest thing here, I suppose, is the tangerine tree out back, just barely starting to lighten the solid green of the fruit. But even that is almost imperceptibly slow.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
truth for once
It will be all right.
Do the best you can, and it will be enough.
This will all be worth it some day.
You're not alone in this--we're all here.
You're not alone.
Lies.
I've got to stop the spinning. Stop the fearing. The frightened, relentless circling feeling that I'm drowning; the water just hasn't hit my lungs yet.
Do you know what I think, when it gets late and I'm actually being honest with myself and not mouthing the phrases that we hope will carry us though each day?
I can't do this.
I don't even know if I want to do this.
I know I don't want to be here.
I'm tired of being motivated by fear.
I can't stand this not-really-living thing.
I disgust myself with how much time I purposely waste because studying repulses me.
I've stopped caring about learning. This isn't learning, and I'm not strong enough or smart enough to make it be.
I'm not even sure this will make me happy. Ever.
I can't see what I'm headed for anymore. I wonder if I ever did, or if I just made it up.
I don't know what happy looks like sometimes.
Home doesn't really exist anymore.
I am alone.
I am sick of trying to be cheerful. I hate this.
Do the best you can, and it will be enough.
This will all be worth it some day.
You're not alone in this--we're all here.
You're not alone.
Lies.
I've got to stop the spinning. Stop the fearing. The frightened, relentless circling feeling that I'm drowning; the water just hasn't hit my lungs yet.
Do you know what I think, when it gets late and I'm actually being honest with myself and not mouthing the phrases that we hope will carry us though each day?
I can't do this.
I don't even know if I want to do this.
I know I don't want to be here.
I'm tired of being motivated by fear.
I can't stand this not-really-living thing.
I disgust myself with how much time I purposely waste because studying repulses me.
I've stopped caring about learning. This isn't learning, and I'm not strong enough or smart enough to make it be.
I'm not even sure this will make me happy. Ever.
I can't see what I'm headed for anymore. I wonder if I ever did, or if I just made it up.
I don't know what happy looks like sometimes.
Home doesn't really exist anymore.
I am alone.
I am sick of trying to be cheerful. I hate this.
Friday, September 28, 2012
A dark walk home.
I went to bed extremely early last night. After waking up to find myself asleep on my couch at 9 pm, with my notes falling off my chest and on to the floor, it seemed the only reasonable course of action, you know? Anyway, at some point I heard our front doorbell ring. I struggled back into consciousness long enough to stumble to my door, make sure it wasn't someone important (aka, Ryan), and head back to bed.
This morning, Steph told me about our visitor. It was the resident from upstairs, the dark-haired one that we never normally see. She came and knocked last night and asked if she could come in and talk to us. I guess she was sort of stumbling around what she wanted to say, and Steph came right out with, "This is about the new neighbor, isn't it? Is he bothering you too?" and the girl was like, "Yes, he is!"
Our street has been having a pretty high turnover lately. It's a very short one-way street, just across from our main classroom and the rest of the Loma Linda campus, and we recently had a new family move in about halfway down. They consist of a big black man, who spends all day every day fixing cars, his mean white wife (?), and his little boy who roars all the time, regardless of small matters like neighbors who are trying to study. Anyway, if his wife is in evidence (and usually screaming at him), he pays us no mind--but if not, he calls at us as we walk home.
"Hey, ma. Hey, why won't you look at me?"
"Hey, girl, you make me scared riding that board so fast."
"Hey girl, what's your name? I said, what's your name? How do you keep your hair so pretty?"
If we don't answer, or pretend not to hear him, he keeps yelling at us until we're almost to our front door. When he was trying to talk to me yesterday, the last thing I heard before I shut the front door was, "Why won't you motherfucking answer me?"
Steph and I were talking about how we always pretend to have a phone call when we walk home, or how we walk on the far side of the street, or try not to make any noise if he's got his head down under the car hood, so he doesn't realize we're there. Neither of us ever make eye contact. She told me that the girl upstairs was telling her that, last night, her boyfriend walked her home and told the man to stop talking to her. He got cursed out for his trouble.
Our landlord is a really nice older man who genuinely cares about all of us here, and I was going to ask him this afternoon if he would anonymously talk to the neighbor and ask him to stop. And that might do it--but then again, it might not, because I don't really think he's going to care that he's making us uncomfortable. Because he's going to feel that it's his right to talk to us from his own house in whatever manner he wants to. Because, unfortunately, that's rather how our society functions.
It is absolutely ridiculous that we should be pretending to be on the phone, or hiding from him, or acting like we don't hear him, in order to feel safe on our own street. I think that as women we incorporate this kind of stuff into life everyday because we know if we don't, we can get hurt really badly. Killed. So we have support groups and we plan about the best ways to avoid the wrong kinds of attention, the safe places to go, the times when you have to make sure to stay in pairs. It makes me think of the quote, "Society teaches women how to avoid rape; it doesn't teach men not rape."
And, while we're not talking about something nearly so extreme, I'm sick of it. Not on my street. I'm tired of being nervous and uncomfortable, I'm tired of having the way I walk or how often I've been home commented on every time I walk past, and I'm done with being afraid, because that's all the planning and strategizing is doing--trying to compensate for fear.
I'm considering how best to do this, but I may just talk to him myself. I'm not sure the best way to go about it--still deciding. I mean, that guy seems to get angry really easily, and even though he's big and fat and probably slow, I'm really small. So if Carter does talk to him, and it doesn't work the first time, I'm filing charges. Enough.
This morning, Steph told me about our visitor. It was the resident from upstairs, the dark-haired one that we never normally see. She came and knocked last night and asked if she could come in and talk to us. I guess she was sort of stumbling around what she wanted to say, and Steph came right out with, "This is about the new neighbor, isn't it? Is he bothering you too?" and the girl was like, "Yes, he is!"
