Corduroy

Why not?

2005-11-05T23:35:00.000-05:00

Mental health 101

2005-10-17T21:54:00.000-04:00

One time, when I was a kid, a baseball landed on my finger and I heard the bones in my index finger crack. The pain resonated down my arm to my elbow and then back up to my finger, radiating in the worst sense of the word. I jammed my finger trying to catch a fly ball in the back yard. I've also been whacked in the head by fly balls a few times (so that explains the therapy!), whammed in the gut by line drives, and landed on my knee sliding into third base. There was always that moment after the shock of the pain where I'd check to see if things were still working how they should - by moving around the injured parts. Shake it off, as a mantra. And eat aspirin.

I take some fundamental things for granted. The fact that I can move around by my own will, that I have been handed opportunities some people would never dream of being handed. That I have experienced things some people may never experience. That I'm young, and mostly capable, and willing to do some things I'm sure I'll later regret. That I want to learn, that I'm unaware of how much it'll hurt; it'll hurt the unnatural way that two bones rub through cartilage and finally touch, scraping together and sending pain down the affected limb. Rebound is important. Shake it off, as a mantra. And eat aspirin.

I am reading a book on self injury called A Bright Red Scream by Marilee Strong. It's fascinating to me because although I know that my self injury makes me part of a psychological community of other self injurers, part of me still felt like a freak for doing it. I still hide my scars, except around one person who I trust with all of my heart. In this book, there is a quote from a 15 year old girl that gave me a big I'm-not-alone moment:

"I stood in the bathroom, looking in the mirror, and I didn't recognize myself. It was my face looking back at me, but my soul wasn't there. It was just a body to me, and I didn't feel part of it anymore. I felt I had lost control of my thoughts, my emotions, and my actions. And when you have lost control of everything, what do you have left? I saw the razors my parents kept in the medicine cabinet. It just seemed to make sense at the time, though I didn't know exactly why. I was only scared and searching. Later on, the more I cut, the more I understood why."

I had that moment when I was 14 and in 8th grade, when I started to get addicted to cutting after a 2 year period of not really needing it. I can remember standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom and wondering who was looking back at me. This book also goes into the dissociation that sometimes happens during cutting sessions, which I've also experienced; it's a bit like floating out of your body and watching it happen from above. Everything flows into one big, understandable fluid thought and everything that made you want to do it in the first place just flows away with the blood. And then it's gone.

I'd often find myself so calm that I fell asleep, coccooned in my bed with my arm wrapped in a towel. And I'd wake up the next morning, my arm buzzing and wrapped in bloody towels that I'd have to throw away in a public dumpster somewhere to hide the evidence. I wouldn't even clean out the cuts, which were pretty deep and wide towards the end - I'd just watch them get infected and feel like I deserved every bit of it.

I kinda feel like since I've stopped my mantra has been shake it off, and eat aspirin. Just like I got my finger jammed during a baseball game. It's weird, but in a good way. If that makes sense.

I know the chances are about .5%, but if anybody reads this who is having problems with self injury, depression, an eating disorder, or anything else related, please educate yourself because it can't hurt:

Secret Shame
Self Injury Fact Sheet, with anonymous phone lines
Something Fishy, eating disorders information

They're dropping like squirrels!

2005-10-13T21:58:00.000-04:00

My Mom and I have been dealing with corpses a lot lately. Not anything creepy or particularly out of the ordinary (I promise), but it is still a weird phenomenon. She had noticed some mice running around in the barn, so she put out poison, turning our property into some weird death trap for rodents.

She neglected to tell me that she'd probably be too afraid to pick up the since-passed mice once they took the bait. So that one was assigned to me.

Upon strolling out into the barn in the middle of the night with a shovel resting on my shoulder, I found two dead mice curled up on the floor near one of the desks. They were a few feet from the poison, like they had collapsed after realizing that couldn't have been cheese. It's sad. I'm not sure how long they've been sitting there, but they're stiff and unflinchingly, well... dead. Think the Monty Python parrot. They have ceased to be.

I delicately picked them up with my shovel, dug a shallow hole in the woods and buried them, side by side, like an old married couple. The second one had died under the stairs, its legs akimbo in the animal's death throes. It's funny how my reaction to this has changed over time. When I was a kid I always saw these events as opportunities to increase my risk for communicable diseases and indulge in a free autopsy, and that interest is still there... but it's more of a sad thing. Like maybe I should have read a eulogy or something.

Corpse event number two occurred earlier tonight. When I got home this afternoon I noticed a black squirrel sprawled out under a tree in the yard, not unlike they do in the mid-July heat to cool off. But it's not mid-July, and it's not hot... and it's eyes were closed, and I could stand next to it without it so much as twitching an ear or blinking. It's dead, I thought, and I'm gonna have to be the gravedigger again.

My Mom works with a taxidermist. Yes, it gets weirder. When I tell her that the "asleep" squirrel in the yard is in a much deeper sleep than she thinks, she immediately calls the taxidermist and leaves a message on his office phone about the prize dead squirrel laying in our yard getting ready to decompose and feed the tree out of which it fell. Then we go out to pick it up.

Fully equipped with a plastic bag, flashlight and that trusty old shovel, we go after the squirrel. I hold the flashlight in my teeth and keep the bag as wide open as possible, hoping to not feel a sharp dead squirrel claw graze one of my fingers. It takes us two tries to get the little guy into our bag, and on the second try his locked-straight tail brushes my hand. But he's in. And now he's sitting next to the bag of frozen peas in the deep freezer.

I kid you not.

Upon looking at him all wrapped up in grocery bags near the gallon of vanilla ice cream in our freezer, I kind of wonder what the allure is in taxidermy. I also wonder if I'll ever be able to eat ice cream again, just like dissecting a fetal pig forever ruined eating pork ribs for me (oh, that's just some intercoastal cartilage... he must-a-been a young 'un!). I also get a sense that our freezer is looking more like a morgue than your average family sized deep freeze. But this is my family, so anything goes, I guess.

Right in time for Halloween. Sometimes my life is hilariously absurd and sometimes it's just absurd. What else could it feel like when there's a dead squirrel in the freezer, on hold for a taxidermist? I have no idea. So I become increasingly talented at suppressing zany thoughts. Maybe that will get me a good job after college.

Cancel the obit

2005-10-05T17:30:00.000-04:00

In the spirit of spontaneity:

- I got accepted to Edinboro, Slippery Rock and Eastern Michigan. Yay me.

- I have officially been handed the opportunity to become a full body plastinate post-mortem, thanks to the BodyWorlds exhibition and the Institute for Plastination in Heidelberg, Germany. In other words, I got my brochure and forms in the mail yesterday. I sent in the postcard I picked up at the museum just out of curiosity, and now I have the official paperwork, body donation card and booklet on becoming a plastinate after my death. Hmmm. On an even stranger note, My Mom is seriously considering this option as an alternative to burial or cremation. Last night she exclaimed, "I wonder if they could do me like this!" and stood frozen with her mouth open, mid-disco pose. Ahhhh. I can just feel the minds of medical students being stimulated.

- I saw Oasis again last Friday. I thought this show was better than Detroit, mostly because they were more talkative. During the encore there were at least 25 people on stage, shaking hands and hugging Liam. In Detroit it was like they wanted to just play the set, put on a good show and go to bed. In Cleveland, they seemed more... y'know... into it. Three drunk guys fell on me - two that were climbing over seats landed on me, and one elbowed me in my upper trapezius (that's right, trapezius).

Not a lot else has happened that's worth mentioning. But, I still have a pulse. My brain is another story but the pulse is still going strong.

Two songs to make it all okay

2005-08-29T20:34:00.000-04:00

Fix You and Everything's Not Lost by Coldplay.

Actual (well, you know) writing soon.

Zzz

2005-08-21T22:12:00.000-04:00

Sleep has been a little elusive for me lately. As much as I would love to go to bed and wake up refreshed 8 hours later, it never seems to happen. I always feel a little bit rundown, which is normal for not being in school. When I'm in school, "a little bit rundown" seems to escalate scarily fast into daytime zombie. One of my favorite quotes ever comes from Lewis Black: "You can't learn anything out of one bloodshot eye."

Amen.

