I Have a New Therapist

Well, after my distressing couple of weeks dealing with a classmate/friend's suicide, I finally had a session with a new therapist. She is a PhD at the campus psych clinic. I opted to go to the campus psych clinic because the county's therapists are hard to get appointments with and they are more for crisis-riddled, 100% damaged people (like I used to be until I got adjusted to medication and my grad school life).

We talked about my classmate and how it brought back my memories from my cousin's suicide. I was close to my cousin and we lived in the same house for a few years. It all came rushing back, the closeness we had, the way his life crumbled in a matter of years, the sudden news of his suicide, the viewing, the sight of my dead cousin's brother sitting by himself in the corner of a park, strumming his guitar, while the rest of his family sat around sadly holding pictures of my lost cousin.

My therapist brought up the fact that it seemed like I was hiding from issues with suicide and self-harm in my life by ducking into my academics. I have to agree. What is worse is that failing classes makes me feel not only incompetent and dumb, but it hits harder because the only thing holding me together is my success in my college life.

I sometimes feel that I am also doomed to a life of self-harm, be it through cutting or drugs. I have to reframe my attitude. I have done not too bad the past 3 years. I got my Bachelor's degree in the arts/humanities, and got through my first year in a Master's program. Instead of thinking, "most people with schizo-affective disorder who come from a financially deprived past don't complete college but I did," I think "I don't have any practical work experience! I'm already 30! I'm doomed to poverty and poorly paying jobs!" That might be true, but I could at least focus on the positive parts of my life and personality.

Hopefully, I can work on these issues with my therapist. Also, she pointed out that it seems like I have issues holding a steady relationship and feeling like a complete person on my own. I agree. I think my insecurities are visible and that men with damaged egos seeking an easy lay prey on me, and I let them because I've never known anything else.

I have known that I have daddy issues, or rather never-had-a-daddy issues, but the fact that I feel like I am incomplete without a male sex partner is kind of news to me. I thought I was more whole than that. I guess I shouldn't be too surprised. In the time since I started this blog, I have had 3 lovers and 1 one-night stand. I don't know how often other people change partners, but maybe 4 partners in 2-3 years is too much for someone who wants to settle down and be a good Catholic daughter.

My therapist said I was normal, in terms of my behavior, and this was mind-boggling to me. She said it seemed like I had a good handle on social skills except for when I analyze them for hours afterwards. I really want to be normal. I want to be confident, successful, a good role model, but I don't think I am and I have no idea how to be successful. Also, I have major issues with food and eating.

I have been binge eating as soon as the clock reads 5 pm. I have been exercising every other day for at least 30 minutes (either running or boxing), but I still feel like I am being lazy. If it wasn't nearly 100 degrees outside, I would probably spent the majority of my day walking off calories, running along the canal banks in my neighborhood, and doing burpees until I can't stand up.

Maybe one day I will have the ability to look at an ice cream come and not feel like I am about to have a panic attack, a flight or binge eat response, but for now I will settle for just avoiding ice cream cones completely. 

Pizza Binge, Nap, Feeling Calmer

Earlier today I posted a long-winded weeping, mournful wail of a blog entry. I assure you, I feel much better and I am not as emotionally unstable as I was when I wrote that.

Writing out my feelings to the cybersphere felt amazing and healing. Maybe it is the exhibitionist in me, but speaking out about suicide, mental health, and my personal life makes me feel like more than a speck in the world. I feel like a human. Not bad for a dead doll.

Oh my gosh! I am watching a National Geographic youtube video called "Forbidden Love" where a female therapist (therapist, mind you) has sex with male patients for money. Where is this woman and how far ahead must one make an appointment?! Sorry, that came out of nowhere, I happen to be multi-tasking, which makes me a little skitzy in my writing, ha ha.

I still deeply miss my friend and I still feel like curling up into a ball and hiding from the outside world for days and days, but I am not as hysterical as I was this afternoon. I always thought he might have considered me attractive, just because he would always approach me and he never approached other females. Also, he used to smoke his cigarettes, stare into my eyes with a tender look, and smile a crooked smile that was charming but indecipherable. I myself caught myself thinking about him romantically from time to time. One time, a bunch of us were sitting around the table talking. He only made eye contact with me, never my friend. He smiled, laughed a low chuckle, and gave me that askance look he always threw me.