Our street has been having a pretty high turnover lately. It's a very short one-way street, just across from our main classroom and the rest of the Loma Linda campus, and we recently had a new family move in about halfway down. They consist of a big black man, who spends all day every day fixing cars, his mean white wife (?), and his little boy who roars all the time, regardless of small matters like neighbors who are trying to study. Anyway, if his wife is in evidence (and usually screaming at him), he pays us no mind--but if not, he calls at us as we walk home.
"Hey, ma. Hey, why won't you look at me?"
"Hey, girl, you make me scared riding that board so fast."
"Hey girl, what's your name? I said, what's your name? How do you keep your hair so pretty?"
If we don't answer, or pretend not to hear him, he keeps yelling at us until we're almost to our front door. When he was trying to talk to me yesterday, the last thing I heard before I shut the front door was, "Why won't you motherfucking answer me?"
Steph and I were talking about how we always pretend to have a phone call when we walk home, or how we walk on the far side of the street, or try not to make any noise if he's got his head down under the car hood, so he doesn't realize we're there. Neither of us ever make eye contact. She told me that the girl upstairs was telling her that, last night, her boyfriend walked her home and told the man to stop talking to her. He got cursed out for his trouble.
Our landlord is a really nice older man who genuinely cares about all of us here, and I was going to ask him this afternoon if he would anonymously talk to the neighbor and ask him to stop. And that might do it--but then again, it might not, because I don't really think he's going to care that he's making us uncomfortable. Because he's going to feel that it's his right to talk to us from his own house in whatever manner he wants to. Because, unfortunately, that's rather how our society functions.
It is absolutely ridiculous that we should be pretending to be on the phone, or hiding from him, or acting like we don't hear him, in order to feel safe on our own street. I think that as women we incorporate this kind of stuff into life everyday because we know if we don't, we can get hurt really badly. Killed. So we have support groups and we plan about the best ways to avoid the wrong kinds of attention, the safe places to go, the times when you have to make sure to stay in pairs. It makes me think of the quote, "Society teaches women how to avoid rape; it doesn't teach men not rape."
And, while we're not talking about something nearly so extreme, I'm sick of it. Not on my street. I'm tired of being nervous and uncomfortable, I'm tired of having the way I walk or how often I've been home commented on every time I walk past, and I'm done with being afraid, because that's all the planning and strategizing is doing--trying to compensate for fear.
I'm considering how best to do this, but I may just talk to him myself. I'm not sure the best way to go about it--still deciding. I mean, that guy seems to get angry really easily, and even though he's big and fat and probably slow, I'm really small. So if Carter does talk to him, and it doesn't work the first time, I'm filing charges. Enough.
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
I couldn't even tell you.
My skin is torn, right down near the edge where it and and my nail came together in a once-perfect fit, edging around the white half-moon and the blaze running through it that is uniquely mine. It hurts, but I rub at it again, distracting myself from my discomfort, my worry, and the disjointed flow of my words as they describe the inner twists of my mind to a perfect stranger.
The beginning panic is mostly gone, now, taking the first chunk of cuticle with it. I don't know what I was so afraid of--what I'd hear, perhaps? That I'd break down and cry in that small office? It's not like me, I know, but then again, none of this is--or didn't used to be, at any rate.
They say that around 40% of medical students experience a major depressive episode at some point during their years here. They also say that, if it's happened once, chances are extremely high that it will happen again.
There is a specific period in my past that doesn't have many memories. I've tried to find some, but I just recall being...dark. Tired, all the time. Hopeless, and completely alone. Someone very dear to me recently described it as a kind of anger--if your life is good, even great, why should your mind tell you otherwise? It's not logical, not reasonable, it can't be talked around, and that made him furious. Me, it just makes me more tired. You can only argue with yourself so much before you stop believing what you're saying.
I notice a bit of blood under the nail of my left hand. We're talking about possible mental strategies to use to combat my negative self-talk--I wonder, is self-talk part of the psychobabble?--and I'm perking up a bit. This is why I came, after all. I hate acknowledging that I might actually have a problem; I'd rather chalk it up to laziness, or lack of efficiency, or timing my sleep cycles wrong. But the idea that someone could help me change how I look at life, and that this could go a long way to solving my problems, that was an idea I could have hope for--a great deal of it.
Then he said, "You seem like your head is in the right place--owning your problems and such--and I don't think counseling is going to do you much good, although we'll certainly meet a few more times. But here's an appointment for a psychiatrist, and we'll get you started on an antidepressant tomorrow."
You don't know what it's like to hear that. Depression carries such a social stigma; somebody recently compared it to being diagnosed with an STD. If you announce that you have heart failure, nobody is going to give you that funny sideways look and say, "Riiiight..." If something goes wrong with the body, you fix it. You may get sympathy for it and, if you're lucky, somebody will bring you warm soup and bread to eat while watching movies from the comfort of your oh-so-shnuggly bed...perhaps that's just my own immediate fantasy. But if something goes wrong with your head? People get really uncomfortable, really fast.
It's more than that, though. It felt like something in me froze. What? Medication? Can we not talk about this first? What about the side effects? What is it going to feel like? Are there other options to try? Is this really the first step? I don't even know you, and you're saying I need to start a series of meds that will last indefinitely? Do you even know how I feel about medication?
I tell him I'm not entirely comfortable with the idea of drugs and he seems to shrug it off. I realize I need to quit playing with my hands--my thumb really hurts now. I know, I know I'm showing significant discomfort with the idea, and while I'm not doing it on purpose--it really is freaking me out--he doesn't pick up on it.