Soon (3 days) I'll be getting up at 5.45am to make the drive into school, which has become almost robotic for me now. I don't have to think about where to turn and when to stop, because it's been carved into my brain. I always make the same foolish vow that when summer comes, I'll spend it lazily sleeping away the days and staying up at night. I always get the second part right but forget about the first. Which is problematic when August comes and I realize my body clock isn't exactly ticking anymore.

Oh, and I apologize for making you look at the upper half of my head. Just be thankful you didn't get the whole thing. :)

Dresses? Pfft

2005-08-19T23:08:00.000-04:00

The other day I heard a story on This American Life about manliness called Goldstein on Goldstein (Act 2 from this show). It was an adorable piece, I thought, and after I heard it I started to think about the other side of the coin. What’s it mean to be feminine? What are the standards? What’s my story?

I’ve never been the type of girl to pride herself on the vastness of her makeup collection. I played with Barbies when I was little, but I secretly reveled in the sheer joy of defaming them more than actually playing with them. One of my brother’s favorite pastimes included deforming those perfect plastic bodies with magic markers and giving them army haircuts with child scissors, and I found myself secretly wanting to join him in the carnage. I liked getting dirty more than I liked getting prettied up in front of a mirror, and I showed off my bruises with the best of the boys on the street. I loved baseball, and I loved running, and I loved ruining my clothes and watching my bike crash catastrophe scrapes heal.

A lot of my time when I was younger was spent on my babysitter’s street because my parents are divorced and my mom works full time. Her street was much different than ours – there were a lot of kids living very close together in small houses with fenced in backyards. My first best friend was the boy who lived next door, Billy. There weren’t a lot of girls living on the street, and his sister Lisa pleaded with me almost daily each summer to play dress-up. Billy and I would be getting ready to ride our bikes on a track in the dirt field and she’d meet me at the door and invite me over to make cookies or try on her mom’s makeup. I always declined, happy to spend my summers with Billy playing truth or dare, climbing trees and racing our bikes.

Somewhere in the realm of middle school I realized that I wasn’t normal. I was a full on tomboy. I’ve never been thin and I often felt that showing any skin was just something that girls my size didn’t do. Consequently, I wore baggy t-shirts and I had the same hoodie for about 3 years. I vowed to never wear makeup – for shame, you ignorant heathens! – and while I had crushes on guys I knew I could never get close to any of them because no male in his right mind would want me. My friends were everything I would never be – beautiful, thin, stylish, and, ultimately, very attractive. I secretly loathed them for so effortlessly achieving what I perceived to be absolute perfection.

I’m still not the girly girl most women in my life probably occasionally wished I was, but I’m definitely more feminine than I used to be. I wear eyeliner and mascara sometimes, and I tend to wear girlier clothes (by girlier, I mean t-shirts to t-shirts that actually fit). However, I can proudly say, I no longer particularly care. I’ll never be a slim size 6, I’ll never have men at my feet, and I’m absolutely sure I’ll never see myself as perfect. But I’m me, and that’s good enough for now. Funny how I did more good for me as a crazy person than either of my therapists ever did.

P.S. a good book to read during those long, boring doctor’s office waiting room visits. Heh.

A year's difference

2005-08-17T21:05:00.000-04:00

In the first week of August last year, I was an Emergency case at the mental health branch of the county’s hospital. I had mentioned to my friend that I wanted to come out about my cutting and problems I’d been having with food before an appointment at the doctor’s office did it for me. I wasn’t sure how to go about it, but I knew that I couldn’t do it on my own. So she came over one day and we talked about it and she drove me there the first day.

I didn’t expect any big results – I thought I would talk to a social worker or psychologist and that they would give me tips on how to tell my family, or how to explain to my doctor that I didn’t want my family to know. I was aware of the fact that I was a minor and what that meant, but the thought of my family knowing about it was just way too much for my head to handle so I convinced myself nothing would come of it.

When I walked into the waiting room I felt like it was the end of the line, that I was going to be found out now no matter what. I felt really out of place, like everyone’s eyes were on me when I tapped on the sliding glass window and declared myself an ER case. Someone who would like to speak to a counselor immediately. The waiting room was filled with aquamarine colored plastic furniture, and wooden coffee tables sprayed with issues of the hospital’s newsletter. The walls were decorated with watercolor paintings that inpatients had made. When I sat down my stomach started to turn and my head felt like it was on the ceiling. The air seemed thick and my hands started to get sweaty and shake. I really thought I was going to pass out. The fact that I was in the middle of a fast probably didn’t help, I think I was on the sixth day with just water when we went there.

The psychologist that came out to get me, I later learned, was called Brian. He took me down the hall to his office and sat down at his desk and turned to face me. Our conversation was stunted at best because as soon as I sat down I started to cry so hard I couldn’t breathe, and everything I’d planned to say in the days prior just wouldn’t come out. I stuttered and tried to keep a calm face, but my hands were shaking in my lap and his eyes kept darting down to them and back up to my eyes.
He asked what I was using to cut myself and when I said razorblades he looked up from his paper and asked if I had ever had stitches. I said no, and then he asked to see my scars. I could feel my heart slapping my rib cage when I rolled up my sleeve and then my pants. He said he was shocked I’d never been to the hospital to have stitches, and I told him that most of them had been infected at one point or another but never really treated. I always felt like I deserved whatever infection I got, so I didn’t take care of them.

He told me that he had a legal obligation to tell my parents because of my age, and that "the severity of [my] injuries" meant he’d tell them if I was 18 anyway.

He gave me his calling card (which I still have, in my wallet) and told me to try to break the news to my mom that night. I was fearful of her reaction, and I predicted right: we got into a screaming match and she chased me upstairs into my room and cornered me. I was so exhausted that I collapsed sobbing in the corner and wailed out how sorry I was for everything. I didn’t sleep at all that night. When my friend came over that morning we played a hot-cold game for my razors in my room and when she found them we threw them out together. I’d never regretted doing something so much. In the middle of the night I found myself crying so hard I couldn’t see straight, slumped over the bathroom sink trying to crack open a disposable razor to get to the blades inside. I did more damage to my fingertips than anything and gave up after my hands were covered in blood.

The next morning I got in my car and drove back to the hospital. I didn’t get any sleep and got to the hospital around 7am. I went through the same routine and the secretary must have been horrified by the change in my disposition because I remember tapping on the window this time, my fingertips red and raw from the night before, and seeing her glare back at me. All I did was ask for Brian and sat down. This time, there were some people in the waiting room with me who I assumed were a family: a woman and two little boys. The first door in the hallway was next to the elevators and while I was waiting a man strolled out, his session with the psychologist having just finished. He seemed relatively happy, grinning and waltzing out into the waiting room, picking up one of the boys and hoisting him onto his shoulders. The woman asked him how it went and he said, "Great, I don’t have to come back until next month."

I immediately thought that maybe therapy wouldn’t be so bad; maybe I could be like that guy and seeing a psychologist would fix everything in its own way. While I was watching them leave a woman tapped me on the shoulder and shook my hand and told me that Brian was busy and that I’d have to talk to her today. We rode the elevator up to her office and I felt weirdly comfortable talking to her, she seemed very motherly and caring. I relayed everything to her and she was the first person to try to educate me. She was the first person who called me bulimic and the first person who categorized me as a self-injurer. The most comforting thing she said to me was when she handed me some tissues and said, “Look, Carey, it’s obvious to me that you’ve been alone in this for a long time and we’re here to help you. No one should have to feel this desperate and afraid. You don’t have to feel alone anymore.”

So I left that day with the plan to go back that night and bring my mom along so that Brian and I could tell her together. This waiting room visit was, by far, the worst. My head was spinning as soon as we sat down and my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. My mouth was dry and my stomach felt like it was on fire. After about 20 minutes Brian came out to meet us and took us back to his office. I don’t know how I walked back there and I don’t even remember parts of this. I remember that he asked me if I wanted to tell her or if I wanted him to, and I asked if he would. I don’t really remember him telling her, I just remember her gasp and when she said, "she’s been depressed since middle school."

