My classmate died this week. He was a very kind man who spoke to me in a gentle voice. I miss his presence already. Next semester will be a little difficult not having him in my graduate classes anymore.
I still have no therapist to replace my last one. I am slowly adjusting to the new cocktail of medications my psychiatrist put me on. I have no job and all I do is care-take my grandmother during the day and take walks in the evening.
Some days the reality of having a public blog makes me feel doomed. "What have I done," I think, "I am too exposed." But, I cannot help that I am mentally ill. Maybe my little wails and rants in cyberspace will make somebody else feel a little more normal. Also, it is healing to feel so emotionally stripped. I have nothing to hide anymore, my deepest secrets are posted online for people to root through and pass judgment on. Well, I always did want to be a confessional writer. I just never wanted to actually confess. I guess I wanted to be a fiction writer but that did not pan out. None of the writing panned out. Instead, I have milled about in academia, making friends who have no idea about my mental illness, feeling both accepted and alienated at the same time, struggling to come to grips with how society perceives me, and back in mourning after another classmate passed away.
In case you have been reading throughout this blog's timeline, I have actually experienced quite a bit of loss these past few years. My cousin committed suicide a few years ago. That was actually the impetus to start writing online. Next, my classmate whom I was secretly infatuated with passed away at a young age. Later, my grandfather passed away from a heart attack. Now another classmate has died at a young age. My mother mentioned to me that it was strange that so many people close to me had died the past few years. I really wish she had not mentioned that, because it actually is true. Three out of four of my close contacts died before the age of 40. That is far, far too young.
Now, I feel mortality like a chiffon dress that is delicate, transparent, and quick to rip. I wear my mortality like my new tattoo-- on my sleeve and open to the elements.
Tragedy always brings to mind the shame I feel over my own anger. Anger in words, anger in print, anger in general makes me self-loathe. I feel like anger is arsenic, slowly devouring my insides until one day I will stagger into the desert and die. I don't want to die with anger. I want to live. I want to be free of anger. How to escape the anger of being hurt, traumatized, alienated---that is something I have yet to answer. I try to find positive things in life to focus on. I try to accept that I will get angry and learn to control it so that it transforms into a butterfly and not some mutant caterpillar.
I will now list positive things about my life for balance and peace of mind:
I knew two great and kind men who were fond of me and whose memory as classmates I will hold in my heart for the rest of my life.
I am half way to earning my Master's degree.
I am sticking to my new diet of raw vegetables and I am not weighing myself obsessively.
My grandmother and mother spent the majority of their lives taking care of me and I will become a better person so that they will be proud.
John Nash is awesome and a genius whose schizophrenia did not stop him from winning a Nobel Peace Prize.
Despite having schizo-affective disorder, I achieved a B.A. and entered a graduate program.
Puppies.
I still have no therapist to replace my last one. I am slowly adjusting to the new cocktail of medications my psychiatrist put me on. I have no job and all I do is care-take my grandmother during the day and take walks in the evening.
Some days the reality of having a public blog makes me feel doomed. "What have I done," I think, "I am too exposed." But, I cannot help that I am mentally ill. Maybe my little wails and rants in cyberspace will make somebody else feel a little more normal. Also, it is healing to feel so emotionally stripped. I have nothing to hide anymore, my deepest secrets are posted online for people to root through and pass judgment on. Well, I always did want to be a confessional writer. I just never wanted to actually confess. I guess I wanted to be a fiction writer but that did not pan out. None of the writing panned out. Instead, I have milled about in academia, making friends who have no idea about my mental illness, feeling both accepted and alienated at the same time, struggling to come to grips with how society perceives me, and back in mourning after another classmate passed away.
In case you have been reading throughout this blog's timeline, I have actually experienced quite a bit of loss these past few years. My cousin committed suicide a few years ago. That was actually the impetus to start writing online. Next, my classmate whom I was secretly infatuated with passed away at a young age. Later, my grandfather passed away from a heart attack. Now another classmate has died at a young age. My mother mentioned to me that it was strange that so many people close to me had died the past few years. I really wish she had not mentioned that, because it actually is true. Three out of four of my close contacts died before the age of 40. That is far, far too young.
Now, I feel mortality like a chiffon dress that is delicate, transparent, and quick to rip. I wear my mortality like my new tattoo-- on my sleeve and open to the elements.
Tragedy always brings to mind the shame I feel over my own anger. Anger in words, anger in print, anger in general makes me self-loathe. I feel like anger is arsenic, slowly devouring my insides until one day I will stagger into the desert and die. I don't want to die with anger. I want to live. I want to be free of anger. How to escape the anger of being hurt, traumatized, alienated---that is something I have yet to answer. I try to find positive things in life to focus on. I try to accept that I will get angry and learn to control it so that it transforms into a butterfly and not some mutant caterpillar.
I will now list positive things about my life for balance and peace of mind:
I knew two great and kind men who were fond of me and whose memory as classmates I will hold in my heart for the rest of my life.
I am half way to earning my Master's degree.
I am sticking to my new diet of raw vegetables and I am not weighing myself obsessively.
My grandmother and mother spent the majority of their lives taking care of me and I will become a better person so that they will be proud.
John Nash is awesome and a genius whose schizophrenia did not stop him from winning a Nobel Peace Prize.
Despite having schizo-affective disorder, I achieved a B.A. and entered a graduate program.
Puppies.
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