Our time is up, and he ushers me out of his office. I decide to wait and take my concerns to the person who would actually be writing the hypothetical prescription, so my questions will hold until tomorrow. Yet as the day has worn on, predictably, I've been unable to focus my attention for too long without it coming back to the session. I should feel relief, right? That there's a plan in place, that I'm going to feel better, focus better, sleep better, eat something, anything. That I will stop losing weight, that I won't struggle so hard to be happy when I'm stressed; that I will learn to cope with stress in a way that's healthy. Even if I don't decide to go on meds, I can learn to focus on being strong in areas I'm weak. These are all good things.
It feels sick, though; and devastating in its own way. It feels broken--it feels shameful. Less. Empty. It feels like tears that I'm too tired to care about.
It feels like something I wish nobody else knew. Especially the people closest to me. Which is odd, writing about it here. But I needed to do something. I don't think I would have been able to sleep tonight if I hadn't gotten it out somehow.
Our first set of tests for second year starts tomorrow. I'm not ready for them--hellishly unprepared is a better description. What with my lack of concentration and various illnesses in the past few weeks, I'm seriously asking God for miracles on my behalf. For now, all I can do is sleep and study more in the morning.
The beginning panic is mostly gone, now, taking the first chunk of cuticle with it. I don't know what I was so afraid of--what I'd hear, perhaps? That I'd break down and cry in that small office? It's not like me, I know, but then again, none of this is--or didn't used to be, at any rate.
They say that around 40% of medical students experience a major depressive episode at some point during their years here. They also say that, if it's happened once, chances are extremely high that it will happen again.
There is a specific period in my past that doesn't have many memories. I've tried to find some, but I just recall being...dark. Tired, all the time. Hopeless, and completely alone. Someone very dear to me recently described it as a kind of anger--if your life is good, even great, why should your mind tell you otherwise? It's not logical, not reasonable, it can't be talked around, and that made him furious. Me, it just makes me more tired. You can only argue with yourself so much before you stop believing what you're saying.
I notice a bit of blood under the nail of my left hand. We're talking about possible mental strategies to use to combat my negative self-talk--I wonder, is self-talk part of the psychobabble?--and I'm perking up a bit. This is why I came, after all. I hate acknowledging that I might actually have a problem; I'd rather chalk it up to laziness, or lack of efficiency, or timing my sleep cycles wrong. But the idea that someone could help me change how I look at life, and that this could go a long way to solving my problems, that was an idea I could have hope for--a great deal of it.
Then he said, "You seem like your head is in the right place--owning your problems and such--and I don't think counseling is going to do you much good, although we'll certainly meet a few more times. But here's an appointment for a psychiatrist, and we'll get you started on an antidepressant tomorrow."
You don't know what it's like to hear that. Depression carries such a social stigma; somebody recently compared it to being diagnosed with an STD. If you announce that you have heart failure, nobody is going to give you that funny sideways look and say, "Riiiight..." If something goes wrong with the body, you fix it. You may get sympathy for it and, if you're lucky, somebody will bring you warm soup and bread to eat while watching movies from the comfort of your oh-so-shnuggly bed...perhaps that's just my own immediate fantasy. But if something goes wrong with your head? People get really uncomfortable, really fast.
It's more than that, though. It felt like something in me froze. What? Medication? Can we not talk about this first? What about the side effects? What is it going to feel like? Are there other options to try? Is this really the first step? I don't even know you, and you're saying I need to start a series of meds that will last indefinitely? Do you even know how I feel about medication?
I tell him I'm not entirely comfortable with the idea of drugs and he seems to shrug it off. I realize I need to quit playing with my hands--my thumb really hurts now. I know, I know I'm showing significant discomfort with the idea, and while I'm not doing it on purpose--it really is freaking me out--he doesn't pick up on it.
Our time is up, and he ushers me out of his office. I decide to wait and take my concerns to the person who would actually be writing the hypothetical prescription, so my questions will hold until tomorrow. Yet as the day has worn on, predictably, I've been unable to focus my attention for too long without it coming back to the session. I should feel relief, right? That there's a plan in place, that I'm going to feel better, focus better, sleep better, eat something, anything. That I will stop losing weight, that I won't struggle so hard to be happy when I'm stressed; that I will learn to cope with stress in a way that's healthy. Even if I don't decide to go on meds, I can learn to focus on being strong in areas I'm weak. These are all good things.
It feels sick, though; and devastating in its own way. It feels broken--it feels shameful. Less. Empty. It feels like tears that I'm too tired to care about.
It feels like something I wish nobody else knew. Especially the people closest to me. Which is odd, writing about it here. But I needed to do something. I don't think I would have been able to sleep tonight if I hadn't gotten it out somehow.
Our first set of tests for second year starts tomorrow. I'm not ready for them--hellishly unprepared is a better description. What with my lack of concentration and various illnesses in the past few weeks, I'm seriously asking God for miracles on my behalf. For now, all I can do is sleep and study more in the morning.
Thursday, September 6, 2012
Rebel Light
The rebellion begins quietly as the evening ends, just before the day is submerged into the coming night. Have you ever noticed? The tangible moment as the sun begins to touch the horizon...and suddenly every speck of light, every ray of brilliance grows in intensity, revolting against the coming dark and painting each surface, each shadow and blade of grass, each tired face, each piece of dandelion fluff in shades of gold that glow as if the entire world is on fire. And that moment, when the light manages to turn back the encroaching dark completely, that moment seems to last forever.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Challenge
I'm back. But where do I start? Lost inside my own head, batting aside the words and phrases that scatter around me like leaves in a fickle wind, the words that used to come easier, settling butterfly-soft into the back of my hands before sliding out of my fingertips into whatever form I chose to release them. Nobody really knows how to begin anything, the first time, but harder still is to begin a second time, with the benefit of having seen. Instead of forging ahead, blithely unaware of rocky ground and deep water, it seems safer to pick a cautious path, walking lightly and hesitating, although I would love to charge ahead, make up lost ground and dash gleefully past where I was and on into new areas. So. This careful treading and picking my way and wishing back the ground I've lost instead of taking it back myself...isn't doing me any good. But I'll treat is like the first days of summer, when I toss my shoes into a dark corner to hide until fall comes, and run barefoot out into the world. It's easy to pick and choose my way, avoiding the rough patches and sharp places--but if I do that, my feet will never toughen. It's only by choosing the challenges that I'll stumble and wince my way into the freedom to run where I will.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Again
I hit something tonight. Hard. It felt really, really good. So I did it again, and again, until my hand hurt. How one individual can be so unhappy based on the swirling of a few extra hormones is beyond me.