Then he made me show her my scars. When I did it this time I apologized while I did it, thinking maybe that would make them go away. He told my mom that I should get a physical to check on my electrolyte levels (they were a little off, but generally okay) and the nerve damage of my scars (they hurt from time to time, but there’s really no fixing it). At the physical the doctor shrugged off my food problems as no big deal because I didn’t have scars on my knuckles from purging and my nails weren’t blotchy. From that moment on I sorta understood that most doctors wouldn’t take it seriously. They still don’t, really. I can understand my mom ignoring it, but every time I go to the doctor’s they read my file and scoff but never ask how it’s been going. Not that they should.

Those are 3 days that I’ll never let myself forget. I didn’t sleep at all, couldn’t think, and never stopped crying. But things are a lot better a year later, and it feels great to say that when I planned my suicide in my second to last month of therapy. Who would’ve thought I’d make it?

In case someone who was in my situation stumbles across this (I’m doubtful, but just in case), this is a good site on self injury, and this is a good eating disorders information site.

Mmm, beef jerky

2005-08-07T22:02:00.000-04:00

Last Friday I saw the BodyWorlds 2 exhibit at the Science Center in Cleveland for the 2nd time. The first time around it was a field trip (yay!) for my biology II class, but I liked going this time more. I had more time to really study everything and enjoy it. Plastination is an incredible thing - to have these full-bodied, exposed, artistically displayed specimens in front of you is really incredible. You realize these were once living, breathing people by little things. For me it was the fingernails and what hair was left on their heads, if they hadn't been completely dissected down to muscle or bone.

The individual organs are also particularly fascinating to me. The exhibit is organized by systems and you just wander from glass case to glass case or body to body. I've always had an interest in medical science in general, but the nervous system has always captured my interest the most. So, naturally, I went all giddy at the nervous system section of the exhibit. It really is incredible to see these real things laid out in front of you - a brain with the spinal cord and it's major nerves still attached. A child's brain sitting inside its skull. A brain that displays the results of a major stroke in the right hemisphere - dead, blackened cells that blot out the healthy pink color.

Another big part of this exhibit are the plastinated slices of human beings. These remind me of 3D MRI images, which is basically what they are. Several of these make detection of cancer or disease fairly easy. Tumors in the lungs show up as white blotches and pericardial tamponade shows up as a big, black, life threatening blanket surrounding the heart. In a liver with cirrhosis, the rich brown color is faded to a pale yellow which is caused by the sudden lack of blood flow to the area. One of my favorite slices was of a woman in her 5th month of pregnancy - baby in utero, clearly visible.

The full body specimens are really amazing. When I saw this exhibit the first time what really struck me is how it combines art with science. The full body plastinates let you see intricate nerve and muscle structure, precise location of organs, the different kinds of joints, and, depending on the level of dissection, even the individual hairs on the person's head or chin. My favorite full body plastinate is the Fragmented Body. In this one, the body is dissected in such a way that sections are drawn out (like drawers) or swung open (like doors). I like this one so much because it's so abstract and surreal. Most of the skin is still on this one, and he has facial features aside from one of the sections that extends on his face from the bridge of the nose down to the chin.

I kept walking in circles around it and wondering how long it took to complete this little project. His abdomen is dissected to expose viscera and the lining of the stomach is attached to the body wall on the slice that is swumg open and held by the man's hand. So you can see into the stomach and look at the folds in the lining. Even though it was the second time I'd seen this it's still just so amazing to think that these are real bodies. It really is a great educational tool.

It's interesting to see the people that go. I saw a lot of pregnant women and classes of med students on field trips. It's also pretty interesting to see how people react - one woman kept saying, "There's no way that's inside of me. There's no way." One man kept talking about how the muscles "look a lot like, y'know, beef jerky, or something", and a woman standing next to him replied, "well, we're not too far off."

I picked up a postcard to send away for more information on becoming a plastinate or donating my organs to plastination - not because I'm actually interested, but rather because I want to see what I'll get back. Do they give me a form right away, or just a nice brochure with a phone number? So that should be interesting. I think the exhibit is going to Toronto next, and it's in Cleveland until Sept. 18. If you get the chance, it's really worth the time and money.

Secret Agent Retiree

2005-07-22T01:16:00.000-04:00

Only because it’s been a while...

Since my Grandpa’s death I’ve been making daily visits to their house to do work or talk to my Grandma to help pass the time. In June I helped pick strawberries and in July we moved on to blueberries. Tomatoes are coming up and I nearly killed myself trimming the 50 year old maple tree in her front yard with my Mom. Almost all of her neighbors built their houses around 40 years ago and have stayed there for much of their adult lives. Because of this, being in a house on that street for longer than about an hour can feel a little bit like living in a fishbowl.

Perhaps it’s just my street, but we’re not that interested in each other’s business. Our interest in each other is piqued only if one of our pets starts to run through the other’s flowerbeds, and then we really only make an effort to yell at the pet as it’s owner is usually a few acres away and we’re either too lazy or just don’t care all that much. Then again, I suppose having a job and kids plays a big part in keeping you busy, and a lot of the people who have bought houses on this street in the past year have been younger couples. So, think country versus city as far as contact with neighbors is concerned.

Today, I left with my Grandma to go to one of her doctor’s appointments and when we came back the (about) 70 year old couple next door had a sewer repair van in their driveway. She stopped the car in the driveway and squinted through the driver’s side window to get a better look at the neighbor who was working with the repairman in his front yard. When she stopped the car in front of the garage, I pressed the garage door opener that was clipped to the visor above my head and watched as the garage door slowly lifted off the concrete until it was parallel to the ground. She wondered out loud what was going on next door, her breath clouding the window as she gazed into their yard. The car idled in front of the wide open garage door for a good minute before she lifted her foot off the brake and coasted into the garage.

The granddaughter of the same couple came over to visit last night while my Mom was there. After my Grandma got done telling me the reasons the (25ish year old, engaged) granddaughter had visited, she sighed and looked around as if to make sure no one had their ear pressed up against the siding outside. She leaned in my direction and whispered across the 6 foot wide living room complete with blaring TV and nearly soundproof paneling, “That girl has gotten so fat... and oh, Carey, her arms... she was wearing a sleeveless top!”

...The horror!

Over the summer I have learned to take a deep breath and stomach these comments. She also says the same thing about the female half of the same couple. I was rendered speechless when, after a visit from said neighbor, my 82 year old Grandmother cupped one hand over the right side of her mouth to hide her lips and whispered with wide eyes, “All she talks about is food! Did you see how huge she is?”

Every time I see her she puts the sweet little old lady persona to shame in a new and creative way. She looks the part without saying the lines, but – dare I say it - it does make for a more interesting afternoon. A patience testing, stomach twisting, nerve binding one... but an interesting one nonetheless. So hooray for retired neighbors spying on other retired neighbors... because of you, I always have something to reluctantly observe. So thanks. I think.

17

2005-07-12T12:46:00.000-04:00

Happy Belated Birthday to me. I know I look a little stressed out in the picture, but that was a pretty hectic day. Times are hard when you've just been removed from the womb and set on a hospital-blue blanket to have your debut photo taken. You understand, surely.

Postsecret/I'm crazy

2005-07-02T22:57:00.000-04:00

This got me thinking.

I've found out through reading forums and sites about self injury that most people who self injure have a hard time with "triggers" - things that make them want to hurt themselves. As one of them, I can't say I really have that problem. Sometimes if I scrape my knee or accidentally slice myself shaving, I get reminded of everything and it makes me realize how much I miss being able to cut myself to feel better. But the sight of blood (or stuff like that postcard) doesn't make me feel like I have that itch to scratch. I guess that's a good thing, but I wonder if it's supposed to get to me.

I think about this a lot. Probably more than I should. There are few people in this world who have seen my scars, but I have to see them everyday. And they are not pretty. They are red and raised. Some of them itch from time to time, and some of them feel like a bee sting for a week or so. I don't know why. I don't really like to look at them myself because I don't want to think about the fact that I did all that to my own body. And that's a good term, I think: "all that".

Last fall I was seeing my first therapist. It seemed like every day I had to go there it was cold and gray and rainy outside. The office is about 5 minutes from school so I'd leave early and drive very very slowly. I'd pull into the gravel parking lot behind the building and sit in my car trying to relax. For a while I had an album called Golden State by Bush in my car stereo and I would listen to a quiet, relaxing and kinda tragic song called Inflatable. I can remember walking into that office feeling very cold and wet from the rain and alone. There was no waiting room, just a hallway. So I'd stand outside the door for 5 minutes trying to make my stomach stop churning.