I don't think I ever told him that I considered him a friend. Our graduate program is so tightly knit that I just assumed that he knew I thought of him as more than a classmate. I felt a bond with him not only because we spent so much time in the same circle, but also because he chose me to approach when he had a question. Now, I feel guilty about not seeking him out more when we were still in school. He was always so composed. I felt so scattered, like his opposite. After a teary nap, I woke up and felt a sense of longing and a tiny bit of acceptance. Wherever he is, I will see him on the other side. Then I will see that crooked smile and those tender eyes once again......

I Am Dead Doll

It is all over the media in the next town from me. My friend committed suicide in a public manner. So far, my county has yet to pick up the story. I only found the story by digging through the internet. I don't think anybody else knows. I don't think any of my classmates know how our friend died. His name and mode of suicide is plastered on the internet. Animals, barbarians, hiding behind aliases, debate about his mangled corpse in the comments of their town's online newspaper. One slandered him by saying he traumatized the bystanders (with no mention about how he is DEAD now while they get to LIVE and that his grieving friend is reading every gory, ugly, callous comment they are making...). Ugh. Normal People are so incomprehensible to me. They think us mentally ill are the sick ones?! We are genetically different. THEY are jerks and dogs. They have all the normal mental health and what do they do? They joke about my classmate's suicide like so much Jimmy Fallon fodder. I sent a complaint about the comments to the online newspaper. They never responded.

I cannot believe I missed the signs of suicide. I had more than 4 classes with him this past year...if not past 2 years. We saw each other every day. We greeted each other every day. He would approach me and ask me how I was, what did we do in class, how was my work going. I would make chit chat with him. I was very fond of him. He was tall, handsome, quiet. Withdrawn--I should have known. He has always been a little aloof, I thought maybe it was a cultural thing. No, it was his psychological wound not a personality trait.

This is hell. I drove around in shell-shock, trying to get an emergency session with a therapist. Next week, said the campus health clinic. I went to the county out-patient center where I am a consumer (I am bipolar but currently I have/had no symptoms). Next week, they said. Next week, next week, where will I be next week? I might take my student loan and flee this country. Forget finishing the Masters program. Forget everything. I just want a new start in a country that does not despise the mentally ill or laugh when we end our lives.

I previously wrote that I did not want any anger inside me, but when I read those callous and cruel comments on the article about my friend's suicide, I felt rage. Rage, wrath, hatred, deep-seated anger. I wanted to tell them exactly what I thought of them and their pathetic little personalities. I wanted to cross the line with the people who wrote those comments. I wanted to hurt them psychologically. Hence, the sudden drive to find a crisis therapist. I do not want to be that barbarian that these people are. I want to be able to snub my nose at them. I did not want to cut my wrist like I used to. I did not want to go screaming my anger over the internet like they do. Instead, I sat under the fluorescent lights of the out-patient treatment center and waited. "Next week," the counselor said. "Fine," I said. I left.

Outside in the parking lot I started to cry. I wept tears but I kept walking. I was a robot, a walking dead doll. Crying, floating outside of myself, feeling everything, feeling nothing. Limbo, then hell, then limbo, then emptiness, then over and over and over again, that endless cycle of grief and pain. I drove aimlessly for ten minutes.

I could see my life as endless opportunities. Death was not one. Neither was admitting myself to a psychiatric ward. There are many ways to self-destruct, to erupt like a volcano. I decided to binge eat. Off I went to the pizza joint for a large pizza and a bottle of diet Pepsi. I wanted nothing wicked to come out of my mouth so instead I stuffed it full of carbs and grease, swallow, repeat, until the heaven of sleep comes again, where I can pretend like all this is a nightmare. It is too bad, I ate 1200 calories yesterday and I even exercised. Then I found out exactly how my friend died and I went into a frenzied binge eating, remorse-ridden, tear-stained rollercoaster ride. I still feel like a dead doll. I put make-up on. I stare at myself in the mirror. I see large, oversized, kohl outlined eyes with a look in them like somebody vacuumed out the life out of them. I am dead doll. Hopefully, this will pass. Until then, I am going to eat my pain away.

Of Death and Calories

I'm watching a documentary titled "America the Beautiful" (2007). It chronicles today's fixation on appearance. The narrator follows various people in the beauty in-crowd and asks them, "are you accountable for anorexia, bulimia, and general low self-esteem of American women?" The answer is a resounding "no." It is as if the disease of self-obsession entered society as a mysterious fog that invaded our lungs simultaneously---nobody is to blame, and nobody can escape.