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Stethoscope
*
I'm staring up at the ceiling, listening to my heart beat. It sounds loud in my ears, the surge rising and falling in time with my breathing. I'm sure I'd look ridiculous to a passerby, lying completely still in a sprawled heap, the stethoscope running from my ears to my own chest.
It's midnight again.
It's good to know that there is one thing about me that is relatively constant, that won't shift with every changing mood, something that will always be sounding in my ears every single moment of my life. Steady.
Do you know what it's like when your own body betrays you? The moment your heart begins to skip furtively, erratically, and every cell and nerve catch their breath and freeze, focused on that faltering beat, willing it onward, ever onward, until it continues as it ever did.
Emotions do that, too.
They trip me up. There's that same rise and fall, these colors that stain everyday life and make it rich and vibrant, and the tide that carries them. Highs and lows, they're all familiar.
But emotions aren't always welcome. Some are ugly enough to make me catch my breath and freeze, willing them away, ashamed at them, rejecting the dark nature of such things. But you can't do that, can you? Emotion doesn't work that way. You can work with it, and around it, and sometimes reason it down to something manageable. But you cannot reject it altogether.
I've spent enough time wrestling with myself in dark playgrounds and shadowed roads to accept this. It sounds right, somehow, but every once in a while I find myself right back on those swings, in the dark, struggling. Waiting for something. And probably -sighs- dramatizing this just a bit much.
So. It's past twelve on a Friday night, and I'm tired, and it's too quiet. Lately I've been something of an insomniac...still waiting, I suppose. I tend to make my surroundings fit what I feel, and this time of night just about does it. Everybody has their own demons, and this is when mine come out to play. But, I think I'll fight it tonight. After all, I've got a good imagination, and I might as well put it to use.
*Caution--content may be disjointed and sloppy to to intrusion of stethoscope between keyboard, fingers, and brain.
I'm staring up at the ceiling, listening to my heart beat. It sounds loud in my ears, the surge rising and falling in time with my breathing. I'm sure I'd look ridiculous to a passerby, lying completely still in a sprawled heap, the stethoscope running from my ears to my own chest.
It's midnight again.
It's good to know that there is one thing about me that is relatively constant, that won't shift with every changing mood, something that will always be sounding in my ears every single moment of my life. Steady.
Do you know what it's like when your own body betrays you? The moment your heart begins to skip furtively, erratically, and every cell and nerve catch their breath and freeze, focused on that faltering beat, willing it onward, ever onward, until it continues as it ever did.
Emotions do that, too.
They trip me up. There's that same rise and fall, these colors that stain everyday life and make it rich and vibrant, and the tide that carries them. Highs and lows, they're all familiar.
But emotions aren't always welcome. Some are ugly enough to make me catch my breath and freeze, willing them away, ashamed at them, rejecting the dark nature of such things. But you can't do that, can you? Emotion doesn't work that way. You can work with it, and around it, and sometimes reason it down to something manageable. But you cannot reject it altogether.
I've spent enough time wrestling with myself in dark playgrounds and shadowed roads to accept this. It sounds right, somehow, but every once in a while I find myself right back on those swings, in the dark, struggling. Waiting for something. And probably -sighs- dramatizing this just a bit much.
So. It's past twelve on a Friday night, and I'm tired, and it's too quiet. Lately I've been something of an insomniac...still waiting, I suppose. I tend to make my surroundings fit what I feel, and this time of night just about does it. Everybody has their own demons, and this is when mine come out to play. But, I think I'll fight it tonight. After all, I've got a good imagination, and I might as well put it to use.
*Caution--content may be disjointed and sloppy to to intrusion of stethoscope between keyboard, fingers, and brain.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Mood
Days where I go to bed feeling the hours were wasted. Days where I feel useless, stuck in a script I didn't write, and lacking the initiative to redesign the parts I can change. I feel scorn for myself, on these days.
Just down, tonight. Unhappy, dark. Yes, dark--that's a good way to describe it. After days without people, nights without sleep, mornings without excitement, and sleep without dreams, I'm darkness and restlessness. I'm a nightmare waiting to saunter through the fractured fragments of the next few hours. I'm dissatistifaction and anger simmering over the last chapter of a book I've been looking forward to reading, and raging with the feelings it evoked. I'm a deep hunger to connect and see, be seen, be heard beyond the superficial. And I'm solitary, matching my surroundings to myself.
I am all of these emotions, and more beyond naming. And at the end of it, I am simply tired, and unwilling to fall asleep alone in an empty room.
Just down, tonight. Unhappy, dark. Yes, dark--that's a good way to describe it. After days without people, nights without sleep, mornings without excitement, and sleep without dreams, I'm darkness and restlessness. I'm a nightmare waiting to saunter through the fractured fragments of the next few hours. I'm dissatistifaction and anger simmering over the last chapter of a book I've been looking forward to reading, and raging with the feelings it evoked. I'm a deep hunger to connect and see, be seen, be heard beyond the superficial. And I'm solitary, matching my surroundings to myself.
I am all of these emotions, and more beyond naming. And at the end of it, I am simply tired, and unwilling to fall asleep alone in an empty room.