I could never get comfortable in that chair. And he never turned the lights on in the office. And I always got his questions wrong. I still blame myself for that, I'm sure it was just my glaring idiocy. During one of my last appointments I had worked up the guts to tell him in a very abstract way that I was considering suicide and the guy finished my sentence. When I tried to explain to him how my feet get heavy when I'm depressed and I feel as though I'm paralyzed, he said that it's a symptom of a severe depressive disorder (but he never elaborated, so I have no clue if anything is wrong with me). For whatever reason I tend to replay all of these little things in my head. Maybe it's my fault I flunked out of therapy and am left to self-help.

Regardless, I know that I at least have a very patient and understanding someone around to help me (someone who needs to get back from the Oasis concert in Manchester, AHEM). You have been sorely missed, sir. You dunno how much I appreciate your ability to put up with all of the above. Now that's talent!

Voila

2005-06-26T16:32:00.000-04:00

Before

After

95 degrees & sunny

2005-06-25T21:36:00.000-04:00

I figured that the beach would be really crowded today seeing as it was ridiculously hot, so I went with my camera and found out I was right.

Random

2005-06-19T15:56:00.000-04:00

It's been a few weeks since I got my hair cut off -- 16 inches gone byebye. I donated it to Locks of Love. It doesn't cover the back of my neck and I never thought I'd like short hair this much.

While my Grandpa was sick, there was a period in which he was using a walker to try to get back on his feet. A few days before he died, my Grandma moved the walker upstairs into a bedroom closet because we knew that if he didn't pass away he probably would never walk again (with the walker or otherwise). My babysitter (er, the one that used to babysit me) had knee surgery last year and needs the walker, so I'll be dropping it off tomorrow.

I haven't listened to This American Life in a long time, but this morning I listened to a show called Go Ask Your Father. For Father's Day.

I'm in love with Oasis again. I saw them in Detroit last night and it was the best concert I've ever been to. 7,000 euphoric/drunk people can't be wrong... I love that band.

I'm going to another Oasis concert in Cleveland on Sept. 30. I'm already giddy about it.

I've been tagged

2005-06-10T15:48:00.000-04:00

1) The total number of DVDs, videos and films I own:
20ish

2) The last film I bought:
Office Space DVD

3) The last film I watched:
I'm assuming this counts: Oasis' Definitely Maybe DVD.
Feature film was Clerks

4) My favourite five films of all time, ever:

* Adaptation

* American Splendor

* Spinal Tap

* Office Space

* The Big Lebowski - "He pissed on my fuckin' rug!"

* The Shining, just because

5) ~~Tag three people one personand have them blog this~~ Just kidding:
Since everyone seems to hate this I think I'll do what I can to put the last nail in the coffin. Bummer. :)

5 days, 50 classes, 40 hours

2005-05-31T19:16:00.000-04:00

This morning at 7.15AM, I was sitting cross-legged across from the doorway leading into one of the school’s bathrooms. With the door being held open by a kick, I sat with a friend and watched a classmate put on her makeup. Perched over one of the porcelain sinks, she leaned into the mirror and zipped open her Gucci handbag.

She rifled around for a second, pausing to check her cell phone. After flipping her phone shut and dropping it back into her purse, she took out a compact and dutifully coated her face and neck in a fine layer of powder. The particles were illuminated by the sunrise that was shining through a large glass block window behind her. She applied lip gloss, smacked her lips in the mirror and then put on mascara. Then, carefully, she lined her eyelids with eyeliner to match her newborn-baby-girl-pink outfit.

She is thin and tall, a bottle blonde of 17 or 18. Her black roots show and her hair is tied up in a bouncy ponytail that sits on the top of her head. Her cheekbones are high, her legs are long and her eyes are clear and sky blue. Her waist is tiny and her hips are only marginally larger. She wears a tiny t-shirt with capped off sleeves, and her upper arms are tan and thin. She wears clothes with ease, and her low-rider jeans annoy her when the too-big-size-4 slides off her hips in mid-stride and she has to hoist them back up onto her waist.

We’d longed for that problem since pre-school.

My friend turned to me and wistfully said, staring into the office lighting above us, “I wish I was skinny like that.”

I agreed. I, too, have wanted to be “skinny like that” for years – I’ve studied the bodies of girls my age and wondered what I’d have to do to look like them. To have my collar bone stick out and for my last ribs to be visible. We, a generation of normal suburban girls, have longed to wear a bikini without thinking twice.

“What do they eat? I mean, how are they so skinny? What do they do?”

“Maybe they don’t eat. Maybe they just...”

“I wish I was skinny like that. But I’m fat and I’m never going to be like them.”

I pause for a second to think. I think of all the skinny girls in the world that I’ve never listened to because I’m too busy critiquing myself in comparison to them. I think of all the mini-skirts, the handbags, the assorted shades of eye makeup, the way I felt getting weighed by my gym teacher in fourth grade. The first time I paced in front of a toilet and decided to make myself vomit. The first time food came back up when I didn’t even want it to. The first time I decided to fast.

“I hate it here.”

“Me too. I hate it here.”

The perils of being tough

2005-05-24T21:40:00.000-04:00

For as long as I can remember, I've never felt entirely comfortable in my own skin. In 2nd and 3rd grade one of my biggest concerns was how big my thighs appeared when I sat in the front passenger seat in my mom's car. I frequently asked her if my legs looked fat, or if she thought I was fat, or if I needed to go on a diet and exercise more. I'm not sure why. There's no reason for me to be so critical of myself - aside from a momentarily nasty divorce between my parents, my childhood was, for the most part, happy. And yet I've never quite been able to love the person I see in the mirror. Why is that?

In the aftermath of psychological therapy, I can't understand why it didn't help me. I wanted it to, I tried, but I just couldn't do it. I didn't know how I was supposed to act in front of a therapist, it wasn't a role I'd played before (therapy did teach me, ironically, that I tend to choose personalities to please people). Despite taking their suggestions and writing lame poetry, creating dark sketches and stories, and attempting to live my life with a new outlook, it didn't work. All I know is that I don't quite know where I belong or how to get over that feeling of being the smallest person in the room.

Sometimes I wonder if hiding emotions all of the time is really a testament to one's emotional resilience. I always grew up thinking that pity was the epitome of weakness. I didn't want to be weak, so I kept an index of events in my head and tried to let them out when I was alone. The last thing I could imagine myself doing was pouring my pathetic little heart out to a doctor in an office. And yet that's where hiding got me (or didn't get me, as I failed therapy).

Being emotional isn't fun, per se; it's not exactly an enjoyable experience to find yourself crying in bed each night without really knowing why. In short, it's hell. In my experience, being that alone is hell. So... no, it's not pity, it's a different kind of support. Hiding emotions doesn't equal strong. Often, it's the very embodiment of weakness - is it harder to keep quiet or to bare your soul to someone you're sure is bound to reject you?

Just something that's been in my brain.

Eat your pie

2005-05-20T23:38:00.000-04:00

I’m not dead yet, I just don’t have that much to say.

My life right now is divvied up between school and summer. I have something like three weeks left in the school year and next year I’m going to be taking a photography class at a local college, so I’m excited about that. As cliché as it is, I’m just sick of high school and prom dates and outfits and never really feeling comfortable with myself. I tend to skip between groups of friends as an outsider, which I don’t mind at all. It’s nice to be able to stay out of the stupid shit and just enjoy the people for who they really are. I posted some random pictures, too.

My Grandfather is still recovering from his original issues that came up this spring – bronchitis, then an ulcer, then overmedication, and now weakness. He’s staying in a rehab center at a nursing home (what my Mom has affectionately dubbed "the goin` home side"). For about three days, he was waiting for a bed in the rehab half and stayed in the nursing home side. The way that they treat residents versus patients is eerily evident. They never worked with him to get better until we told every nurse that he was just waiting for a bed in rehab.

