Journal: The sober edition

By the time I was admitted to the inpatient facility, they determined that I was just healthy enough to not require the use of a wheelchair. Maybe if I HAD been forced into a wheelchair I wouldn't have automatically figured that I was different from everyone else here- because of course I was 'different'. I was my own failed experiment, but I certainly COULDN'T be like them! 

And yet, just like most of them, I got a thrill out of the feel of my ribs and the harsh knobs of my spine. Just like them, I liked making myself small. And just like them, I eventually started fearing the food that was taking all my special lovely victimhood away from me. If I didn't have this sickly thin look to me, who would understand that I was broken? Who would be willing to reach out and love me if I wasn't so obviously in need of saving?

Treatment shattered my perception of myself and my world and I hung there, waiting to reform. I loved narratives like this, didn't I? I would see the light and get my happy ending. My body returned from my 'ascendance' to a more human form- that I hated. Now I had the BMI of basically every average girl my age. Since I transformed physically, I was waiting to transform mentally- like those two were linked and it was somehow inevitable. I felt betrayed when I realized I was still myself. I hadn't been rescued, and yet, here I was- forced into a form that would cause rescuers to completely overlook me. 

I fell into the darkest pit of depression- my convictions about evolving into something better had nearly killed me, I had crossed so many lines and nothing had truly happened, I WAS like every patient here, and I was now trapped in a flesh prison that disguised my true self so that I would never get my happy ending. I saw no future for myself. I retold the story of my college years to myself and to therapists and to fellow patients so many times. This HAD to be the end of the story. It was the only thing that made any narrative sense. My suffering had to have a meaning and if it was to have a sad ending, so be it. At least it was dramatic. 

And yet the worst thing was that life went on. So many things had happened to me, but life just went on: I had screamed until I had disassociated in the facility, clung to my childhood blanket on the worn front steps, flinched at needles and cold hands on my skin the first nights I was there, created a barricade of mattresses to shield myself from further intrusion, been shattered over and over by the emotional reactions of fellow patients, sent to the psych ward for suicidal ideation, trapped by a professional who chose to feel insulted rather than bother to understand me, and then discharged from the day program when they couldn't handle my bad mood bringing down group morale. 

And I was just left standing in the wreckage of it all. I took classes and I got a part-time job. But, I could never escape the narrative of my past, I wouldn't let myself escape- I began self harming. Another line crossed, because, why not? If the world was going to take one avenue of rescue from me, I would find another. 

I just like finding the worst ways to define myself.

I somehow managed to graduate college. I somehow managed to land a job. How? I was drunk on novel writing the whole time- I never allowed myself to fully be in the real world, that was the key. If the real world was cold, cruel, and ridiculous and if broken people like me only become more broken if they interact with it too much, then it is much safer to retreat to fantasy where everything had a reason. For every plight, there was growth or a rescuer of some kind, waiting around the long and horrible bend. Redemption and beauty were always there at the end of each narrative storm. Any time I was forced to remain in the real world for too long, I would break down. I wrote in hallways, in lecture halls, closets, libraries, lounges, cafes, bedrooms, storage rooms, basements, kitchens, in the car, and at child-sized desks. I wrote like my life depended on it- because it did and I knew that. 

And then came the alcohol. That was two years ago at this point. 

When my family discovered that I liked the taste of bourbon, they were highly amused and they encouraged my drinking. At first, I only had the occasional little thimble of straight bourbon because I liked the momentary burn. There was no intention to get buzzed and I never did. But, by the end of my year of service as a literacy tutor, I was somehow downing full glasses of whiskey. I got drunk at the year-end party and tried to connect with my fellow tutor from my school placement that I never really talked to because I was too busy desperately writing. I can't remember what I said to her, but I guess I failed, because we haven't texted since. And the drinking just continued and got worse as months went by.