Few escape the fog. Those who do are mostly the people who are not able to critically think. Then again, if you're running on a handful of romaine lettuce, how can you think at all?

To be honest, I spent today worrying about how many blueberries and packets of splenda I dumped into my plain yogurt. Was I serving myself too much? I didn't want to go over my limit of 1300 calories.

My grandfather died last week. I have been on a semi-diet since then, reducing my caloric intake from 1700 calories to 1100 one day, 1010 the next. Grief made me think less critically about what I'm doing to my body. I have become obsessed with a number: 161, and how I can't make it drop more than 2 pounds below 161. Rather than feel pride that I've already lost 25 pounds since this April, I feel shame for my current weight. Rather than think about what my grandfather would have wanted---to be healthy, I started to procrastinate on my University term papers and closely monitor every portion of food I ate and every beverage I drank. I wake up, check the weight, make a food menu (vegetables with coffee, with some stuffing since it's Thanksgiving), and spend my days thinking about how I'm going to prepare that zucchini. I think about how I'm still sitting on the BMI fence between overweight and obese at 161 and 5'1 or 5'2. I think I can't stand another day of flabby belly and thunder thighs.

My research on linguistics sits untouched by my bed as I sit at my computer, mindlessly playing "Top of the World" by the Cataracs and wondering why I can't look like the Viddie girls. Then I started shopping on amazon dot com for movies on getting thin. I stumbled on "America the Beautiful" and I watched the trailer, thinking it would be another marketing movie that plays up the worth of vapid, egotistical supermodels and sends a message of hate and contempt to the everyday woman. Instead, I found a poignant, moving, and often disturbing view into our society and our drive to obtain a Western ideal of beauty.

Something dawned on my as I clicked the "rent now" button on amazon dot com: I'm not getting paid to give a shit about how I look. I'm getting grant money to write papers and learn the theory of linguistics. The real reason why I'm suddenly unhealthy in my diet is because I did horrible on several home-work assignments which I had to complete while my grandfather was in the morgue. First, I lose the only father-figure I have. Next, I lose my borderline A grade in two of my classes. I'm not afraid that I won't be able to lose another 25 pounds. I'm afraid I'll fail out of college and break the vow I made to my grandfather when he was on his deathbed. I'm fixated on weight and beauty right now because I feel like I failed in the part of my life that actually matters: my education.

Thank you, "America the Beautiful", for putting my priorities back in order. I am not what I look like, I am what I accomplish in life with my mind and my actions.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some homework to complete. :)

Laying Tulips On Plath's Grave

Isn't it astounding to know that when "The Colossus" came out, Plath was admonished for being a hack, a wannabe, and a never-will-be? We know now that she is one of the titans of the poetry world, but back then her womanizing husband, Ted Hughes, got all the attention and awards.

What's really tragic is that she killed herself shortly after penning her opus, Ariel. You've all heard the story, tape along the door jams, head in the oven, children safe and sound asleep. But I think what's really telling is the poem, "Tulips."
"The tulips are too excitable,it is winter here." --first line of "Tulips" by Sylvia Plath.
Just the first line has layers of meaning. The juxtaposition of excited tulips with winter time is startling. The rhythm of the first line is intense. Imagery is prevalent. Of course, this was written about her experience with electroshock therapy, but it's written in such a symbolic way that it challenges our minds to grasp her mental landscape. She leads us into jungles of images, the white walls of the hospital, the excited tulips, the ever-seeing eye that must "take it all in," her body as a "pebble", and the red, red tulips that hurt her eyes; nowhere in literature or poetry has such anguish come across so vividly. Indeed, there is no melodrama in this poem, in fact, she's rather jaded, a rarity amongst modern, nostalgia-ridden poets, and her neat lines will stand for centuries to come. You can feel her life-force bleed through the ink. Maybe that was the problem, she saved none of herself for herself. Or maybe she had a serotonin imbalance.

I would be so lucky as to write a single poem that would be published in a respectable journal; Sylvia Plath had a whole book published. It hurts me to know that she had had enough with life, with her small failures, with her marital pain, as to remove herself entirely from this world. At least she left us a suicide note: the stanzas in Ariel.