Similar to the hospital, the nursing home is full of people I’ve now indexed in my brain. These people seem to live with much less hope of recovery, whether they’re aware of it or not. For the few days that he was in the nursing home half, my Mom & I would take him in his wheelchair to a different room to try to encourage him to eat his dinner. This means navigating a crowded hallway of wheelchairs and sick people. A few days in there was about all I could take. In passing the dining room one night I heard a woman screech out her protest to a fellow resident: "Why aren’t you eating your pie? Eat your pie! Everyone else did! Eat your pie!"

Another woman wandered the hallways in her wheelchair cradling a doll in a pink dress. Another sharply turned to stare at me and tell me that she was “going to bawl out Margie for her drinking.” A man who sat in his wheelchair in the doorway of his room asked me if I had a match. A woman asked me if she could go home yet. After being around the residents, I had faith in my Grandpa getting his health back. After a week of twice daily physical therapy he is doing better than I’ve seen him in at least a month. He hates the place, of course; we all do.

I am particularly perturbed at the way families react and adjust to a loved one being in a nursing home. To me, it’s just a slow form of death. Most of these people can’t feed themselves or use the bathroom or bathe. They can’t walk, many are not of sound mind, and I can’t help but wonder if they feel at home. I know that the Alzheimer’s patients probably have no idea where they are or what their situation is. But what about the person whose left side was paralyzed by a stroke? They understand what’s going on, they just have trouble getting around. And they’re not a part of "the goin` home side."

Their hospital beds are covered by blankets from home. Cards from grandkids are pinned up above the head of the bed. Every once in a while, they’ll get flowers. The evening news is on the television, and the phone never rings. Their three meals come in plastic containers and everything is individually wrapped. They’re going to share a room with a stranger until the day that they die in that hospital bed. I can’t imagine anything more lonely for someone who is mentally healthy but held back by a physical handicap.

When we are in the parking lot and going back to the car, my Mom tells me to promise that I’ll never let her be in a nursing home – "give me antifreeze in Kool-Aid, shoot me, I don’t care. It’ll be in my living will... but don’t let me be in one of these places."

I hope I die before I am sick enough for it to be an option.

Hospital metaphors

2005-05-10T21:48:00.000-04:00

Only 3 and a half weeks until school's out. I'm getting antsy for summer. I'm not a fan of the heat but I'm a huge fan of not being in that building for 3 months. Just the thought is attractive. My scars leave me in long sleeves which is no fun in an overcrowded building with no air conditioning. I'd rather be at home, up at night and sleeping during the day. And living at the beach.

I haven't had the opportunity to take many pictures lately. My Grandpa is back in the hospital so I have been making trips there and back. He is on a different floor this time, one that I've never seen. It looks newer and more organized, and it doesn't have that hospital food and warm blankets smell like the Intensive Care Unit. This time, he is weak and was dehydrated upon admittance. It's a difficult task to decide which is more important: his life or his quality of life. Resuscitate or not? Biopsy or not? New medicine or not? Live or die. Make it through the night. We still need him around.

I have always thought of death as a final goodbye - the last breath exhaled, the last blink, the last squeeze of a hand at the bedside. Being in the hospital feels like all of these moments for every person of failing health in the building. I think of all of the families whose hearts are breaking while they stand by and watch their loved ones drift into a deep sleep. I think of the morgue, and all of the nametags that used to represent living and breathing people, with life stories that weave unique characters. Who are these people? They're mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers... veterans... some are retired doctors that sympathize with those treating them. I wonder if the situation seems easier for those who have had to tell families bad news themselves.

All of the dripping IVs, the uneaten cafeteria food that gets cold because the patient is refusing to eat. They want to die, and they have a living will that prevents the insertion of a feeding tube. Do not resuscitate. They're wasting away and they have no concept of time, no reality of night and day. Just a hospital bed, the wheeze of the oxygen in their mask and the whoosh of the nurse running into the room and back out into the hallway. I think of the person laying in the OR with their chest cavity ripped open getting heart surgery. I think of the pediatrics unit and all of the kids who've already been through hell. I think of the rehab floor and the exercise sheets and the fish in the fishtank in the lobby. The television and magazine rack in the Emergency Room.

All of these things seem to carry a weight that is unique to this building. To me, anyway. In this building, life begins and ends at the same moment. A new mom gives birth and a child loses it's mother 2 floors overhead. Lungs are inflated by a nurse, and a breathing tube is removed by another. It whittles life down to 4 floors and an elevator between them.

But maybe I just need some sleep.

P.S...

2005-04-25T20:15:00.000-04:00

I've been posting pictures on the other blog without telling. Now I'm telling. :)

I mentioned Matthew Good earlier. Now, Iron and Wine.

Random

2005-04-25T10:44:00.000-04:00

In the midst of my college search I've been to Edinboro in Pennsylvania twice. Tuition rates are so ungodly in Ohio for small, liberal arts schools (35K+) and at Edinboro Ohio students pay about $15,000/year. I really like this one. It's a nice campus in a nice town, it's affordable, and they offer classes I'd want to take in my last years there. And it isn't in Ohio.

When my Dad and I drove there we stopped at a gas station/truck stop and this was next door. I thought it was cute, and that was a really beautiful day. Now it's snowing again, and that's why I'm home - the snow gave nearly everybody in NE Ohio a day off today (rejoice). Snow days are the only days I'm happy to be awake at 5.45am.

There's a little album called Avalanche by Matthew Good, and it'd really be worth your $10 to buy it. I promise.

I'm going to two Oasis concerts this summer and next fall - Detroit and Cleveland. I also might see Muse in May. I still have to get a job.

I'll never miss therapy. Never.

My Story

2005-04-12T21:11:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I updated the links column just because I felt like it. I decided to add a link to a self injury support site because, as one would assume, that's a big part of my life (one that probably needs explaining). When I had written about my mental health previously I didn't want to get into the whole stigma as to why I was seeing a psychologist, because it's just a big, nasty part of my life that I don't even like thinking about. I especially feel loathesome when I have to tell other people about it, and even moreso when that person is a doctor or someone who's getting paid to hear my little schpeel about why my family is paying them.

Anyway... as the link I posted explains, self injury is the deliberate act of hurting oneself. Not tattoos, not piercings, but deliberately breaking skin or bruising the skin or burning the skin or worse in an effort to hurt oneself. My personal involvement with self injury starts way back when I was 11, stuck in Middle School and hating every waking second of it. At that point in my life, I wasn't behaving like myself; my personality had changed and I became an extremely depressed individual who spent hours in one room staring at the wall and becoming more depressed. As a child, everyone knew me as an energetic personality, cracking jokes, giggling; someone forever interested in being involved in new sports or making new friends. When I hit Middle School I morphed into someone I didn't even think was in me.

One afternoon, I had come home from school after being made fun of for a laugh and, as per usual, camped out in my room for the rest of the evening. I had been crying in the car and when I got home, I darted up to my room and slouched down in the corner. My eye caught the pocketknife lying under my bed, and I reached for it, and felt my finger slide along the dull blade. I grasped it, studied it with teary eyes in the gray light of a rainy day, and ran the blade across my hand. Nothing. I did it again. Still nothing. I did it over and over again until I saw blood seep through to the surface, and then I took a deep breath. Easy.

In retrospect, that first time was about feeling alive - feeling like I still had blood pulsing through my veins. For me, it's also always been about giving myself what I feel I deserve. In eighth grade, I would write awkward, dark lines of poetry on the back of my math homework and I'd get called down to the Guidance Counselor's office. They'd ask me if anything was wrong, and I'd say no, and they'd send me back to class. How do you open up to some lady in an office who you know has the ability to make your life more of a living hell than it already seemed to be?

All through Middle School, I was obsessed with suicide. By the time eighth grade came I had slashed my wrists with my pocketknife, I had run it down the length of my arm in a feeble attempt to see blood and feel like I still existed. I cursed every day I woke up and prayed every night that I'd die in my sleep. I told my friends that I was going to do it; I was going to go home and overdose and they'd never hear from me again. I told them what I wanted them to have after my death. I had dreams about throwing myself off of a highrise and into the bustling street below. And nobody paid any attention. At this point I would go home to my pocketknife everyday, and on weekends I would sometimes break skin 3 or 4 times a day. And nobody knew.