Since my eating disorder took the joy out of food and my self-harm scars reiterated that I was too 'different and broken' to ever truly belong with others, I only looked forward to gatherings if alcohol was involved. Alcohol became a ritual I couldn't break free from and it stole time away from me that I could have been using for healthier pursuits. I was in the middle of taking more college art credits to get into a Master's program and I was writing my novel and making all this art, yet I was still crying hysterically in my car. 

I was traumatized by having to relive the life of a college undergraduate and despite the uninhibited moments of bliss and freedom alcohol occasionally gave me, it wasn't enough. Nothing was enough. I experimented coming to pottery class with a Swell bottle of rose just to see if that would help me feel better, but it didn't. It felt like I could just keep crossing all these lines in life, yet nothing ever happened. Nothing made sense unless I made it make sense- that I must have peaked in high school and my downfall was inevitable and now I was only destined to keep falling and falling before I was rescued- this time, by becoming an art teacher. 

Yet, as I found, even becoming an art teacher didn't save me. 

My life just seems to be one long chain of disillusionment. 

The 'beauty' of being 'broken' has faded into graveyards and philosophy. There are ugly flowers blooming everywhere and I don't understand anything anymore.

I'd rather just laugh and feel whimsical again. I'd rather all my fantasies stay fantasies. 

Maybe I consumed too much fantasy as a child. Maybe I was sheltered from the real world. I tried to imagine plights to justify my 'uniqueness' when I was younger, but now I'm only foolish and isolated. Apparently, people are full of the most mundane faults- all of them. I can either try to accept that fact and find humanity endearing or I can give up and hate everyone because there is no in-between for me.

Apparently, I'm no longer a child or even a young adult anymore...sometimes I wish I had just died in Boston. At least then, it would have been an ending that made sense rather than this tortured and tedious drawn-out story. 

I went to college, got an eating disorder, got treatment, got self-harm, went back to college, got a tutoring job, got a case of alcoholism, went back to college, went to graduate school, lost my mind because I was on drugs for the wrong diagnosis, got an art teaching job, and here we are. What a life. What a lovely little merry-go-round. 

I am doomed to repeat the same mistakes over and over again and getting my teaching degree was no exception.

I have this hole inside me, okay? I glorify it, I revel in the unique misery of it, I define myself with it. I flaunt it and dream of rescue. It holds me up on high and at the same time casts me down to something sub-human. I'm just too unique, too broken- and the fact that I returned to serious college study with a tragic backstory and dangerous coping mechanisms only made all my complexes worse. 

I tried to become the best version of myself in the beginning, as I always do, thinking that this will the be light at the end of my tunnel. But, I remained myself and I was reminded that I still live in the same world as before and the illusion of hope slipped and kept slipping as schooling revealed itself to be just schooling and the people around me revealed themselves to be just like all the other people I have ever met in my life before. I felt betrayed. I can't help but keep building these fantasies of rescue and the world can't help but knock them back down. 

I couldn't connect with my peers- no one spilled their guts to me and even when they were vulnerable to the class, I was so desensitized from group therapy that I just didn't care. There was no connection. Everyone was just another face in the crowd- the cold crowds of Boston as I staggered through the streets crying and the faces of so many patients and the faces of so many college students with their heads down and there are just so many people everywhere all the time and if everyone is 'special', then how am I supposed to choose who to pay attention to? I couldn't choose everyone in my class, so I chose no one. 

I was too 'broken' anyway, wasn't I? I had the scars to prove it. I had the aversion to food to prove it. I felt trapped in my own cage as people formed friendships around me. I calmly waited for everyone to start hating me. 

I got to revel in the good ol' feeling of being misunderstood when I took the class art prompt 'how others/community have supported me and contributed to my identity' and created art that was the antithesis of the prompt. My art was about how I basically created myself and I am alone. The teacher was annoyed that I couldn't just behave and follow directions like everyone else in the class. 

I threw myself into my work. I clung to hallucinations of my characters cheering me up when I was having massive anxiety attacks in the car. I reveled in the fantasy of drowning myself in the ocean over summer break. I drank. 