This entry is a symbolic tulip I leave  on Sylvia Plath's grave; a token of devotion, a coin into a wishing well, wishing her peace wherever she is, that she might spark a moment of consciousness again and know that in 2011 people are deeply moved by her words and her life. A life can die, but not a legacy.

Reason to Live

As stated in previous blog entries, my cousin killed himself June 25th. He left the rest of the family disillusioned, heart-broken, and shattered. Having my own psychological problems, I faced certain questions, like why should I live? What point is there? I'm so insignificant, why bother to live?
Frankly, I'm still searching for concrete answers.
I talked to my ex-boyfriend today for several hours and he asked the same question: what is the point of living if there is no point in living? This made me sad. I answered: Go buy a kitten and take care of it. Was that lame? Probably. But there is nothing more powerful than reciprocated love, even if it's just the adoration of a pet.

Having split from my boyfriend this week, I feel unloved. So I fill the void with you.You who are reading this. You got this far in the blog entry, you  must either be curious, morbidly curious, or seeking for the same thing I am: love, acceptance, happiness, understanding, and hope.

They say, 'take it one day at a time, one step at a time' and I hate that. There is nothing like a cliche to take the meaning out of perfectly sage advice. For me, I  have to set small goals for myself and wake up every day asking myself how I can achieve that small goal. For tomorrow it's revise a paper on British literature, eat less, exercise for 20 minutes, study the next chapter in my Arabic language textbook, and start looking into graduate programs for Fall 2012.
There are two ways I could look at this: either I'm a failure for not having a BA at the age of 28, or I can take this as an opportunity to earn around three thousand dollars each semester, tax free. To compare, at my last crappy job delivering pizzas, I earned minimum wage, plus tips, as a part-time worker. That came to about five thousand dollars a year, waaaay below the poverty level. Half way through the year, I've already earned about six thousand dollars, with another check coming next semester in September. In one sense, I'm a total failure. In another sense, I've come up in the world. Since I like to spend money, I am going to see this as a positive step.
Perhaps I'm way behind the rest of the flock. Perhaps I'm fooling myself with the illusion of job prospects. Perhaps I should just give up....but then how would I afford expensive computer software like Ableton Live music mixing software? I could either give up here and now and refuse to get out of bed, or I can wake up early tomorrow, brew some coffee, and start my homework, knowing that there is a check waiting to be deposited into my bank account if I successfully complete my work. AND if I raise my GPA by .1 (cumulative GPA is a measly 2.9 right now, due to  mental illness requiring in-patient treatment, but my University GPA is 3.6), I qualify for even MORE money. No, money isn't a reason to live, but it sure makes you feel better in the short run. Along with the money there is also my bachelor's degree, which I should obtain by the end of next spring. There's also the allure of a graduate program. At the moment, my GPA is the minimum for entry into the program of my choice at the State University, but with some hard work I can boost it up with the two classes I'm taking now, plus the next two semesters.

A friend of mine from high school gave me the best advice on coping with loss: distract yourself. Study, read, do whatever you need to so that you don't start wallowing in pain. I have found this to be true. That's actually the reason I started this blog; to distract myself, to vent, to heal, to accept what I cannot change and change what I cannot accept. Oops, I wrote an oxymoron, well, you get what I mean.

My aim for these blog is to bare my soul to people who empathize or relate to my situation in life, thereby making it easier for them to feel like they are not alone. I want to create a safe spot where I can grow to accept myself and to strive to better myself, and hopefully, by showing my struggles, other people will find ways in which to cope and grow. Does that make sense? I'm not doing this for profit. I haven't monetized this blog, though there is a little button that allows me to do so, nor am I hoping for a lucrative writing contract (I actually penned an erotic e-book through a publisher already and I know all to well that it's next to impossible to make a living off writing). What do I want from this? Attention? Maybe, if you're that cynical, maybe, but I was hoping for change. Not drastic, go-on-Oprah-show-and-be-an-inspiration-to-millions change, but to bring change to a couple of people would make me happy. It would be another reason to live. Yeah, you are the reason I choose to live. Well, you and that three grand I get every five months, and my mother, and my grandmother, and my cat who would be very hungry without me, but you get the idea.