As soon as I got out of Middle School I felt better each day I knew I'd never have to go back. I still continued to cut myself almost every day, although it tapered out to only a few times a week shortly after. I had started to break open disposable razors in a frantic effort to reach the razorblades inside. In the middle of my work I'd realize that my fingertips were covered in blood and cut open from my effort to break the razor's frame.

After a bad week, I couldn't control myself and I'd put gashes in my arm that made the muscles sore. I graduated to straight edged razors and, as the head doctors have told me, I should have had stitches several times. I would often not realize how much I was bleeding, and if I had done it in the bath I'd look done and notice that the water had turned pink. If I stood up too fast after slicing my calf, my thigh muscle would go weak and I'd have to sit down until my circulation improved. Last summer I opened up to a friend about it, and she took me to a Mental Health Facility to get some help. I was an ER case for three days, and a psychiatrist there helped me come out to my family about it - not something I can accurately portray via the English language. One of the hardest things I've ever had to do.

To make a long story short, that landed me in the offices of two psychologists long term. The first guy made me feel small, the second lady made me feel worse. While I was in therapy I still cut myself just as often as I had without it. Now I don't feel the need to so much anymore, and I haven't in about 3 weeks. I quit therapy about a month ago after giving up on it, and now I kind of fight this monster on my own each day.

So that is my personal connection to self injury. As a result of this behavior, I have an arm and a leg that are both wrapped in a maze of scar tissue, and I can't wear short sleeves or shorts out in public unless I want to be stared at. After I came out about it, I was ordered to see the family doctor and get a physical to check on my electrolyte levels and overall health (I've also been dealing with an eating disorder, which is an entirely different story). The nurses at the doctor's office would read my chart, look at me, look back at the chart and scoff at me. They'd walk into the room being friendly and then treat me like a sideshow freak - so there is definitely (and understandably) a stigma.

How's that for explaining a link?

Back in the hospital

2005-04-06T19:12:00.000-04:00

On Sunday afternoon my Grandfather was taken to the ER. He has had problems with his breathing (short of breath, dizzy, can't take a deep breath) for maybe six months. It was tolerable most of the time but it has been getting worse and he couldn't get comfortable. We took him into the ER at around noon, and I didn't get home until 8 that night.

They have been giving him medication to help clear up his lungs and help him breathe better. The medication comes in the form of a breathing treatment, like Albuterol for people with asthma. The stuff would make him nauseous but he said it was okay otherwise. My Mom went to visit him on her lunch hour today and his behavior had changed - he was more hyper than she had ever seen him and he was hallucinating. The hyperactivity is probably due to the steroid in the medication but the hallucinating is a new thing, and he is in the hospital practically every year.

I visited him tonight with my Mom and she said that he was a lot better. This afternoon he was telling my Mom that when his breakfast came this morning he couldn't eat it because there were 15 people outside his window waiting for him to get his shoes on and leave. He also kept making comments about people that used to live on the street 50 years ago, and everything he said was about things or people that weren't really there. Tonight he made a few comments about a golfing buddy Will - he pointed over his shoulder to the corner and said, "he's been sleeping here all day, I wish he'd wake up." Although my Mom said that he was a million times better tonight.

He had a pick line in his arm that he ripped out last night, and a nurse had bandaged his arm where they drew blood for a test earlier in the day. He takes a blood thinner, and they bandaged a cotton ball to the inside of his elbow and he yanked it off and bled onto the sheets. He also has a heart monitor on and decided to take the sensors off of his chest and get up and walk around the room even though he isn't stable. He tried to get out of bed a few times tonight but he seems sleepier and more like himself.

So just about every night I've been at the hospital. I enjoy being there because medicine has always interested me, it's just not fun when someone you know is a patient.

RIP

2005-04-02T15:49:00.000-05:00

Mitch Hedberg died last week. He was one of the funniest comedians I've ever heard next to George Carlin and Lewis Black. It's a shame. He was just 37, and died of a heart attack in a hotel room. There have been rumors that it was an overdose.

"One time a guy handed me a picture of himself, and he said, "Here's a picture of me when I was younger." Every picture of you is of when you were younger. Here's a picture of me when I am older. You son of a bitch, how'd you pull that off? Let me see that camera..."

"My lucky number is 4 billion. That doesn't come in real handy when you're gambling. 'Come on, 4 billion! Fuck. Seven. Not even close. I need more dice.'"

"A severed foot is the ultimate stocking stuffer."

"My apartment is infested with koala bears. It was the cutest infestation ever. When I turn on the light, they scatter, but I do not want them to. Don't run away. I want to hold you ... and feed you a leaf."

"In England, Smokey the Bear is not the forest fire prevention representative. They have Smacky the Frog. It's just like a bear, but it's a frog. I think it's a better system, I think we should adopt it. Because bears can be mean, but frogs are always cool. Never has there been a frog hopping toward me, and I thought 'man, I'd better play dead. Here comes that frog...' You never say here comes that frog in a nervous manner. It's always optimistic. Hey here comes that frog, all right. Maybe he'll come near me so I can pet him, and stick him in a mayonnaise jar, with a stick and a leaf, to recreate what he's used to."

Spring means fertilizer

2005-03-29T19:39:00.000-05:00

All day today I did yardwork for my grandparents - mainly my Grandpa. He's 92, and a young 92 at that, golfing in the summer, gardening and starting every day with a workout. For a few weeks he has been feeling sick, and he's very enthusiastic about getting yardwork done in the Spring. So I got hired, which is always fun.

Today's big project for me was to get their lawn fertilized. They have a pretty big yard - probably a few acres - and my job was to walk the whole thing with the spreader and get done by noon. Which sounds easy until I got the 15 minute instructional lesson from the guy who's been doing this job on the same lot for around 50 years.

"You put the bucket here, and then you walk while holding the lever down. You have to aim for the other bucket so it's even. Then when you come back, circle the bucket and THEN move it over. Okay?"

Last week when he told me I'd be doing this I told him that as long as I wasn't drunk I should be alright, seeing as all the job really entails is walking in a straight line. It becomes clear pretty soon that if you don't do what he wants he just won't be satisfied, so after I got used to his routine he would come outside in 20 minute intervals to tell me that I was doing a good job.

When I was a kid, I used to weave in and out of trees in their backyard during games of hide and go seek. I'd play tag with my brother and climb trees and play house under their branches with the neighbor kid. All of those trees have since been cut down, though, because as my grandparents have aged the work got to be too much. So now their yard is a large, flat, open space that provides views into the backyards of the neighbors that live a street over. I soon found out that all of these neighbors were watching me today when the next door neighbor leaned over their fence to talk to my Grandma.

"I saw her fertilizing and it just reminds me that we've got to do that soon. John just went out to buy some."
"Oh, yeah... well, Joe just gets so antsy about this yardwork because he can't be outside with his health."

I just hate to see my Grandpa be deprived of working outside. He grew up on a farm in a family of 11 siblings and work seems to keep him going. When he was in the hospital last summer, he gave us instructions on how to mow his lawn from his hospital bed with tubing running through his veins. And now he's confined to the house, forced to watch other people do the things he loves and we nearly hate.

So that is what I did today - yardwork. My country side of the family would be proud. I think.

He failed

2005-03-16T19:14:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I had the pleasure of listening to a Holocaust survivor's story. I have heard survivors give speeches before, and I've always tried to go if there was someone coming to the school. This woman lost both of her brothers and her father to the Nazis, spent years in Auschwitz and a total of 5 and a half years in and out of labor camps. When she talked about her older brother dying, her voice started to shake and in a room of probably 500 high schoolers you could have heard a pin drop. One of her stories struck me as especially horrible - upon entering Auschwitz two girls that were in her bunk of 12 people befriended her. After months of being in Auschwitz and watching their friends and family die of typhoid, hypothermia and malnourishment her two friends decided to commit suicide by jumping into the electric fence. Her younger brother was killed after the first round up because he was too young to work, and when he was told to step to the "side of death", her father ran after him and was shot at point blank range. Her older brother later died of malnourishment.

Seeing these people talk is always moving, and I think it's too surreal for my generation to understand the gravity of what happened to Holocaust survivors. I know I can't begin to comprehend it, but seeing them speak about their experiences is always powerful to say the least. She said that a question she is always asked is what she would say to Hitler if she had the chance. She took a moment to think and said, "Well, look at me, I survived, I'm a survivor. I'd tell him he failed."