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Purple
Roses are red, violets are blue
(except they’re not—they’re purple)
I've started to write a poem for you
But nothing rhymes with purple
Unless you go with slurple,
Or chortle, turtle, warble, girdle
Or a slew of other rhyming words
(But this is getting quite absurd)
I would have rather much preferred
To not begin with purple.
Six months with the same blue-eyed guy that still laughs at me, loves me, and makes life better in his own unique way. These are the first few lines of something I tried to write for our anniversary (how strange, to be saying that!), and let me tell you, it goes downhill from there. But I enjoyed myself. ;)
Sunrise
It's difficult to give yourself permission to feel grief.
My grandfather died this morning...well. A lifetime ends in a few shallow breaths in a dark room, sleep fading into night as the sun rises. He was so unhappy these past few years...but every time he said goodbye to me, he always told the story about the first time he held me on. "You were only this big, Lissy, just this big, right on my chest."
Grief is so conflicted, and complicated. How much of it there should be. What it should look like.
Anyway. I was struggling so hard with it, and how to express it, and even what it was. I didn't realize what I was lacking until Ryan found me and wrapped his arms around me--almost, gave me permission to feel that loss, let it go. What an odd and beautiful feeling that is.
Ah, grandpa.
My grandfather died this morning...well. A lifetime ends in a few shallow breaths in a dark room, sleep fading into night as the sun rises. He was so unhappy these past few years...but every time he said goodbye to me, he always told the story about the first time he held me on. "You were only this big, Lissy, just this big, right on my chest."
Grief is so conflicted, and complicated. How much of it there should be. What it should look like.
Anyway. I was struggling so hard with it, and how to express it, and even what it was. I didn't realize what I was lacking until Ryan found me and wrapped his arms around me--almost, gave me permission to feel that loss, let it go. What an odd and beautiful feeling that is.
Ah, grandpa.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Up
How to start.
I'm so out of practice with writing, it seems, that it takes a good five minutes of contemplation to figure out how to put my thoughts in order. I think I'll start from the middle, if you don't mind. The end will come along soon enough, and if we find a beginning, so much the better--but I'm not going to worry about it.
Being up at 11 pm is pretty terrible, for me. Especially during test week. Today wasn't bad at all, really--I actually finished a 117 question test in about an hour and a half, so my first of the triad was over pretty quickly. However, the headache it left me with is sort of like herpes in that it is the gift that keeps on giving. (Actually, that was a terrible example, especially since I have a housemate whose worst fear in life, after contracting AIDs, is picking up The Herp by accident. I share her disinclination towards it, but the phrase popped into my head and...my fingers kept moving).
Back to the headache, which is why I'm typing in my bed instead of sleeping in it. I don't know why these things happen--one minute I'm answering question after question, starting to relax because I'm guessing well (and no matter what they may say, med school success is based on your ability to guess), and the next...well. Next, I suddenly realize that I feel like I've got my head trapped in a vise.
A two hour nap didn't help. Dinner didn't help, and opting for two (not one, but two) caffeine packed Excedrin, four hours ago, has left me with a raging headache and a lack of ability to go to sleep.
Incidentally, I overhead someone the other day philosophizing on the reasons why people claim to have headaches. I suppose it might be hard to empathize, if you've never had one in your life, but it was an eye-rolling moment to hear him claim that migraines are fallacies created by weak-minded people with low pain tolerance. I dunno, buddy--let's take a drill to your teeth and a hammer to your temples and see how you react, eh?
I suppose the end of this is that I don't know what to do. It's past miserable, by this point. I've tried distractions, like talking to Ryan--I've tried reading, but I can't see straight--watching TV, but it hurts worse--and sleep eludes me. And studying is impossible.
Perhaps I'm building empathy for people with chronic pain, because I can't imagine if this were an everyday thing. They try and teach us how to do that, here--how to understand people by putting yourself in their shoes. I don't think you can, really, unless you've experienced something similar. It's not something you can fake or simulate, and I don't think you should. But with pain, at least, I shouldn't have a problem.
The distraction isn't working. I'm going to try sleeping again...I'm so tired. I don't understand why these happen, but nothing is helping...-sighs-
Goodnight, all.
It's sort of fun being back, circumstances aside.
I'm so out of practice with writing, it seems, that it takes a good five minutes of contemplation to figure out how to put my thoughts in order. I think I'll start from the middle, if you don't mind. The end will come along soon enough, and if we find a beginning, so much the better--but I'm not going to worry about it.
Being up at 11 pm is pretty terrible, for me. Especially during test week. Today wasn't bad at all, really--I actually finished a 117 question test in about an hour and a half, so my first of the triad was over pretty quickly. However, the headache it left me with is sort of like herpes in that it is the gift that keeps on giving. (Actually, that was a terrible example, especially since I have a housemate whose worst fear in life, after contracting AIDs, is picking up The Herp by accident. I share her disinclination towards it, but the phrase popped into my head and...my fingers kept moving).
Back to the headache, which is why I'm typing in my bed instead of sleeping in it. I don't know why these things happen--one minute I'm answering question after question, starting to relax because I'm guessing well (and no matter what they may say, med school success is based on your ability to guess), and the next...well. Next, I suddenly realize that I feel like I've got my head trapped in a vise.
A two hour nap didn't help. Dinner didn't help, and opting for two (not one, but two) caffeine packed Excedrin, four hours ago, has left me with a raging headache and a lack of ability to go to sleep.
Incidentally, I overhead someone the other day philosophizing on the reasons why people claim to have headaches. I suppose it might be hard to empathize, if you've never had one in your life, but it was an eye-rolling moment to hear him claim that migraines are fallacies created by weak-minded people with low pain tolerance. I dunno, buddy--let's take a drill to your teeth and a hammer to your temples and see how you react, eh?
