Summer Update: No Work and Sexting

I suddenly have free time due to the fact that nobody hired me for summer work. I have decided to take this as a positive in that I can study for my intermediate computer programming class I am enrolled in for fall, my last semester at the University.

I am about to complete my Master's degree in my field, after two years. I started this blog as a returning adult student attempting to complete my Bachelor's degree. I just needed a safe place to ramble on about my mental illness and the loss of my loved ones, this blog became it. I had no idea that I would keep blogging off and on throughout the following years. Over time, I have built a sense of purpose: I must advocate for the rights of the mentally ill and prove, through my own actions, that a mental patient can be fully reintegrated into society and be productive and live a fulfilled life. Most recently though, I have found myself ranting against the social stigma and posting links to online articles about mental patients who became successful in life despite their illness.

Sometimes my purpose is too strong and I feel that I might be alienating some people. Other times, I feel that I must speak out, even write all in CAPS, to express the deep-seated fear that has been instilled in me by the mental asylums.

But everyone needs a breather now and then....

I promised this guy I would not tell a soul. I made him swear not to tell anybody either. We've been webcamming. Yes, webcamming. I invented a new verb and it is a sexy verb. Basically, we just take turns in front of the camera for hours at a time, trying to please each other visually. He made me swear not to tell, for some reasons which I cannot deny: a) I am overweight and he is fantastically fit and ripped everywhere....and hung. He could do better than me and we both know it, b) he is about ten years younger than me (21 to my 31) and that in itself is kind of taboo, and c) He is auditioning for movies and getting call-backs, which means he has to be on his best behavior and only date the "right type of woman." So, due to a, b, and c, I can not tell a soul. Except maybe you, reader, who are privy to practically everything that goes on in my private life. Also, I might be bragging right now, just a little bit. Sorry.

My therapist told me I had issues with intimacy. Not sexual intimacy but at the crossroads where sexual intimacy and emotional intimacy meet. I usually have a sexual partner for my sexual needs and a male friend for my emotional needs. I am seriously not selfish, I just can't wrap my mind around how to get one male into both of these roles. My therapist told me that it sounds like I need emotional distance from sexual partners and physical distance from my non-sexual friends. I hate this, but I think he is right. I blame my natural skittishness and a series of unfortunate encounters for my ambivalence towards relationships.

I like webcamming with this particular guy because he provides both sexual and emotional support for me---from a distance, a distance larger than the length of the Pacific Ocean (he lives overseas). This means that I can feel incredibly close to him and know that I might never actually meet him in person, ever. Rather than take this as an experiment in soul-crushing heart-ache, I am rather fond of this arrangement....and I really feel weird about being fond of this arrangement. To make matters more complicated, my male friend (platonic friend only) invited me over to his apartment to hang out. I went over there, honestly, wanting to sleep with the guy, but I couldn't work up the courage to seduce him so instead we talked for four hours straight. Then I went home and sexted with the guy overseas. Did I feel guilty? Yes and no. My local friend is also younger and I don't want him to get enmeshed with an older woman who has relationship issues (me), but I adore him and he makes me laugh. I always feel warm and cuddled after we hang out together. I do not think he would mind at all if I mentioned that I was webcamming with some guy, but I would rather keep that to myself, especially because I secretly have a crush on my local friend. Webcamming guy, on the other hand, would definitely not approve of me hanging out alone with my local friend. I don't tell him anything. I do not want to lose what we have, but I do not want to lose what I have with my local friend. The solution I have stumbled on is to just keep my private life private even from those within my private life. Does that make sense?

Most women I meet are socialized to want to marry one man, to love one man, and to sleep with one man. I am not like these women. I am fiercely loyal, but my idea of loyalty is slightly different. Flings mean little to me, they are like annoying mosquito bites that I have to scratch, illicit trysts that do not reflect my true feelings, just pure sensation. Yet I love the sensation of a tryst! There is nothing so fleetingly magical, so ephemerally fantastic, as a one-night stand. Yes, I am like other women in that I get angry if the guy doesn't call back (although for me, a call-back might be a month down the line, which is fine for me), and I get jealous if I see my fling flirting with other women, but overall I do not share the same singular passion that other women have. This would be why I still live at home, have never married or had children, and is the reason why my "relationships" last a total of 5 months per man.

I sigh as I sit here, wondering if I suffer from some horrible cougar-esque Peter Pan complex or if these guys themselves have some mommy complex that dooms me to immature and unbalanced relationships. Whatever it is, I love them in my strange ways, deeply and intensely.