On weight, anti-psychotics, suicide, and metabolism

I have found an interesting and entertaining documentary concerning the existence of obesity. I hope that you already know why so many people are obese: the obesity gene began as a way of our early ancestors to survive through periods of famine without dying. A thin person would simply die, but an obese person would be able to live off all of their stored-up fat and still be able to bear children. This kept the human species alive for hundreds, if not thousands of years. Then, with the advent of food and medical technology, being obese was no longer an evolutionary advantage. Being thin became an advantage, especially a social advantage.

This documentary is available for free streaming on top documentary films dot com, and you can also find it on youtube. It's called "Why are thin people not fat?" Here is the link:
http://topdocumentaryfilms.com/why-are-thin-people-not-fat/
In this film the audience follows a group of naturally below-average-weight individuals who are put onto a daily caloric diet more than twice their previous diet. You may have heard of a previous experiment like this one. Prior to this film, there was a 1960's prison experiment where prisoners were allowed to leave prison early if they could get fat--some ate up to 10,000 calories a day (versus the 2,000 recommended caloric intake for males), and to the researchers' surprise, some failed to get fat.
The researchers in this documentary are looking into why some people can get fat and others can't. It's a very interesting watch, and I, as a thick woman, feel a little vindicated to finally see media that says people are genetically different, not just their genes but their metabolic rates as well (metabolism=how fast you burn calories, be it through exercise or transformation of calories into heat).

For myself I know what makes me fat: 1) hypothyroidism, which is a slowing down of my metabolic rate combined with low body temperature. This means that I can't burn off fat by converting it into heat because my body remains at a cool temperature. Also, the ability to burn off those calories through exercise is difficult, due to my slow metabolism.
At the moment, I'm not on synthroid, though I was in the past, due to the fact that health care in America is a murky swamp of paperwork and employment through which one must wade into to get the health care you need. Being unemployed, this makes health care impossible. Free clinics get booked so quickly that there is a 6 month wait period to see a doctor in the Central Valley of California where I live, with no guarantee that you're getting adequate health care. Now that I'm a student, I plan on making a trip to the campus physician to get my long-postponed prescription to treat my hypothyroidism.
2) Anti-psychotic medications, which I need to treat my schizo-affective disorder . Yes, I'm mentally ill, but you wouldn't be able to tell unless I'm acutely psychotic, which isn't that often off medication and doesn't happen at all on medication, so don't stigmatize me---I'm not a psychopath who goes berserk on innocent people. I also don't wander around town shouting obscenities; that's a different disorder. Nor do I accost random people to spout conspiracy theories, curse at them, or whatever preconception you have of mentally ill people. I just have different perceptions which scare me. But back to the topic: zyprexa pills are much like snicker's bars in that you will pack on weight if you eat one every day. I was on zyprexa for about a year, so imagine that. Hence, how I went from a moderate size 5 to a size 16 in less than five years. There is still research being done on why anti-psychotics cause extreme weight gain, some of which I believe (my opinion here) that some of the findings are being kept in the dark due to pressure and financing from major pharmaceutical companies. If you think that sounds like a paranoid talking (and, well, I am) then you should google Zoloft  and suicide risk and read the studies that were withheld until the relatives of suicides came forward and sued the pharmaceutical company for not disclosing that Zoloft increases the risk of suicidal behavior, especially in the initial period when medication is first taken.

Having just lost a cousin to suicide, I was not surprised to hear he was starting medication for depression. Frankly, I think the doctor and pharmaceutical company are liable for my cousin's death, but it's not my call at the moment. Plus, I'm still in mourning and I don't feel like thinking about who is to blame for the suicide of a 24 year old male with no history of suicide attempts (most suicides have a history of botched attempted suicide, they usually don't just kill themselves out of the blue). But now

I'm getting angry, so I'll change the subject: anti-psychotic medications made me gain weight. No, it wasn't lack of self-discipline or lack of exercise. I ate what I ate before. I admit, I liked pizza before and after my new medication, but I had never packed on more than 5 pounds for this indulgence. So I ate what I ate before, did my usual running before work, walked for miles during the day, and boom! 50 pounds settled on my short frame rapidly. Suspiciously rapidly. I had never had a problem with my weight before Zyprexa and all the other drugs I've been on (Geodon, Zoloft, Seroquel, Paxil, Zyprexa, Risperdal, Abilify, Zoloft-generics, and a host of others whose names I've forgotten). The moment I started taking the pills I began to plump up so quickly I began to think of myself as a puffer fish, you know, that one fish that expands into a balloon when you frighten it. ( image:http://www.google.com/search?q=puffer+fish&hl=en&biw=1280&bih=576&prmd=ivns&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ei=BLEjTq-NPIHkiALCuLzOAw&sqi=2&ved=0CCsQsAQ)

