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So I’m coming down from two of the worst days of my entire life, during which I spent most of my time attempting not to throw up, staying out of my house, going to the lake and … oh, right, there was that bit where the cops came to my apartment because someone called my University and alerted the Dean to the fact that I was suicidal. Which was funny, because I wasn’t. But at least now we know that the City of Chapel Hill takes its random student phone calls very very seriously.

The problem is, I’m already on record as being “suicidal” from back in March when they hospitalized me (I wasn’t then, either, but I finally got to hear the notes from the meeting with the therapist and damn if she didn’t make me sound like I had a gun in my mouth). I had to fill out all this paperwork to stay in school and not have to, you know, get thrown out on a medical and have to reapply after taking a year off – something I really thought I was going to have to do two months ago… something I cannot cannot do now.

So now there are reports filed with the Dean saying that, in fact, I am still a head case. The same Dean who had to be convinced I wasn’t so I could continue going to school.

And the girl who called… to whom I’d said all of “I’m having a bad day” before saying we’d meet up at the pool in my complex that afternoon to hang out and cheer me up… now says she’s sorry if I hate her, and if I got thrown out of school, but it was “better safe than sorry.”

I am so sick of better safe than sorry.

I am sick of a lot of things.

I am mostly sick of confusion and misunderstanding and frustration, and right now, El Boyo is bringing a lot of that into my life. Before I met him I was not sane, but I was pretty well established in my interactions with people. The people I knew I’d known forever, I could read, I could understand… this learning someone else thing is making me sick to my stomach. This not being sure if someone is trustworthy, or … just not being sure of anything really. I asked Diary of a Fangirl if she would have a problem with me if I were a lesbian, and she paused and then said “…no.” Because really, I think I am just much more comfortable with women and emotional relationships with women than I am with guys. I have guy friends and they drive me insane. I’m talking out of my ass right now because I have no idea what to even say about the entire situation. I am confused, and I am sick to my stomach, and El Boyo is confusing me and making me sick to my stomach (not cause he’s gross, just because my stomach is tied in knots). And finals are this week and I still don’t know if I get to, you know, keep going to school.

And that’s my life with entirely too many ellipses. Did anyone understand that?

I can’t begin to explain the way I’ve been feeling for the last few weeks. I don’t think there are words to explain it. I wrote the most incredibly personal final paper for my English 666 course and turned it in on Tuesday. There’s no doubt I’ll get a horrible grade on it, but it seemed like it marked a turning point in my writing. There was something more raw in it than there usually is in anything I say or do.

Maybe because I was actually telling the truth.

Things have been a roller coaster of insanity. I’m not sure whether I’m going up or down. Everything that should make me smile makes me cry, and everything that should make me cry makes me cry harder. I got to school early this morning and no one was in my Economics classroom, so instead of turning on the lights in this huge hall I just waited until my eyes adjusted and walked down to my usual seat. It’s completely dark except for the exit signs above the back doors, the light from the hallway way back behind the 50 odd rows of seats and this laptop monitor. I wish it would just stay this dark. I wish I could curl up in a ball on the floor, with all of the toe jam and old gum and empty water bottles of thousands of entitled Carolina students, and sleep for a million years. Sleep until it all made sense.

A question for those of you with sane and stable relationships: How does one go about being an emo and moody girl while dating a non-emo or moody boy? Especially when said emo girl doesn’t feel comfortable sharing her emo-ness because of said non-emo boy’s lack of it?

So we spent the night watching El Boyo jazz hands his way through being a member of Hitler’s army, oh, and also reacting emphatically to what people around him were saying. If there were an Oscar (oh, I’m sorry a TONY) for emphatic facial reactions, I would definitely say he won it.

I am still trying to figure out exactly how… okay it is for me discuss El Boyo on this blog. So bear with me while the dust settles and I drill this hole right into solid plaster and try to hang a 59 pound painting from it. When things crash down, ignore the screaming – it’s probably just a broken toe or something.

Then we had entirely too many French Fries, and I ate them ALL. And then they got cold, and I lost interest in food, and then I lost interest in everything and was grumpy for awhile, and then I watched King of the Hill and was EMPHATICALLY grumpy. With facial expressions! And I think *I* could have won some sort of award for my emphatic grumpiness, the aftereffects I’m still sort of trying to puzzle through this morning.

I feel like I’m back in ‘Nam. With the land mines and the fox holes and the what not.

