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I don’t quite know what to say – or even if I should say anything at all. I don’t know who all reads this (though you should comment right now and tell me if you do, just so I know – I’ve declared it delurking week, just because, you know, if I get all personal, I want to know who is here) and I’ve lately learned that being too candid with the wrong people can get you thrown into hell.

Monday, I was into the fourth or fifth solid day of an unbelievably bad panic attack. It would not go away, no matter what I did, and all the things I usually do when in a situation like that didn’t work. I was sitting in Davis Library on the first floor, I’d finished reading my portion of Daphnus and Chloe for Classics, and was trying to get caught up for my Friday midterm in Economics…all of a sudden I just felt this wave overtake me and I mentally fell over, got knocked out. It was 20 minutes til class and I packed up my things and instead of walking toward Room 104, I headed across campus and requested a walk in appointment with a psychologist at Student Health. It was evident that my medication wasn’t working correctly, or enough, and I needed to be doing MORE to deal with all of my anxiety syndromes and depression…I felt overwhelmed, completely – and absolutely out of control of my emotions. Everything was broken and I couldn’t fix anything.

And the crisis counselor thought I was a danger to myself, and had me checked into the Crisis Psych ward at the University hospital.

The second I got there, I knew it was not going to help – in fact it made me much, much worse. Flourescent lights, people walking around playing with themselves and being, generally, crazy; the loud television blaring Jeopardy, Wheel of Fortune and Dancing With the Stars… I asked to sign myself out, and they gave me the papers, but said I wouldn’t be getting out for at least three days. Sparklepants was there, and I couldn’t stop sobbing, because the bare, bare room was so terrifying, and they had put me on the highest level of suicide watch – they said that the fact that I was crying was proof that I was “upset” and so they definitely needed to keep me. They let Sparklepants go home and get me a book, because all I had was Thomas Merton and I’d been reading him for the last three days. They let her come back for twenty seconds to say goodbye to me and I collapsed there in my bare room, alone. They never told me she brought me things, I had to go out and ask, and then they remembered to go through them. They never gave me my toothbrush or toothpaste – it was a danger to me, somehow, or my saline solution for my contacts…no electronics (though a doctor did give me written permission to keep my laptop, but I wasn’t allowed to have DVDs, because I might have broken them and slit my wrists), but refused to give me my cord (hanging). I snuck my cell phone out of my purse before they went through it, and was thrilled that they had to dig through my sobby, snotty tissues to make sure I didn’t have anything “bad” with me. They took my spiral bound notebooks, my diary, but left me with my pens. They took my iPod and my incredibly nice headphones that I am super careful with and threw them into a box, all tangled up with the cord from my laptop. When I finally fell asleep, they woke me up to check my vitals, then again to stick a needle in my arm and take blood. They shook me awake to tell me they had to take my blood. There were no clocks, so I don’t know what time it was, but it must have been around 4 in the morning.

At eight in the morning a med student came in to wake me up for a meeting with a team of doctors, who instantly made comments about not understanding why the hell I was in there, and I didn’t belong there. They’d get me out that day, they said. One of them wanted to talk to my mom and Sparklepants that morning. The nurses hated me because visiting hours were 5-8pm, and even though mom and Sparklepants had been at the hospital since 6am, they were allowed to come up at 9, and stay until I was discharged. While I was in the bathroom they bitched about the fact that I hadn’t been to any groups. Groups like planting flowers in little dixie cups and decorating them. Groups like coloring my feelings or balancing my checkbook. I stayed in my room and waited and waited and waited, and the doctor came in and said the paperwork was going through and I’d be out by 3pm. I was so incredibly relieved. And I got out, and filled a scrip for something to help me sleep (that doesn’t work) and an upped dosage of one of my medications… I went to a psychiatrist the next day to deal with my meds and she tweaked them as well (all I had wanted in the first place), which cost me 45$ that I didn’t have.

And now it’s Sunday. My mom left this morning. I have no idea what to do about this semester at school. I have a 2pm appointment with a psychologist tomorrow that’s going to set me back another $35…And nothing is getting better. I know, give it time, give it time, but I can’t stop freaking out. I’m just…

Messed up. And I can’t imagine how to get un-messed up.

And my babies are losing in overtime, and that’s never good.


La la la, feminist political theory, la la la Chandra Talpede Mohanty, la la la Judith Butler, la la la Maquiladoras, la la la post-colonialism, la la la patriarchy, la la la machismo, la la la boobs, la la la femicide, la la la de-genderization, la la la mass graves, la la la seven year old rape victims, la la la Uma Narayan, la la la kill all feminists, la la la, kill all women with jobs, la la la.

The purpose of that last paragraph was just to cheer you all up when you are stumbling around half awake and blog checking in the morning.

New thesis. Yes. Maybe. If I can get twenty-five pages written.

Too much to do. Can someone copy me and send me to me, so that I can get more things done? That would be nice. But maybe a little scary.