Quote of the day

2005-03-10T19:07:00.000-05:00

"Suddenly, there is no fear, because there is no body for sharks to bite, there are no more outlines, there’s no ‘me.’ It’s just the great, body-temperature-warm Indian Ocean, and I’m sleeping like a kid again, back in Jerusalem, Rhode Island, the entire bed rocking, sand in the bottom of the bed, wrapped in the arms of the sea — fantastic sleep."

-- Spalding Gray in Swimming to Cambodia

Pulse check

2005-03-02T17:47:00.000-05:00

Which looks better...

A:

or B:

I really miss summer. There was a snowstorm here last night, so today I had another snow day - one of the only things I like about winter this late in the season. I'm looking forward to being able to feel my fingers and be outside at the same time. I miss walking on the beach and harassing seagulls...

Next year I am probably going to wind up taking a few night classes as well as my regular high school day schedule. It would help me get a head start on college, and (I assume) help me pick out a major. I think I would take a photography class and a journalism class and see how that goes. I should know what I'm doing in that regard within a few weeks.

So for the one or two people who read this, I am still breathing, just busy and waiting for warm weather to come back. Like most of Northeastern Ohio.

P.S.: 3 more.

The problem's up here

2005-02-15T20:27:00.000-05:00

In recent weeks, much of my time has been spent in a doctor's office and most of my thoughts and free time have been devoted to trying to be okay with that. I never thought I would land myself in the office of a psychologist, much less this regularly. Once a week, my Mom and I drive to this office and sit for a few minutes in the tiny waiting room that's decorated with Renoir prints and mental health magazine clippings. There's no clock, and once I sit down I get really nervous - what am I supposed to say, why am I here? What got me here? Am I this bad?

Her room has two chairs, and I sit in a worn out, padded rocking chair across from her while the doctor takes notes and pushes me to open up. Sometimes my voice gets shaky and when it does, I hold back and take a few deep breaths and look at my feet. This is shame like I never thought I would ever have to feel. I get assignments - symptom substitution, she says - and I always fail. But I'm too afraid to tell her, because she once told me that if I didn't get better soon I'd have to take part in an Intensive Outpatient Care Program. No thanks, so on with my chirade.

So much of my life lately has been consumed by this little world of insurance payments and waiting rooms and awkward stares in a psychologist's office. It's bizarre. After these visits I get all wound up and upset, and for the first time ever my Mom has come to talk to me while I'm in freak out mode. She tells me about my family - my Dad, mainly - and how he treated her. And the divorce, and how she felt in school, and what she did to feel better. By court order I see my Dad every other weekend and on Tuesday night, just an hour or so in his car, and then back home. I hate every minute of it because all he talks about is his (step)-grandkids, and his step-kids, and his wife and her family and everything that happens without me around. Since I started with therapy he has also been telling me about the psychotherapy he experienced after his two nervous breakdowns, which more or less suffocated whatever love existed between my parents.

After his second breakdown, he got out of the hospital and told my Mom that he no longer wanted to be married. She was 8 months pregnant with me at the time, and when I was 3 or 4 they finalized the divorce. He got married when I was 11, and now I'm 16. And I don't know the guy because he's so hopped up on Prozac and some talk therapy bullshit that he can't feel. My big goal for the immediate future is to tell him how I feel. I told him over the phone this afternoon that I wouldn't be able to make our Tuesday night court-forced date, and after he said that it was OK he turned around and called my Mom's work number to interrogate her about it.

So she told him how I feel - I hate hearing about his new family, his lack of mental stability, and how life is peachy in his world. I don't want to see him again, but he won't put up with it because I guess he feels like a deadbeat dad if he doesn't get that hour of awkward silence per week in the car. And I no longer want to go to these useless therapy dates, because they make me feel worse.

So that is my life right now. I am a little busy, but life could be worse.

Retiree's suicide plan had political message

2005-01-30T01:02:00.000-05:00

Marcel Tremblay, a 78-year-old retired businessman who suffered from an incurable lung condition, planned to commit suicide last night in a highly publicized case that aimed to draw attention to Canada's law on assisted suicide.

Mr. Tremblay ate a last supper of filet mignon and attended a living wake with 50 friends and family members before returning to his home in suburban Kanata, Ont., where he intended to slip his head inside a helium-filled bag.

It was the culmination of a three-month plan for Mr. Tremblay that in its last days became a source of public debate.

He began by dividing his estate, giving away his money and possessions as Christmas presents, and even told Revenue Canada that he didn't plan to pay any taxes this year.

"I couldn't back out if I wanted to," he said yesterday morning. "And I don't want to. I've had enough. I've got nothing to look forward to. I've lived long enough. I'm 78. I'm an old man."

In a series of interviews yesterday, Mr. Tremblay, who suffered from idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis, said he hoped going public with his decision would reignite a debate around Canada's assisted-suicide laws.

Read More

Psychology 101

2005-01-22T01:06:00.000-05:00

It's been a while, eh? Here's a blurb from my life:

I mentioned having a shrink before. The guy I saw for nearly six months had a tendancy to seem arrogant and creepy all at the same time. His office is empty and everything echoes - more like a shell of an office rather than an office - and there's a little bronze owl that sits on his desk. Throughout the appointments I sit in a brown leather chair opposite him and focus on this owl, or jolt my focus out the window at the passing traffic. I'd voluntarily walked into this building and suddenly felt like I'd give anything to be in one of those cars speeding away. For every hour I spent in that room I spent a day wondering what the hell I had gotten myself into, and why I felt like such an asshole for doing it.

He is what I percieve to be an artsy type, and frequently tells me about exhibits at the Art Museum, or poetry he has written, or a book he is reading, or a book he'd like me to read. I guess I must have looked a little washed up and glazed over sitting there, because he once popped his head into my line of vision and inquisitively asked, "Is anything wrong, in particular?"

My head says, yes, there's something very wrong - I'm here. My mouth says no, not really.

I keep the calling cards for my appointments paperclipped to the bottom of my calendar. I dread these appointments with every single fiber of my being; they make me feel extremely stressed and, to deal with it, put me in a zombie state of emotional neutrality. I spend the first half of the day worrying about the appointment and the last half blocking out any hurt I may be feeling about the whole ordeal. During the appointments, I lie in an effort to get out of the room quicker. I get sick of putting up with his snooty comments that make me feel inferior and idiotic in comparison. I couldn't even manage to explain how I felt correctly and my visits started to feel like a quiz I'd forgotten to study for.

"And when that happened, how did you feel?"
"Upset. It upset me."
"And?"
"I don't know."
"Come on."
"I don't know."
"You felt rejected, Carey! You felt rejected!"
"Okay."

I am convinced that I spent more than 75% of my time with him muttering, "I don't know" and feeling hopeless in his shadow. The last time I saw him, he cheerily informed me that I was "speaking like a seasoned psychotherapy client." Also during that last visit, he set out some teddy bears and told me that since he hadn't seen any of his clients over Christmas, the teddy bears were a late Christmas gift. I had to pick one. I picked one and tossed it over my shoulder halfway to my car thinking, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

So I got a new one, and I've only spoken to her once. Hopefully it goes a bit better. Ho Hum.

By the way, I posted new pictures.

Look Ma, No Weapons

2005-01-14T20:53:00.000-05:00

"The people of the United States and our friends and allies will not live at the mercy of an outlaw regime that threatens the peace with weapons of mass murder."

President Bush, 3/19/03

This week, the Bush Administration admitted that our campaign to find the infamous and rather elusive WMDs was a complete failure.

Nearly 3,000 dead Americans.

1,521 dead soldiers.

Between 15339 and 17556 dead Iraqis.

The wrong guy's in jail.

The right guy got away.

The world hates us. Except Poland, of course. Don't forget Poland.

Thanks, George.

Four more

2005-01-09T16:25:00.000-05:00

I took some pictures today in Chagrin Falls. Bush visited an ice cream shop in the center of town during his campaign around NE Ohio. Chagrin Falls is part of Cuyahoga County, which voted blue in the 2004 election.