Somehow, I thought it would be a good idea to try moving out of my parents house. Because maybe I would become friends with my housemates or meet friends on campus and I could unleash my creativity and happiness with club activities and I could finally have that happy and independent college life I never could achieve. Instead, all the same patterns repeated. Me and my housemates never really spoke. I became hyper paranoid of being around other people- I would search out strange places to 'hide'. I began desperately making demented art. I couldn't sleep. I drank excessively whenever I had to go back to the shared house. I wasn't eating properly because I was afraid to be in the kitchen for too long. I walked alone for miles upon miles until nothing seemed real anymore. I searched for paths into the woods to disappear into, not caring if I trespassed. I was sure that I was eventually going to do something dangerous on a future drunken night walk, so I called it quits just 2 months in. I just can't seem to live outside my family home unless I am carefully monitored by hospital staff.

So, I came home. I became more and more disillusioned with the program and the whole prospect of teaching as the fall turned into winter. My family took me with them to Puerto Rico and the only thing I could think about was suicide before I had to start my spring internship in the spring.

But, I did my spring internship anyways.

My mentor teacher said I wasn't fit for teaching. I was too shy, too boring, too unassertive, too indecisive, and despite all my friendliness, I never bothered to actually learn anything about any of my students. Multiple times, she stepped in and took over teaching because my poor classroom management 'was going to get one of my children hurt and I don't want a lawsuit'. She kicked me out of the classroom once because otherwise she was going to yell at me in front of all the children. She was baffled at how I couldn't improve my teaching despite all of my apparent self-reflection and understanding of advice. I had a mental breakdown one morning and couldn't walk into the school or look at my phone and when I finally managed to pull myself together enough to walk all the way up the hall and into the classroom, she yelled at me for making her worry about nothing and that I would be fired if this were my real job. She took my shutdowns in the face of stress to mean that I was calm and I didn't care. After telling me she loved me like her own child and hugging me, she failed me. I couldn't progress to my high school internship.

I had to change my degree so that I was no longer going to be certified. I could only work low-paying teaching positions when I graduated- if I graduated. 

Unlike my classmates who all passed their internships, I no longer had another internship to go to. I didn't need to slave over several certification requirements. I just needed to write an essay and attend 2 last classes. I had a lot of free time. I never do well with a lot of free time. 

My therapist, after having to coach me through one too many anxiety attacks and hear about me falling into the same bad coping mechanisms again and again, told me to see a psychiatrist. So, I did. I started taking an anti-anxiety medication. 

The stress of long stretches of free time combined with the inhibition-freedom of the anti-anxiety medication to create things like this: I drank excessively and screwed up my sleeping schedule. I climbed onto my roof. I carried a robin egg home while on a walk, fantasizing about saving it only to realize that it was dead or never alive in the first place. I tried piercing my ears with a safety pin. I trespassed multiple times. I climbed a hiking area that was off-limits for safety reasons. I threw myself into creating Pinterest boards and travel itineraries and designing fashion dolls online. I created several dozen new characters with loosely connected plotlines across multiple universes. I wanted to escape my life and wanted it NOW. 

I tried desperately to find meaning. I tried to make a detailed definition for what art was and wasn't and then I wrote my final essay about the philosophical possibility of objectively bad art and how one could then use that in the teaching field. I talked about concepts, theories, studies, self-reflection, and the true meaning of art and art education. When I delivered my paper as a presentation to my classmates, they all looked at me like I was insane. 

I somehow graduated. I blamed the anti-anxiety medication for my erratic behavior and I got diagnosed with bipolar disorder. I got put on one mood stabilizer after another- the first made me so anxious and restless that I felt like I was about to to something dangerous to myself just to make the feelings stop, so I stopped the medication instead. The psychiatrist got annoyed and said I should have stuck with it. The second gave me terrible insomnia and made me anxious- I couldn't sleep properly for days upon days and it wasn't getting any better. The less sleep I got, the more depressed and erratic and dangerous to myself I became, so I quit. She got annoyed and said I should have stuck with it. She put me on a third one. I was more depressed than I had ever been before- I was crying all the time and I couldn't get out of bed. I came up with a plan to seriously mutilate myself so that I would be declared unfit to start my teaching job and my psychiatrist would finally take my pleas to get off the medication seriously. But, then, something in my brain snapped.