Also, my mother does not know the meaning of the word “yes”, as in, the ninety times she’s asked me in the last two weeks “should i tell your dad about your blog,” and I say “yes,” and then the next time I talk to her, she asks me again, and I say “yes.” And yet.

My mommy is so silly sometimes.

It is time for Sudoku and knitting and old married people things. Clearly the old married person is starting to come out of me, because I was accosted by a very pleasant elderly Indian gentleman tonight who wanted to know everything about the retirement community in Ashland, Oregon, and Bend, as well. I suppose I look like I’m the expert on retirement communities in Southern Oregon. I do not know how I feel about this.

I avoided talking about how people in Ashland are either racist fucks or raging hippies (w00t) or both (double w00t! that’s a perfect description of me!), and just told him that anywhere West of the I-5 Corridor was going to be beautiful and that if he could, he should definitely move to Oregon, because it is the land of sparkly magic fairies, and glitter and ponies.

It’s been four months and I still don’t know what my mom got me for my birthday, but speaking OF!!! I BET IT’S A PONY!!!!! OH, MOM? IS IT A PONY?!!!!!

You know what truly bugs? When someone asks you if you’re okay, when they know damned well that you’re not. “How are you?” “How are things?” “You feel okay?” No I do not fucking feel okay, and the fact that I’m conscious and have my eyes open doesn’t give you the space to comment on whether or not I look more emotionally stable.

I really, really hate it when people who aren’t depressed assume they have some kind of understanding of severe depression. Assume that they can crank up the volume and that will cheer you up, and then you’ll be better. You just will. And the next morning, after your breakdown, everything will be happy and covered in maple syrup because the sun is shining and glitter is raining down from the mother fucking sky.

Pass the hours, or minutes or whatever, and stay occupied so that nothing slips and everything doesn’t get all fucked up again. And then the second comes when the record skips and everyone wonders what happened.

This is going to be about things that are none of your business. I’m going to say them and you can read them and invade my privacy. You can say whatever you want to, I don’t care, but this isn’t going to say anything that doesn’t mean anything.

I made a promise to a friend that I wouldn’t physically hurt myself, and sometimes I don’t care enough to keep that promise, but I have this feeling I need to keep my word don’t respond with all this shit about don’t kill yourself, because you’re not saying anything new. This is not for you. This is for me. If I don’t do it to myself, I can’t stop it. Once I sat on a bench and I couldn’t stop staring at the stars, this one star in the sky and I said five five five five, like I was a record stuck on a number I didn’t know why it was five, but it was. I came into my room and I broke all of my connections.

I do that a lot. I break my connections. I am not here. I am not there. I am not anywhere, and no one can find me. And you can touch my face and say that you can see me and you can hold my hand but you don’t know. And when I say that I am gone I mean it even though you see me right in front of you and I’m gone.

I think you can in Europe.

How do I begin to describe how I’ve been feeling lately? Overwhelmed comes close, but doesn’t hit the nail on the head. It’s more like everything is going wrong, wrong, wrong and coming at me at 17,000 miles an hour and I have no idea how to stop it, or how to hold up under it.

I am over a cliff, hanging on to a tiny tree branch by my fingernails, just trying to get a grip on something – anything. I keep thinking maybe it’s like one of those movie scenes where the lead keeps desperately trying to hold on, not knowing that the ground is two inches underneath her feet and if she’d just let go, she’d be completely safe. Like trying to stay afloat in two feet of water, thinking you’re in the middle of the ocean.

But I’ve looked and there is no ledge underneath me, and there ain’t no sand, neither.

It always comes down to this: maybe I’m just not cut out for any of it. Maybe it’s a losing battle. Maybe there’s no point anyway. Or maybe everybody feels that way.

In 1955 in No Man is an Island, Thomas Merton said,

“The deep secrecy of my own being is often hidden from me by my own estimate of what I am. My idea of what I am is falsified by my admiration for what I do. And my illusions about myself are bred by contagion from the illusions of other men. We all seek to imitate one another’s imagined greatness. If I do not know who I am, it is because I think I am the sort of person everyone around me wants to be. Perhaps I have never asked myself whether I really wanted to become what everybody else seems to want to become. Perhaps if I only realized that I do not admire what everyone seems to admire, I would begin really to live after all. I would be liberated from the painful duty of saying what I really do not think and acting in a way that betrays God’s truth and the integrity of my own soul.”

Struggling under the weight of all of these real things, and trying to keep up with the “realities” of analyzing Plato and Butler and Homer and all of it. There’s too much theory and too much analysis, when all I want is my pillow and a blanket and maybe a nice couch to fall asleep on.

We’ve renamed my Classics professor Agnes (pronounced Ahn-yes), as in the French. He loves it.

Meanwhile: anyone interested in hearing some super awesome porntastic Hellenistic poetry?