Now, having been on heavy anti-psychotics off and on from the age of 23-24 to my current age of 28, I have found that every time I get OFF my medication I immediately begin to slim down. Several years ago I went off my medication, lost 15-20 pounds in a matter of months, got a little zealous, began a starvation diet, lost another 15 pounds, then, unsurprisingly, went mad, got quarantined in a psychiatric facility,  was forced to take weight-gaining anti-psychotic medications, along with having my diet monitored to the point where I was not allowed to leave the cafeteria without eating a certain percentage of my plate, and gained all my weight back again. I was so close to weighing 125! So close. But then I would have been a slim nutcase and the county psychiatrist thought that would be a liability.

So I learned that I must have some sort of borderline diet crazed mentality in order to reduce my pudgy body to a moderately overweight frame if I plan on being compliant with psychiatric treatment. Being both hypothyroid and on a steady diet of multiple psychotropic medications, I am competing with a natural propensity towards obesity, so the best I can do without developing a severe eating disorder is to be slightly overweight---and even that requires a minimalist, sugar-free diet mixed with excessive exercise and the high-end anti-psychotics that claim to have less side effects.

Here's an example of a typical diet day:
no breakfast.
If I eat breakfast it's always half a cup of yogurt. I then drink about 3-4 cups of coffee to keep me energized until lunch.
Lunch=small plate of zucchini with lots of spices to trick my taste buds into believing I'm eating something delicious, + 1-2 cups of chai (tea with milk). Snack=nothing.
Dinner=small portion of whatever I want. This can be more zucchini, but usually it's something a little greasier like a handful of home-made cumin fries with a salad or veggie burger with a piece of buttery garlic bread. I then drink 3 cups of tea to trick my body into feeling totally stuffed, and into bed I go. I wake up, weigh myself, and spend the rest of the day going to class, caring for my grandmother, doing my homework, and hunting down either a salad or a cup of coffee to chase away the hunger.

If you're wondering why I eat fries, the answer is simple: they taste good, they're everywhere, and I will cave in and binge eat if I abstain from eating comfort foods for more than a month. Sugar I don't like, and I rarely eat cake or ice cream unless it's my birthday or my relative's birthday, but butter---that's my achille's heel. So I eat it in moderation and not every day, or week for that matter. But when I do eat it, I feel guilty. Right now, there's a box of garlic bread in the freezer that is singing siren songs to me, but I already ate dinner so I must boil 4 cups of tea and drink until I feel full. Yes, this vegetarian, chai diet actually works: I've lost somewhere between 12-20 pounds since I started it this April. I can't be exactly sure since I didn't buy a new weighing scale until May something, and the initial weight loss occurs very quickly at the beginning (and then slows down...), but I do know that a month ago I weighed 179 and my weight this morning read 169. I can now fit into a size 14, but just barely. Oh yeah, on top of the diet, I walk to and from the bus stop (30 minutes each way) all week long, plus one hour of continuous power walking every day, plus 20 minutes on a rowing machine three times a week, plus 10-15 minutes of using a 10 pound weight one to two times a week. All this...and still on the borderline between overweight and obese. On the plus size, my internal organs will be in great shape in time for the beginning of my new judo class this fall semester, even though I can't wear a bathing suit because I'll still be too fat.

Following a New Path Down Unfamiliar Roads

Well, I just re-read that last blog entry and it is totally a downer.

A few days later I feel super great. I did well on an exam, I found some great bras that fit my bust (Panache, 36FF and Cacique 38DDD, though that last one has cups just a teeny bit too tight near the armpits), and I wrote some nostalgic stories about my cousin who committed suicide on the 25th of last month. Writing about my happy times hanging out with him helped because it made me realize what a good person he had always been to me. Even though he's gone I still have that feeling of happiness he brought me. Plus, my counselor is back in town so I have somebody to vent to aside from the hapless innocents who accidentally stumble onto this blog. LOL.