What came next is somehow worse: I lost myself. Completely. The medication 'kicked in' and wiped out all my emotions and interests and motivations. I was no longer a person. I couldn't live like this- this was literally my worst nightmare come to life. I had never wanted this. I told my psychiatrist what had happened and she was satisfied, telling me that what I was feeling was what normal people felt. My 'normal' was never normal and I should get used to this healthy nothingness. I was the patient and she was the expert and I should just shut up. I wanted to stop the medication. She refused to take me off it. I felt like I had finally gone insane. There was nothing inside me. I took the initiative to stop the nightmare. I started weaning myself off the medication when my psychiatrist refused and when I told her that I meant it when I said I wouldn't be taking this medication anymore, she dropped me as an uncooperative patient. 

My sense of self was messed up for months as I weaned myself off the medication. It STILL IS messed up. I've only recently re-learned what my interests are, what I like and dislike, and how to do my hobbies after months of medicated turmoil.

I don't know if I could ever try the medication route again- it's become obvious to me that as much as my emotions work to keep me stuck in destructive routines, I rely on my emotions just as much to keep me from danger and make my life worth living. You take even one piece out of the complex emotional puzzle that is me and you only risk making it all fall apart. Also, some I don't want to run into yet another professional that *** everything up. 

But, that's also my problem. I identify with my emotions too much. Whatever my current emotions are, that must be the truth about who I am and what the world is like. No medication is going to solve this deeply ingrained thinking and no therapy is going to budge something that is a core of my personality. Even if I consciously want to change, my subconscious will always be screaming in rebellion to stay the same. 

And I know that medication isn't a miracle pill and therapy involves work, but how could I NOT be jaded with everything that professionals said would work when...they either shatter me and never truly help me put the pieces back together, mishandle me to the point of triggering suicidality, encourage me to spiral, waste my time, misdiagnosis me and...it just reiterates to me, that I've got to do this on my own and 'cures' that work for other people, just aren't going to work for me. Because I'm so 'different'. Ha!

But, telling my story here and describing myself has revealed to me that I am still stuck tripping over this same habit of mine: glorifying my own faults and misfortunes.

It wasn't like everything that has happened in my life has been one disaster after another and yet when I sat down and began writing, I recounted everything bad. Because that makes for a better story. Aren't you going to say that I'm strong? Aren't you going to want to reach out to me now? 

I don't need medication to kill my emotions. I just need balance. And I guess I can start here, by talking about the better things in my life. 

Here's what I was doing besides being a somber weirdo at the ages I mentioned so far-

7 years old: The feel of rose petals pressed against my lips at a friend's house. Holding hands with sleepover friends as we all wobbled our way from rock to rock down a neighborhood stream. Wrapping ourselves up to be toilet paper mummies. Reading Mary Kate and Ashley mystery books. Playing mermaids in the pool. Writing in secret ink on bedroom walls. The mystery of the basement storage room. Decorating my basement playset for Christmas while playing Jessica Simpson holiday music off my CD player. 

10 years old: Playing gaga ball with schoolmates in the pit that used to hold water for horses. The thrill of the small woods by the playground. Rolling down the hill screaming. Making scratch art at a friend's house. Playing with Bratz dolls. Picking out new books from the library. The mysteries of an old school building. Making art while the teacher blasted her own KT Tunstall playlist. Skiing with my family. Playing Webkinz and Kirby with my brothers and creating vast worlds and storylines. 