I suppose the end of this is that I don't know what to do. It's past miserable, by this point. I've tried distractions, like talking to Ryan--I've tried reading, but I can't see straight--watching TV, but it hurts worse--and sleep eludes me. And studying is impossible.
Perhaps I'm building empathy for people with chronic pain, because I can't imagine if this were an everyday thing. They try and teach us how to do that, here--how to understand people by putting yourself in their shoes. I don't think you can, really, unless you've experienced something similar. It's not something you can fake or simulate, and I don't think you should. But with pain, at least, I shouldn't have a problem.
The distraction isn't working. I'm going to try sleeping again...I'm so tired. I don't understand why these happen, but nothing is helping...-sighs-
Goodnight, all.
It's sort of fun being back, circumstances aside.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Stay tonight
I cry myself back into sleep
Where dark crows circle, and snow falls deep
And even lonely gray clouds weep
Along--and I am theirs to keep,
In restless, silent, icy sleep.
Words fail. I don't want to be this person.
Where dark crows circle, and snow falls deep
And even lonely gray clouds weep
Along--and I am theirs to keep,
In restless, silent, icy sleep.
Words fail. I don't want to be this person.
Friday, April 20, 2012
Words
She stared down at the pen in her hand.
Why this morbid delight in destroying myself? Why the sick, twisted pleasure in pushing my body past driven and into hurting? Why? Why am I doing this? It's almost demonic.
I think I do it on purpose, somewhere deep inside. Punishment, though for what I don't know. Maybe rebellion against my own limitations; maybe a perverse enjoyment of cruelty.
I stare bleary-eyed at the girl in the mirror, swaying with lack of sleep, lack of food, and dare her to stay awake just one more minute. You can do it, you have no limits, no boundaries. You are stronger than everything, even yourself. One more minute.
Just one more.
She dropped the pen beside the crumpled sheet of paper and walked away.
Why this morbid delight in destroying myself? Why the sick, twisted pleasure in pushing my body past driven and into hurting? Why? Why am I doing this? It's almost demonic.
I think I do it on purpose, somewhere deep inside. Punishment, though for what I don't know. Maybe rebellion against my own limitations; maybe a perverse enjoyment of cruelty.
I stare bleary-eyed at the girl in the mirror, swaying with lack of sleep, lack of food, and dare her to stay awake just one more minute. You can do it, you have no limits, no boundaries. You are stronger than everything, even yourself. One more minute.
Just one more.
She dropped the pen beside the crumpled sheet of paper and walked away.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Bitter
Allow me to indulge in a bit of whining, with a touch of bitterness and self-loathing thrown in to make it well-rounded.
I don't want to be here right now.
I am, quite simply, tired of it. I am tired of studying. I am bored with days that are filled with words on pages, and learning isn't fun anymore. I walked out of class today because I'd had enough. I've been in that seat, in that room, every single weekday morning since August, and I'm done. Just done.
It feels like I'm missing something. The more I think about it, the more I realize that the something is just, life. The things that make my life worthwhile, and exciting, and interesting, where I wake up eager to figure out what the day is going to bring. And I don't roll out of bed anticipating what our next genetics lecture is going to cover. I crave interaction with people, and doing things with my hands, and going and seeing. Instead, I see the same four walls every single day.
It's harder when the things I'm missing are concrete, and not just ideas. I talked about Andrew and Tara's wedding, and my disappointment that I can't go--it just gets harder when I realize that friends are going to be there who I haven't seen in years. Every single one of mine will be at that wedding, except for me. They're going to be the first of us to get married. And almost closure for me, in a way. A final validation that, yes, things were hard, but it was worth it, worth fighting to keep those friendships, because the end result is beautiful. Perhaps I'm being dramatic, but it would have meant a great deal.
I want to leave for an entire weekend. I want three days in a row where I don't worry about studying, or my lack of productivity--where I wallow in doing absolutely nothing, or everything, whichever feels better.
I suppose what I really want is to remember the point. Why any of this matters at all. Why I ever wanted to do this, to be here, to sacrifice pieces of life for this. I don't know. Perhaps I don't have the drive everyone keeps saying I need--but what really kills me is that it doesn't matter if I do or not, if I'd rather be a thousand miles away or right here, or if I want to wash my hands of everything for a little while. I got myself into this, and it doesn't matter what I feel like. Still have to keep doing it.
I don't want to be here right now.
I am, quite simply, tired of it. I am tired of studying. I am bored with days that are filled with words on pages, and learning isn't fun anymore. I walked out of class today because I'd had enough. I've been in that seat, in that room, every single weekday morning since August, and I'm done. Just done.
It feels like I'm missing something. The more I think about it, the more I realize that the something is just, life. The things that make my life worthwhile, and exciting, and interesting, where I wake up eager to figure out what the day is going to bring. And I don't roll out of bed anticipating what our next genetics lecture is going to cover. I crave interaction with people, and doing things with my hands, and going and seeing. Instead, I see the same four walls every single day.
It's harder when the things I'm missing are concrete, and not just ideas. I talked about Andrew and Tara's wedding, and my disappointment that I can't go--it just gets harder when I realize that friends are going to be there who I haven't seen in years. Every single one of mine will be at that wedding, except for me. They're going to be the first of us to get married. And almost closure for me, in a way. A final validation that, yes, things were hard, but it was worth it, worth fighting to keep those friendships, because the end result is beautiful. Perhaps I'm being dramatic, but it would have meant a great deal.
I want to leave for an entire weekend. I want three days in a row where I don't worry about studying, or my lack of productivity--where I wallow in doing absolutely nothing, or everything, whichever feels better.