PS Sorry to Dawkins for that F-Word blog entry...you may be a jerk, but you're not over-rated. :)

Empty

Dear online, public diary,

today I feel empty. My cousin died last week and I still haven't gotten over the shock that he chose to leave his family and friends by committing suicide. I was close to that abyss once, but I chose life, family, friends, uncertainty, financial insecurity, unemployment, and this: a futile attempt at making a connection with random people on the internet. I wish I could have been there at the last moment of my cousin's life to bring him back from that horrible wasteland of despair. But I wasn't. I feel from the bottom of my being that I have to do something; there is a terrible urgency pushing me out to seek people, to seek change, to seek help. What helps, though? This helps--writing to nobody, posting it online for anybody to find. Baring my soul and telling my truths are the only things that give me the courage to take my psychotropic medications nightly and wake up in the morning still myself, still flawed, still aching from grief.

Today I feel blue. I've been surfing the internet in my spare time and I realized how insignificant I am and how my beliefs and values are not shared by the majority of people. I would like respect, progress, peace, joy, social integration, equality, fairness, and lots of money. I get none of these things. This makes me feel blue.

Today I must find one good thing to write about. I'll write about learning.
Being in summer school has saved me from a potentially lethal combination of intense mourning and isolation. I wake up, I shower, I go to class and I participate. It takes my mind off the horror of death, and the pain of life. Instead of weeping again I pick up a book and learn new words in a foreign language. I'm learning the Arabic alphabet right now at the University, and I have to say it brings me serenity to puzzle over each word. There is no greater joy in my life at the moment then trying to figure out what the letter "Baa" will look like in initial, medial, and final position in a word. I can practice my cursive for hours. In this learning mode, I am firing synapses, strengthening my concentration, progressing in life, and experimenting with another culture. I get little boosts of serotonin naturally after a 2 hour session of struggling to recall the alphabet. I lose myself in the language.  I study, I train, I memorize. I heal.

Aftermath of a Suicide

So I started off this blog on a sad note: my cousin died last week and he was only 24. The viewing was especially painful. Just seeing him so lifeless was overwhelming painful.

I'm sure you're probably wondering why I don't just talk to a psychologist instead of rambling on in front of complete strangers. If you must know, she went on vacation and won't be back until the end of July. So, until then, please put up with my random references to my cousin.

In the last blogs I wrote about bras and the book "Wasted." There was some comfort in relating totally trivial material. It lifted me out of this cloud of doom and anguish. Stay tuned, because I plan on writing more trivial blog entries on breasts, bras, food, and literature. The human mind can only take so much pain, so I have to take a breather now and then, as do you!

If you're the suicidal type, please rethink your actions, mostly for yourself but also for those around you. A suicide in the family can increase everybody's risk of suicide at least twofold. For myself, having backed out of an attempted suicide at age 19, I feel the shadow following me, the painful family legacy of self-murder.
Add to this my cousin who did not survive, and well, my chances are pretty high. I am not, nor do I plan on being, suicidal, but there is that chance that life will seem so bleak and painful that I can't stand it. I hope that if that happens I will find a therapist or a friend to confide in, along with a year supply of Zoloft, but until then, I'm living life for myself and for the cousin who I lost to a totally preventable death.

I ordered a book in the mail. It's by the famous psychiatrist and writer (who also happens to be bipolar), Kay Redfield Jamison. It's called "Night Falls Fast: Understanding Suicide." It received rave reviews by critics and readers alike. I'm a big fan of her other books, "Touched By Fire: Manic-Depression and the Artistic Temperament" and "An Unquiet Mind." Whenever I'm down I find a book on a subject, be it madness, depression, binge eating, or body image. I never thought I'd have to read this book. Now it has become important for me to read it. I don't know what I'm looking for. Closure, there will never be closure, but acceptance or hope or something like that might come out of it.

Also, read "The Savage God" by A. Alvarez. Or Durkheim, who was a sociologist that studied the social attachments (or lack thereof) of suicidal people.

I've been looking all over the place for support groups online for family members of someone who killed themselves and there is surprisingly little. Most of these forums are private and require a lengthy application process to join, or else they're for people who are at risk of suicide themselves. There is one group that seems reliable. It's called "Survivors of Suicide: or SOS" and they operate in many cities across the States.