12 years old: Spending study hall lost in novel writing. Hanging out in the art room. Gleefully performing 'I Want It All' as Sharpay for the talent show with a group of friends. Jumping around to music at the school dance. Choreographing dances to songs in the basement. Getting enamored with the storage room again. Playing dress up with all my mom's clothes. Playing with makeup. Spending hours taking funny photos of myself and creating songs on garage band on my computer. Reading manga. Playing with my American Girl dolls. 

15 years old: Spending my weekends typing up the latest chapter of my novel. Watching anime. Getting lost for hours watching AMVs. Teaching myself Japanese. Copying manga panels to improve my own art style. Painting in my bedroom while Nightcore blasted from my computer. Sleepovers at friends' houses. Hanging out in the art room again. Playing fashion dressup doll games on my computer. Playing the piano. Writing poetry. Going sledding with my family on the golf course. Finding absurd beauty on lightning storms. Collecting shiny rocks. Trying to make pottery out of dirt. 

17 years old: The freedom of chopping my hair off, the freedom of sprinting to the finish line, the adventure of jogging unknown routes with my friend, exploring the neighborhood woods with my friend, the warmth of sunlight on the art room step during lunch, the comfort of drawing in my sketchbook, the feeling of passion and purpose while writing my novel, playing lazy tennis with my brother, teaching myself German, staying up all night at sleepovers, learning about Linguistics and the beauty of platonic relationships, cosplaying. 

Skidmore: Discovering the peace and intrigue of solitary walks in the woods, discovering new music, the comfort of an entire art studio to myself on the weekends, drinking sugary coffee while writing in the library, one story flowing out of me after the other, joining NaNoWriMo meet ups in person, the thrill of crossing empty parking lots alone in the dark, a girl telling me that I had beautiful eyes while she photographed me in a graveyard, getting invited to several of my professors houses for dinner, throwing myself into my philosophy class, playing soccer so viciously that I got a split lip, having a geology boy keep me company on my walks.

Boston: Eating the best egg salad sandwich I had ever tasted, discovering I like bubble tea, being in awe at the murals in the public library, visiting the museums, going to a cafe with a class friend, running along the Charles River, spending most of my days exploring, watching international films, going to an irish festival with another class friend, reading Game of Thrones, cooking for myself and trying new recipes, holding hands in prayer with the finals study group at the church, watching anime movies, getting ice cream with the French group, playing piano in the basement, having a boy from the running group keep me company in my city explorations. 

Hospitalization: The warmth of hugs from older women, playing puzzles, the soothing lights from my new alarm clock, the old songs on repeat on my IPod, the beauty of fall, going into the town in groups, painting each other's nails, the talent show where a woman perfectly rapped 'Rap God', watching Lord of the Rings, playing with the finger puppets in the psychiatrist's office, trying to summon a ghost on Halloween with a Ouija board and a bunch of teenage girls, listening to a small girl play her keyboard piano, getting another hug from a motherly woman, bonding with a transgender girl over puzzles, creating a magazine collage I still have on my wall. 

Post-Hospitalization: Writing and rewriting novels, pushing my art to new limits, dying my hair red, wandering through the library trying to find the oldest books, unblocking my high school friend, getting college strangers to draw in my sketchbook, the energy of the children I tutored, creating comics based on my teaching experiences, gifting people with art, shrieking in the cold ocean, rolling in the sand, the freedom of driving, writing meaningful essays, walking through neighborhood paths to the old graveyard, analyzing things with my brother, having a computer science boy keep me company around campus, deciphering larping graffitti on the side of a burned down Catholic school. 

And now we are here, sitting in a chair and feeling like this whole exercise was a waste of time. Oh, well. 

When you ask me to describe my life as a series of unfortunate events, I will give you a proper cohesive narrative. When you ask me to describe my life as a series of fortunate events...I will give dozens of unrelated little moments. Misery seems to be the driving bulk of the human condition and happiness are just the fleeting sprinkles. I guess that's just how it is. But, I'm still so *** dramatic. 