This summer I have done nothing except practice programming, look for work (to no avail), and gotten myself mired into bizarre pseudo-relationships to the point where my shrink needs a diagram to sort through the male characters in my life. Don't cry for me, Argentina. I might wail about my confusing private life, but in the end, I love it, I love them. In a way, I love you, too, just for reading through this post.

My last post was a little bleak. I blame the hot weather in my city, and my ever changing internal moods for that.

I discussed the abuse at the hospitals with my therapist. Well, I didn't so much discuss things as I ranted and raved for a good hour about the injustices in the American mental health care system. Finally, he stitched me back together in about five minutes of behavioral modification (or cognitive behavioral therapy, whichever term you prefer), altered my perspective, and sent me home feeling like a little embarrassed for losing my patience.

I have this love hate relationship with the county mental health system. They were both the people who hurt me and the people who saved me and helped me to recover. Sometimes, the same person is in both categories.

I have been a ward of the county's mental health program since the age of 22-23 (previous to that I was enrolled in private insurance under my mother which warehoused me in the hospital that was actually pretty fancy back in the day, with lavish cakes for dessert and non-stop art therapy). For the bulk of the time I was with the county I felt ignored, belittled, maligned, and neglected. At one county center my doctor was a new person every three months, the previous doctor having quit or gotten fired, and it was a stressful relaying all the painful bits of my life to a new doctor every three months.

Then again, the county provided free medicine so long as I entered a rehabilitation program, but that was years later, in approximately 2008-2009. The county both provided for me and left me to my madness with no concern for my well being. It was a confusing time, my enemies were my carers and my carers weren't caring....but they could care at random and unexpected moments. If this sounds confusing, that is exactly what I felt. Confused. Alone. Tormented by internal voices and treated as a leper by the external world. But there were moments of refuge. I found refuge with other schizophrenics and bipolar people. I made unlikely friends: from different social classes, of different races, and different religions. The only thing that bonded us was our shared experience of forced hospitalization. Despite what we were (or had been) on the outside, once inside we became blank, generic mental patients; interchangeable cogs in a machine we had no control over.

I cannot relay just how startling it can be to have staff not speak to you when they approach you to take your blood pressure. It is a silent act between a nurse and whatever that person saw me as: a sick person, maybe, or maybe they saw me as a sick thing, a thing that was more like an animal than like them. It is when you have been dehumanized to this point that something kicks in: a final coping mechanism. A last ditch effort to find human decency where there is none. Every smile becomes a source of fuel, more powerful than the watered down decaf coffee they serve on the wards. A smile could make the boredom tolerable, could make the interactions with the volatile patients tolerable, make being in captivity while the world moves around without you---tolerable. The bonds I made with the other schizophrenics are deep. I still run into someone from the hospital from time to time (in the county behavioral center, on the bus, etc...) they have always cracked a wide grin, approached me, sometimes hugged me, always asked how I was and if I remembered this group or that hospital from the past. I will not lie, I both cringe and breathe a sigh of relief whenever I run into another former patient. I cringe because I am almost done with my Master's degree now (I am going to be in my final semester this fall), I  have been passably healthy and out of the hospital for 5-6 years now, I have new hobbies, new friends, a new life---I pretend like I was not that sick person banging on the bullet-proof window rambling about suicide and CIA agents; I cringe because it hurts to remember the damage. Yet, I breathe a sigh of relief because I can finally smile my real smile at somebody who knew the "real me." There is a kinship between us former mental patients based on the mutual experience of being dehumanized, marginalized, imprisoned, all for our own good.We are what society mocks, at least when they are not busy building up hysteria around us because of some sociopath who may or may not have also had the label of schizophrenic, bipolar, or autistic at some point in their pasts. I strongly disagree with the idea that schizophrenia, bipolar, or autism disorder is the root (or even tangential) cause of mass murders. I have known many great men and women who were totally insane. One of the kindest woman on the wards was a middle-aged African-American lady who said she heard non-stop golden oldies playing like a radio in her head to the point where she could hear and do nothing else (except sing along, which, to my great amusement, she did frequently). I must remember this woman and the others whenever I get angry about the hospitals. There was cruelty, yes, but there was also random acts of love and compassion that I have never found on the Outside.

I will always love those that I met on the inside: who found a way to keep their souls through everything. They are like me. I am like them. This reminds me of a book by Philip K. Dick called "Clans of the Alphane Moon," a science fiction tale about a future where the mentally ill were rocketed en mass into outer-space, to colonize their own planet without infringing on the realities of the Normals. It is a great book! I  highly recommend it due to its unique insight into the quirks of those with mental illnesses and its laugh out loud style humor. On this random note, I bid you adieu.