Sometimes there are people that you don’t like in real life because they hurt you or something, and you have been hurt a long time, and you have some residual anger, or whatever. And you wish, sort of, that like, a truck would fall on their head, or an anvil. Or they would run into a painting of a tunnel on a wall, thinking there really was a tunnel there, but it would just be rock and they would smash their faces in and lots of blood would get on their new shirt that they had to buy at Wal-Mart because their life is so pathetic and sad because they were mean to you and so God made them have to shop at Wal-Mart.

But then something really bad happens to them in real life, or potentially bad, and you are all like “If something happened to this person I would cry.” And you would cry in real life, even though before you were imagining all of the things happening to them like God watching them on a computer screen with his finger just above a key on the keyboard labeled “SMITE.”

Just like that.

That is a strange thing about life, I think.

Is “I miss you blogging! Why don’t you blog anymore? I miss your blog! I just don’t know what’s going on with you because you don’t blog!”

So I crack and start a new one and what happens?


So, tonight we had our first official Kappa Slappa Ho sponsored FCR (feminist consciousness raising) meeting. My Carmapuchia and I have decided (well, I asked her) to make a post together, because we are sooo cute like that..

The first thing we noticed today was that I talk too much. Well, we noticed that a long time ago, but tonight specifically I said that people should call me on it because I learned to talk over people so that I could get a word in edgewise with my dad in conversation and now I just interrupt everybody and it’s really rude and people hate me for it. No they don’t, says Carmapuchia. They just think I talk too much.

Then there was the part where people took pictures of me with a vibrator in my mouth and nose. At the same time cause it was the same vibrator. Cause it has two parts, one for your clitoris and one for your g-spot. The g-spot part was the one that was in my mouth, the clit part was in my nose. Well, technically my nostril. Hi dad.

Lots of people came. We had cake and pie. And no ice cream, Sparkle Pants just lied and said we did. But cake pie and ice cream is pretty sweet and fun to say together. Nobody is going to get that, because Sally Struthers ate all the cake, pie and ice cream and also the Cheesy Poofs. Do you understand now? No? My Econ professor wrote a text book with Matt Stone’s dad. Now do you get it? No? Then you suck.

We had a good conversation, I think. And then I was interviewed for a newspaper article and the writer was trying to follow me with a pen and paper. He should have had a tape recorder because I talk fast and I almost said “here, let me get my digital recorder and tape this and just give it to you” but he is the reporter so it’s his responsibility and it’s not my fault if he can’t get a tape recorder and just uses a pad like that guy on that episode of Veronica Mars. That is a good show, you guys should watch it.


Gay Men. Haha.

Today Lena and I exchanged hymns. It was a very special Christian time for us. We were very special Christians and we talked about hymns. And it was cool. I love Lena. Her girlfriend and I could make out and it would be just as meaningless as making out with my Carmapuchia. I mean, not meaningless, but it would be like kissing my elbow.

Did I mention I had a vibrator in my mouth? And I got cool shoes the other day. Hi mom.

I watched a movie called “Connie and Carla” and it is good. You should watch it. I also watched a movie called “Another Gay Movie” and it is weird, and it is the gay version of American Pie, but with butt plugs. It was weird. You can see it if you want to, but you probably have to go to the gay store to rent it. There is one here, and it is nice, but the guy will make you put lube on your hands and you won’t be able to open a door for three hours or until you get to wash your hands, and the lube will smell like Lavender.

P.S. Eros is the best lube and you don’t have to keep re applying it if you are having sex with someone up the butt, but it is very expensive, but it is the same price as regular lube because you use less of it. Just a tip from your friendly girl who got a score of 97 percent better than other people who took the sex test who are actually having sex, and I am not, but I know more than them, and I say use Eros and a condom so you don’t get a disease, like the syph, because Carmapuchia’s voice is giving me the syph.

That’s a reference to Connie and Carla, go rent it now.

Anyway like I was saying, we had an awesome night and I might be in the newspaper but not because I know a lot about lube, that is Bee’s fault, she tells me way too much about sex toys and gay man sex. The google hits I get from this post should be interesting.

P.S.S. I love you all, please call me and tell me how wonderful I am because I am a little depressed and i have a paper due tomorrow that I have not written because I was having a four hour meeting about butt plugs and lube, no just kidding about feminism and stuff that is good and Carmen is feeling herself up. And with that I will say goodnight.



The best thing in the world is finding a marked-down-to-16-dollars pair of Doc Marten Mary Janes in a consignment store and bringing them home and hugging them and calling them your very own.

It doesn’t hurt if they also have lady bugs on them.

a girl's best friends are her Docs.

Currently Reading

Eve Ensler, Insecure At Last

Brettell and Sargent, eds. Gender in Cross-Cultural Perspective

Quoth the Raven:

"Girls aren't beautiful, they're pretty. Beautiful is too heavy a word to assign to a girl. Women are beautiful because their faces show that they know, that they have lost something and picked up something else."

-Henry Rollins
March 2007
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