I'll add a link to this site, just in case.
www.survivorsofsuicide.com

Here's one for the mayo clinic and their writings on coping with the grief of a suicide.

http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/suicide/MH00048

If you're the suicidal type, please click on the link below. There is much to live for, like playful kittens, Autumn breeze, romance, a new hobby like kayaking, a different environment like Amsterdam, and the people who love you. You might not realize that they love you, or worse, you think they'll be better off without you, but you are wrong. I've experienced my fair share of emotional, physical, and psychological pain and hearing my cousin killed himself has got to be up there at number one most painful experience.

www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

The first step is accepting that you're going to have to suck it up, plop down in a chair, and start talking to a complete stranger about your most private feelings. Trust me, it's like ripping off an old band-aid. Momentary pain followed by relief. Yes, they may put you on drugs. Yes, they may hospitalize you. Yes, life will never be the same, but if you were on the verge of suicide, who would want their life to be the same? I promise that if you seek help and that person you go to is at least half way decent, your life will improve over time and you can start building a new life for yourself of kitties, puppies, pizza, and love.

I don't mean to get all preachy and tell you what to do, but I was lucky enough to have somebody tell me what to do at the right moment and I'm still alive because of it. Besides, I'd feel like I'm part of the problem if I just minded my own and tended to only my personal grief.

Oh yeah, and art therapy really helps. I knew a schizophrenic who found hope through making bracelets with beads. He was kind of a manly man, so he often gave away his creations to females, but it was really amazing what he could do with some colored beads and string. I found painting to be helpful. Nothing fancy like oils, just regular poster paint, brushes, and some thick paper.

There's a whole world of positive experiences out there! I wish I could have made my cousin believe that. I knew he was troubled when we lived together, but I didn't peg him as the type to go through with it. I just assumed he was slightly autistic since he rarely spoke, stared into space, and would make cryptic comments to me out of nowhere. There was a point when he lost his job and I tried to convince him it was in his best interest to call a number for psychological services, but he resisted. He never threatened suicide in front of me. Legally, my options of having him committed weren't viable. The system demands that the suicidal person make explicit suicide threats. Then they can 5150 them. My cousin wasn't verbal enough or psychotic enough to give me cause to call the police. What would I have said, "He's more silent than before"? But here I go, trying to justify my lack of action, trying to defend myself when I had no contact information for him for 2 years and then out of the blue...death. My point is, don't do it. Please.

Well, that was a stark post. Next up: a blog on bras.

Electra's Complex 101

If you don't like confessional-style, soap opera lives please click "next blog." 

This blog is my way of coping with the loss of my cousin to suicide. We lived together for several years before he moved back with his mother and I hadn't seen him for 2 years when I got the news from his father that he had committed suicide. I don't mean to start off on a sad note, but it's important that anybody who reads this understands that I'm coming from a place of mourning and confusion.

In the aftermath last week, I binge ate and regained 6 pounds I had lost through a vegetarian diet and exercise.I couldn't help my cousin and it seemed like I couldn't help myself either. I stuffed BBQ chicken into my mouth at the park where our two families met to mourn. I gulped down bites of rice. The next day, we got pizza and I ate 3 slices for lunch and 3 slices for dinner. My new, healthy lifestyle went out the window for about 3 days.

I've always had issues with food; I'm an emotional eater, or dieter, it depends. When I lost one of my uncles to a tragic accident at the age of 18, I stopped eating. I sought counseling at the University psych services, and though the intern there flaked on me, he did give me some good advice: find something you can swallow and eat it someplace safe. That turned out to be chicken nuggets with me eating them in the very back of the fast food joint, out of sight. I went down to a size 2.

I came back to my home town after losing my housing accommodations and began to party like crazy. Sex was my new issue. I had lots of it. I ran around to various house parties, met up with random guys, and slept with them. My friend was disgusted. My mother was horrified (we're a traditional Mexican-American family).  I was on the verge of  a nervous breakdown from all the sex, drugs, and rock n roll.

Then I lost it and took a bunch of pills. That was my first experience with a psychiatric hospital. I was labeled bipolar, drugged up, and released. Later, a more specific diagnosis would be given to me: schizo-affective disorder, meaning when I get manic, I stop sleeping and I wind up psychotic. I'm not a bad person, I've never been in a fight and I'm not delinquent. I'm just nuts. Hence, the Electra Complex (Also, my father left before I was born so I figured this would be a good title.)



Please stay tuned for part 2. My mother is home and I have to go buy some Coriander powder and zucchini.
Thanks for reading, and I hope I haven't depressed you too too much!