Today we go to look at another townhouse. I have my heart set on one we’ve already seen, but this is cheaper and closer to town, and I know we have to comparison shop…but…FOREST! Forest that smells like the Sierra Nevada! Forest that reminds me of home and summers on the American River! A Deck! A closet into which I can fit both a chair AND my guitar and be very emo for HOURS if I choose to. And write songs! That are emphatic! And grumpy! And reactionary! A closet in which I can fling myself about and get streaks of mascara on the walls and bemoan the emo sadness of my life and be completely non-conformist – just like every other highschool student who listens to The Cure. I can eat chocolate in my closet!

But I must not get too attached to my closet. I must hold myself back. And I must go watch an Adam Brody movie instead of writing a 22 page paper which is due Tuesday – the paper, not the Adam Brody movie. And I will see it DESPITE the horrible reviews it is getting, because it is Adam Brody! And he is very ADAMY in his BRODYISHNESS. And then I will ogle rugs and lamps at Urban Outfitters which I cannot afford! And maybe even get more paint samples! But there will be no cleaning of my room today! Why? BECAUSE I AM GRUMPY! AND REACTIONARY! AND DISINTEGRATION WAS THE BEST ALBUM EVER!!

No matter what I do, every day it seems like there’s something new throwing itself at my head. And not missing. I pay my bills on time, and I pay over what I owe and I still end up with overage charges for things I didn’t even do… I get a 100+ dollar phone bill two days after I get a phone to replace the one that died two months before my upgrade was allowed…the phone I put on the credit card that I made sure had enough money on it just to find out that they processed my phone charge immediately and have yet to post the payment that was made before it to ensure there was enough there to cover it.

My dad was helping me with medication and insurance, so I went to the doctor…I got my medication, I had my budget perfectly worked out, and then I… suddenly the money I was counting on wasn’t there and when they go to charge my account for my health insurance the money won’t be there. It won’t be there for my cell phone bill either. And it won’t be there for the overage charge on a credit card I had enough money on to pay for exactly what I paid for.

Every day new bills come in from the hospital. Every day I can’t afford to replace the food in the refrigerator. Every day I look at my dirty clothes and know I can’t afford to do my laundry, and every day I sit down and try to figure this all out, and try to keep an even head, and try to be responsible, and budget and make damned sure I have enough to cover my expenses, or cancel whatever it is I can’t pay for, and still somehow I end up drowning.

And the funny thing about it is…now, if I get sick, I know I can’t afford to go to the doctor, regardless of the fact that I have insurance. So I know I won’t. Now I know I can’t afford to go to the psychiatrist, or the psychologist, so I have to cancel my appointments. Now I know I can’t afford my medication, so I’ll go without it and end up curled in a ball in the closet, slamming my head into a wall hoping the bad things will go away. But they never do, the old bad things, the new bad things…they’re always right there around the corner. And suddenly I have no skin.

I have this thing about new people. Okay, I have this thing about people, period. Maybe some of you will understand what I mean. I think my self-esteem is pretty high up there. I mean, of course I slip into periods where I think I’m stupid or ugly or fat, like every good woman has been socialized to do, but overall, when I look in the mirror, I don’t recoil in horror. I don’t wear shirts that hang down to my knees just because I have a little belly, because I honestly think my body is beautiful. I think when it comes to I’m okay, you’re okay…well, I’m okay.

But then there’s this great rejection thing I have going, where I am just so sure when I encounter someone new in my life that I am going to make them hate me. This is where the creepy crawly ugly bad self esteem part comes out. I become ao absolutely sure that I am driving everyone away, that I will drive everyone away, that I become an unbearable freak and…drive people away. I’m an “only the strong survive” sort of person, I suppose.

This has got to stop. Because honestly, I’m sick of my worry and tension and all of those symptoms of that “everyone hates me” disease surfacing, when underneath it all, I’m screaming at myself to shut the fuck up already, y’know?

BTW, I would like to publicly apologize for calling Chris a cock-sucking motherfucker. As any of you know me know, I don’t like either of those words anyway, and it was mean of me, but I really did have the best intentions. So, Chris, I apologize from the bottom of my heart. :)

Now, does anyone have any solutions for how to not make a total ass of yourself, you know, all the time? Cause I could really use the help.

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.

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.”
(125-6)

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.

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.

Amen.

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.

So.

Goodnight.

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
June 2017
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