I suppose what I really want is to remember the point. Why any of this matters at all. Why I ever wanted to do this, to be here, to sacrifice pieces of life for this. I don't know. Perhaps I don't have the drive everyone keeps saying I need--but what really kills me is that it doesn't matter if I do or not, if I'd rather be a thousand miles away or right here, or if I want to wash my hands of everything for a little while. I got myself into this, and it doesn't matter what I feel like. Still have to keep doing it.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
3000 miles
Disappointed...heartsick. What I wouldn't give to be in Tennessee, with all of you, on May 13th. I thought I'd gotten over it, but I had a sudden urge to go check flight prices, just in case. Amazing things happen sometimes, right?
It's funny, really--I've never gotten upset over what I can't afford. After all, "stuff" doesn't matter, and I can do without most things. But this...this is different. It can't be replaced, or substituted, or experienced in any way except to simply be there. And I cannot.
It's funny, really--I've never gotten upset over what I can't afford. After all, "stuff" doesn't matter, and I can do without most things. But this...this is different. It can't be replaced, or substituted, or experienced in any way except to simply be there. And I cannot.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
last night
screaming until the world fractures
and comes apart
(every seam breaks)
the dark leaks drips forces through the cracks
filling in
the low places, and rising
(the dark is rising)
higher
and colder than the ring of
shrieks on ice
(muffled like snowfall)
the breaking of this lost world
ends trembling
rimmed in dawn.
I'm out of practice at this writing thing. Severely. Also, it is a terrible, terrible idea to drink Coke just before bedtime. No trouble getting to sleep, but I dreamed all night and woke up drenched in sweat from a particularly nasty little nightmare. I blame the Coke.
and comes apart
(every seam breaks)
the dark leaks drips forces through the cracks
filling in
the low places, and rising
(the dark is rising)
higher
and colder than the ring of
shrieks on ice
(muffled like snowfall)
the breaking of this lost world
ends trembling
rimmed in dawn.
I'm out of practice at this writing thing. Severely. Also, it is a terrible, terrible idea to drink Coke just before bedtime. No trouble getting to sleep, but I dreamed all night and woke up drenched in sweat from a particularly nasty little nightmare. I blame the Coke.
Friday, March 2, 2012
Soccer
I'm studying by the window. A girl from my class is on her lawn, just down the street, and she's kicking a soccer ball around. Bouncing it on her knees, practicing shots. She's probably on a study break. I wish I could go and join her, but I can't.
The problem isn't that I have too much to study, although that's certainly true. The real problem is me.
I loved being homeschooled. I never discovered it was a handicap until I went to academy during my junior year. You see, all the way thought eighth grade I had never played any games that involved a football, baseball, racquetball. I grew past the age where most people begin to learn how to kick a soccer ball, and then suddenly everybody knew what they were doing, and I didn't have the first clue. And then I was old enough that the gap between what I didn't know how to do, and what everyone else did, was huge. I could have fixed it, but I was afraid. Everybody else that played soccer at the academy had been going to a summer camps to prep for intramurals, and I had never so much as kicked a ball in my life. And the last thing a shy, insecure teenager in a strange school wants to do is to draw attention to a flaw. I couldn't do it.
I had the chance again to play intramurals in college, but I passed because I didn't know how. I refused to learn on a team with girls I didn't know, and so I missed my chance, simply because I fear ridicule. I am incredibly afraid of looking foolish, and it drives a great many of my actions.
So I watched the girl down the street, and remembered all those moments I'd felt inferior and worthless, not only because I can't play, but because I couldn't overcome my fear and learn. And I cried, because I'm tired of living that way. I don't know how to stop, but somehow it's suddenly very important that I do.
I'll figure it out. Somehow.
The problem isn't that I have too much to study, although that's certainly true. The real problem is me.
I loved being homeschooled. I never discovered it was a handicap until I went to academy during my junior year. You see, all the way thought eighth grade I had never played any games that involved a football, baseball, racquetball. I grew past the age where most people begin to learn how to kick a soccer ball, and then suddenly everybody knew what they were doing, and I didn't have the first clue. And then I was old enough that the gap between what I didn't know how to do, and what everyone else did, was huge. I could have fixed it, but I was afraid. Everybody else that played soccer at the academy had been going to a summer camps to prep for intramurals, and I had never so much as kicked a ball in my life. And the last thing a shy, insecure teenager in a strange school wants to do is to draw attention to a flaw. I couldn't do it.
I had the chance again to play intramurals in college, but I passed because I didn't know how. I refused to learn on a team with girls I didn't know, and so I missed my chance, simply because I fear ridicule. I am incredibly afraid of looking foolish, and it drives a great many of my actions.
So I watched the girl down the street, and remembered all those moments I'd felt inferior and worthless, not only because I can't play, but because I couldn't overcome my fear and learn. And I cried, because I'm tired of living that way. I don't know how to stop, but somehow it's suddenly very important that I do.
I'll figure it out. Somehow.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Adrenaline
People like me probably shouldn't be allowed to control anything with wheels.
My boyfriend, however, thinks it's a good idea for me to learn this.
I agree.
My boyfriend, however, thinks it's a good idea for me to learn this.
I agree.
Usually, I'm cautious--irritatingly so. I run off the board at anything more than a 1 % grade--I complain that there are too many people (one, that is half a mile away), too many obstacles (a sign about 10 feet off to the side), or that the bumps in the sidewalk will make me fall (snails wouldn't notice these cracks). I even scream sometimes, an obvious sign that I probably shouldn't be doing what I'm doing.
But, it's fun. Incredibly so. And today, bookbag slung over my shoulder, I decided to follow Ryan down a way I shouldn't have. In retrospect, his "I'm going down this way, but you probably shouldn't" was most likely a dissuasion towards me following. But I was on a roll (literally), I was even carving (which I have issues with occasionally), and I didn't want to stop (I never do). So I used up my five-second bailout window with rationalizing and a transient bravado. After all, I'm invincible, right?
