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Today I found out that my dad has lost so much weight that he’s now only 9 pounds ahead of me. I’m a little frightened by this. Papa’s aren’t supposed to weigh 153 pounds, they’re supposed to be cuddly and well, not sick and skinny.

But I’ll really bet he wishes he’d kept his jeans from college now, instead of letting me steal them and give them to my friends.

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[He is risen indeed!]

Today, I am missing my family, particularly my dad. My mom, my insane sister and brother in law. My brother, my grandparents. Today I am missing my great-grandmother’s pizzelles and missing my great-grandmother even more. There’s been no more Easter bread since she died. Today I am missing California, and almost missing my old church. Today I am missing sitting on that stage with my flute in my hands, and today I am missing Sarah, Megan, Sarah, Sarah, Bethany, Kathleen, Alan, Jeremy, Wem and Ro and BJ…and all of the others. Today I am missing walking up to people and saying “He is Risen!” and having them say “He is risen, Indeed!” in response. Today I am missing my dad’s hugs, my mom’s cuddles, my sister’s insanity. It’s Easter outside, and I feel it in my heart – I know the symbolism and I know the remembrance are both so incredibly important, and I have them. But there’s a little bit of Good Friday loss inside of me as well.

If you’re with the people you love today, no matter what religion you are, hold them close. It might noy always be so, and you never want to miss the opportunity while you have it.

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?!!!!!

Was the subject of one of my emails today.

In other news, I’m up early and actually at school, with every intention of going to both classes today. I’m trying to get my SURF application written statement completed by 11:30, so that I can go harrass the graduate student who has now agreed to attach himself to it. Stupid, stupid graduate student.

And then there’s the ten page paper which as of now has no topic, no hypothesis, no… well, you get the picture. The picture is that it doesn’t exist in thought or in form. And my brain is in a sad state of affairs.

But my mother wants to start blogging! How fabulous is that?! Spring break, amidst all the thesifying, will be filled with setting up a place for her to write her wonderful, squishy, snuggly brains out. That’s my mom. Wonderful and squishy and snuggly. I wish she were here to take care of me right now, as I sit on the eighth floor of Davis library, fighting off four waves of feminism nausea and slamming my head into a wall.

Won’t it be fun to read my mom’s blog? I promise you’ll like her. She’s darling, and she dresses just like an elementary school teacher. Down to the apple pins on her long dresses and everything. She’s Adorable!Mom. That’s her action super hero name. I think that should be her blog title as well. ADORABLE!MOM! Faster than a speeding bullet! Grading more quick math than a steaming locomotive!

Enough. Must work.

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
October 2017
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