It's funny after describing how my feelings shape my view of reality, that I would then continue to trust my own subjective conclusions as the objective truth of the world. I judge everything as either good or bad, when in reality, I'm just dividing up a life that doesn't have any cohesive meaning and is too complex for my need to categorize. The same day I was making scratch art at a friend's house, she continued to call me stupid and make me feel like a freak for having leg hair, but then we also continued playing with Bratz dolls. I had a blast staying up at a sleepover and then I broke down in tears when a friend fell asleep before me, terrified suddenly that this was some kind of prophecy that she was going to leave me. I both couldn't stand the way a friend talked and smelled, but I also couldn't get enough when she hugged me or held my hand or rested her head in my lap. It felt glorious to be part of a team and play so hard that my lip split against the knee of an opponent, but after it was all over, my team ignored me and I was left alone to walk back to the dorm in the snow, furious at the world. Walking along the Charles River at night, I was torturously fearful and alone and when the walk ended, I joined an outdoor screening of a foreign film and was handed dinner by a member of a club I didn't belong to. The girl that I felt such an easy kinship with and maybe even had a small crush on, had a horrific nervous breakdown in the post-meal therapy group and it completely shattered me to watch her, helpless and horrified. After a night of anxiety-induced screaming and hallucinations at the hospital, I woke up somehow alive and got a soft and warm hug from a motherly patient. And there was always the mix of pleasure and guilt whenever I kept a boy in my company, pulling him along on my adventures (so that for bright moments I truly wasn't alone) without ever intending on fulfilling his desires. I tried to make it out that misery is the true narrative with little sprinkles of happiness, but that's not true. The narrative of my life is...well, there is no true narrative, but a closer conceptualization would be that of a constant windstorm, any mix of emotions breezing by at any given moment, ready to tumble and change at any time- fortunes shifting with the sands (and thus the world and myself are good or bad at any given time)- the good is ugly, but also the ugly is good. You can't experience anything in it's pure form because nothing is pure. Everything is imperfect and tainted by something else to some degree. It's the human experience versus the meaninglessness of the universe. This is stuff that teenagers figure out pretty early on and they might mope and write some poems here or there, but then they accept it and move on, but I'm still here, trying desperately to sort myself and the world into perfect little boxes so that I can come out on top with a clear heart and mind, but it never works. I have a desperate desire to make everything make sense, when there is no sense to be had. And because of this, I'm constantly teetering on the edge between nihilism and existentialism. 

And I was trying to paint a clear picture of myself, but I can't even do that. 

What if I wasn't some masochistic mastermind- what if I sat crying under the table because I was overwhelmed with fear and sadness at being left behind in hide-and-seek and I didn't know what else to do? What if I was just another child making up dramatic storylines for their dolls? What if, instead of being some masochistic mastermind, I staggered to the nurse's office all those years because I was a normal middle school girl and that in and of itself is already an ordeal? What if I reached out to the bullied kid because I genuinely have a good heart? Maybe I didn't hide because I was 'different', maybe I hid because I was overwhelmed? Maybe I didn't revel in fantasies of suicide, maybe the tears slid down my face because I was genuinely distressed at my own thoughts? Maybe I didn't lead boys on in order to use them, maybe I felt their loneliness and knew they needed ME. 

I think I don't want to consider....that maybe...I'm a good person.

Because if I'm a good person, then I wouldn't have deserved what other people have done to me and what I have done to myself and that wouldn't make any sense. Because if I'm good- I didn't deserve it- then how could I justify the bad things that have happen? How could I possibly make sense of everything?

I want to believe in justice and karma and 'how things are meant to work'. 

And maybe, deep down, I know that I am good. I am good, so I crouch under the table where my idealism has left me again and again and, frightened and overwhelmed, the only thing I can do is cry. 

Or make up more stories.

Or swing righteous swords in the wrong directions. 

Or spend hours journaling, walking in comforting circles of trodden sad thoughts.