Well...no. I shot down into a parking lot, and there were ridges in the concrete and I nearly fell, so the valuable time I should have taken to carve and slow down, or stop altogether, was taken up by me trying to catch my balance. And then I was going too fast to stop, and I actually got scared. Really scared. I could see it ending very, very badly.
But I didn't count on Ryan. He caught me, and the longboard shot on and hit the wall, and I ended up in a little bit of a heap. No scratches, though, no cuts, no bruises. Just a lot of adrenaline. And a deeper appreciation for boys who move really, really fast.
I'm not sorry I did it. I'm tired of being too cautious to take risks, and if only for that reason, today was good for me. Keeps the heart rate going strong, you know. My hands are still shaking.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Grey
Religion class today was about personalities.
The professor chose seven of us to line up at the front (I never fidget when I'm nervous--too much attention towards breathing and watching the dozens of faces staring at me. It's fun, but nerve-wracking). She then told the class, "All right. I want you to arrange these people in this order--if you asked one of them to do something, and they said no, which would you quickly take at their word, and which would you ask again and again, eventually changing their answer?"
"Oh, Alyssa goes on the "No" end for sure!" I might have actually taken a step backwards--that's how shocked I was to hear my name. At any rate, half-dozen people voted to move me to the beginning. One girl, when pressed, said that I seemed firm and steady, just in the few conversations we've had, and that she couldn't see me changing my mind unless it was very, very important. Another said I have a backbone of steel, and the third just stated that I was stubborn.
Enough people agreed that, when the game was over, I was either the strongest or the most impossible, depending on your point of view. I don't think I disagree.
I've been tentatively skirting the edges of depression these past few weeks. I know what it feels like--I know it well enough to be wary and uneasy and worried. I can also see it affecting the way I relate to people, how I handle conflict and stress. Some days are better than others. Today isn't one of them.
I don't understand how this dichotomy works. How can I be both things, strong and weak, all at once? Intellectually I can see it, how it can be so, but when it's me it feels...wrong. Something is off. I am off. And yet I have every reason to be happy. I am happy--but right now, it feels fragile.
I hate this.
So, I'm going to counseling. Just left my name and number, which is a step, at least. And while today has been grey in a multiplicity of ways, at the moment, I feel...hopeful.
The professor chose seven of us to line up at the front (I never fidget when I'm nervous--too much attention towards breathing and watching the dozens of faces staring at me. It's fun, but nerve-wracking). She then told the class, "All right. I want you to arrange these people in this order--if you asked one of them to do something, and they said no, which would you quickly take at their word, and which would you ask again and again, eventually changing their answer?"
"Oh, Alyssa goes on the "No" end for sure!" I might have actually taken a step backwards--that's how shocked I was to hear my name. At any rate, half-dozen people voted to move me to the beginning. One girl, when pressed, said that I seemed firm and steady, just in the few conversations we've had, and that she couldn't see me changing my mind unless it was very, very important. Another said I have a backbone of steel, and the third just stated that I was stubborn.
Enough people agreed that, when the game was over, I was either the strongest or the most impossible, depending on your point of view. I don't think I disagree.
I've been tentatively skirting the edges of depression these past few weeks. I know what it feels like--I know it well enough to be wary and uneasy and worried. I can also see it affecting the way I relate to people, how I handle conflict and stress. Some days are better than others. Today isn't one of them.
I don't understand how this dichotomy works. How can I be both things, strong and weak, all at once? Intellectually I can see it, how it can be so, but when it's me it feels...wrong. Something is off. I am off. And yet I have every reason to be happy. I am happy--but right now, it feels fragile.
I hate this.
So, I'm going to counseling. Just left my name and number, which is a step, at least. And while today has been grey in a multiplicity of ways, at the moment, I feel...hopeful.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Galangal
Nothing is organized in a place like this. Twenty brands of noodles are piled on one shelf, no price tags anywhere--a dozen types of seaweed occupy the next aisle along with rows of hot sauce. There are products stuffed in every conceivable corner, even draped over the edge of the cash register. A small can of FriChik made a home next to freeze-dried sardines, just under the shelf of cans with a name I didn't recognize, a hysterical panda bear panicking on the label. Two ladies rapidly discuss something in a lilting language, while the asian man digging through the tomato bin is singing "Baby, It's Cold Outside."
I pick up yellow curry paste, several cans of coconut milk, tofu, and potatoes. This week begins my hopefully-a-bit-more-healthy regime, and I'm beginning with thai food and a two mile run, just for luck. When you consider that I define the last time I ran based on a period of years, it's a significant change.
I think it's going to be good.
The asian market is really exciting.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Airport #1
On every world, wherever people are, in the deepest part of winter, at the exact midpoint, everybody stops and turns and hugs. As if to say, "Well done. Well done, everyone! We're halfway out of the dark." On Earth we call this Christmas. --Dr. Who
I'm in the exact same place I was the last time I wrote, except now I'm flying into the past, and my face is pointed west. Those three hours I gain--I wish there were a way to make them more useful, some brilliant act or thought that would leave me able to say, "I had three extra hours of life, and with them, I changed the world." Instead, I'll be thousands of feet in the air, most likely sleeping, probably drooling just a little. Oh, gosh, I hope not. But it could happen. Gross.
I'll be writing more later. Nothing like airports to bring forth large quantities of nothingness. Although, the last one was written in an airport, and I'm rather fond of it.
I'm in the exact same place I was the last time I wrote, except now I'm flying into the past, and my face is pointed west. Those three hours I gain--I wish there were a way to make them more useful, some brilliant act or thought that would leave me able to say, "I had three extra hours of life, and with them, I changed the world." Instead, I'll be thousands of feet in the air, most likely sleeping, probably drooling just a little. Oh, gosh, I hope not. But it could happen. Gross.
I'll be writing more later. Nothing like airports to bring forth large quantities of nothingness. Although, the last one was written in an airport, and I'm rather fond of it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)