D'oh.

the buckeye

2005-01-05T18:46:00.000-05:00

Have a looksee

Picture blog

2005-01-01T15:19:00.000-05:00

From now on I'll post my pictures here to try to keep things organized. So you know.

Happy Hangover Day.

:)

One more trio

2004-12-31T01:51:00.000-05:00

The beachy one is from August, cropped to look spiffier.

Minor surgery #2

2004-12-21T05:47:00.000-05:00

I had my wisdom teeth out yesterday morning. Two years ago I had my tonsils and adenoids removed, but this is turning out to be a million times easier. At 7.30 in the morning I took the "pre-medication" -- woozy pill -- 10 mg of Vicodin. At the office I had nitrous oxide and then an IV. I have prescriptions for an antibiotic and a pain killer, but nothing really hurts that bad. Only two of the four are stitched and they're dissolvable stitches. When I woke up from the IV, my hands were blue and the first thing I remember is the nurse on my right grabbing my hand and putting it on her stomach and rubbing it saying, "Uh, Doctor, her hands are blue. Why are her hands blue?"

Ahem.

Then I was awake. I have been eating jello since yesterday and I have to sleep sitting up to prevent blood from draining into my stomach. I used up a lot of gauze but they stopped bleeding last night. This looks like it will take 3 or 4 days to be relatively back to normal and with my tonsils I didn't eat for 10 days.

Wisdom teeth? Pfft.

Snow Day

2004-12-14T10:12:00.000-05:00

I'm not dead

2004-12-11T22:02:00.000-05:00

a first grade craft, some ten years later

I have been busy. Things around here are starting to look very Christmasy. It snowed today - only an inch - although we are usually nearly snowed in by now. My Mom has hauled the boxes of decorations up from the basement and our house is coated in a fine layer of Santa, reindeer and bells. My brother will be coming back for Christmas. The first day of winter break, I'll be hopped up on gas and an IV in a dentist's office getting my wisdom teeth out. Everybody's baking. My toes are cold. I have way too much homework I should be doing, but I'm not.

My car needed to get fixed towards the middle of last week, and I have been trying to keep up with school. I went to a party. I don't have to see any brain doctor of any kind until January. Thank. God.

I read Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five for the first time and loved it. I mean, loved. Like I love Bukowski. I saw a good movie. I re-watched another one. I met a friend outside of a local restaurant at 12.30 in the morning and watched drunk people stumble in to sober up. I walked around Coventry. Time for another break.

Still counting

2004-12-03T17:05:00.000-05:00

This was in the local paper today:

Americana

2004-11-27T10:58:00.000-05:00

2004-11-26T20:56:00.000-05:00

Cowboy is King by Matt Good

This is disgusting

This is a good read

2004-11-21T16:54:00.000-05:00

I heard a song called Bullet and A Target on the radio a few days ago and now I'm nearly obsessed with the artist - Citizen Cope aka Clarence Greenwood. Can't... stop... listening. Streaming audio's here.

Some pictures:

And some more crayons...

2004-11-17T18:21:00.000-05:00

Worth mentioning:

My grandparents have these neighbors/friends that are hilarious in the best of ways - two people who spend their days spying on the neighbors and reporting their findings to my Grandma. I wrote a little story on here about them this past summer, a story about delivering vegetables. They're not the biggest fans of Pres. Bush, and their grandson, who is in the FBI, shook hands with Bush yesterday. When the grandson called to tell them, they asked if he still had all of his fingers...

2004-11-14T22:26:00.000-05:00

One thing that I don't feel stupid mentioning about my personal life here is the fact that I have a shrink. It's a weird situation and one that isn't avoidable. I hate having to sit in a leather and mahogany wood office and talk to some PhD for an hour in order to feel better. One of my main concerns is that because of the fact that I'm underage, anything I tell him that he deems "life-threatening" or "dangerous", he has to tell my Mom. I have asked him several times about this and he assures me that everything I tell him will remain confidential. Aside from the "dangerous" stuff. The result? I stare out the window and try not to elaborate very much.

D'oh.

He asked me to write poems (urgh) as a form of therapy. The really good (urgh) part is that he has to read them. My aim was to do this over the weekend and get it over with, but I have been dreading it since he brought it up and tonight I sat down to try to write poems. I put on a Stereophonics album and I fell in love all over again with the last song, Rooftop.

Rooftop

Standing on a rooftop
Trying to clear my mind
I only came up to look
But now there's such a crowd

I don't feel that bad
Can't help but laugh
And they cry out
They say jump and I say how high?

I feel my body blowing
From every side to side
My mind can't help but knowing...
What it feels like to fly

I don't feel that bad
Can't help but laugh
But they cry out
They say jump and I say how high?
They say jump and I say I might

And they cry out
And they cry out

Say jump and I say I might
Say jump and I say I'll try
Say jump and I say I'll say goodbye
Say jump and I say how high

High, High, Fly, Fly

I'm just standing on the edge of
Something I should try to hide from
I don't know much but I know something
I need to try and find me a way
Try I always come out fighting
I don't feel I should deny me
Can't help knowing what is down there
Feels like I should fly now for them

I'm fascinated, mis-educated, It's reincarnation
Of my imagination
I'm far away, from here today
It's where I'll stay if I get my way
It's lying awake, that makes me sane
But it makes me sick but I can't change again

I need to give him this song instead of some half-assed poetry; some of the crap I am capable of creating. Hmph.

2004-11-13T09:53:00.000-05:00

From The New York Times:

Pentagon Envisioning a Costly Internet for War

Robert J. Stevens, chief executive of the Lockheed Martin Corporation, the nation's biggest military contractor, said he envisioned a "highly secure Internet in which military and intelligence activities are fused," shaping 21st-century warfare in the way that nuclear weapons shaped the cold war.

Every member of the military would have "a picture of the battle space, a God's-eye view," he said. "And that's real power."

2004-11-06T23:34:00.000-05:00

FYI: An NPR journalist recently covered a really interesting story about a group of students performing autopsies as part of their class. Here's a link to the story.

2004-11-03T19:00:00.000-05:00

Last night I stayed up until 12.30 to watch the election progress. When I fell asleep, John Kerry had Pennsylvania, it looked like Florida was going to Bush and Ohio was undecided but looking red. That didn't surprise me. When I woke up this morning at 4 I turned on the TV to see that the situation was relatively the same. When I got home today, I found out that Bush had been declared the winner. Ranting about it would be a waste of energy - you can imagine how I feel but others have spoken for me.

I read an editorial on the New York Times website this afternoon entitled Waiting for a President. It read my mind in a lot of ways. You might have to register to read it, but if you don't want to, here's a good excerpt:

If he is going to succeed at achieving anything of substance, the next president will have to help the nation reach some new place where elected officials expect that rewards can be won from cooperation and mutual respect. Right now, we are in the peculiar position of suffering political paralysis, despite the fact that there is a clear consensus on most questions of policy.

Any pollster, and any reasonable politician, can tell you what most Americans want, particularly when it comes to a domestic agenda. Pick the moderate position on almost any issue - Social Security, gay rights, taxes - and you will find the public right behind you. But lawmakers can't lead themselves into a bipartisan consensus. Only a president can create a new mood, and he can do it only by sacrificing his own short-term political advantage on occasion for the common good.

The next chief executive will also have to reckon with the failure of both parties this year to prepare the American people for bad news or common sacrifice. For all their disagreements about the war, both George Bush and John Kerry assured the public that Iraq can be stabilized and moved toward a semblance of democratic government, and that American troops will stay until that happens. That job will be tougher, bloodier and more expensive than either candidate has been willing to admit.

Life goes on.

2004-10-25T19:16:00.000-04:00

Last night I saw Michael Moore at Kent State University. It was a good show for only $15. When we were driving there, we noticed people starting to gather on street corners to protest the war, and when we were walking into the auditorium there was a small group of people protesting Moore. Roseanne Barr and Marine Abdul Henderson also spoke - Tom Morello gave a short speech and played a few songs.

There were three or four Republicans from the college that walked out 10 or 15 minutes into the speech, holding up a Bush Cheney sign and getting booed. Then, another 10 or 15 minutes later, 2 guys with Nader Camejo signs started walking towards the stage and aruging with Moore about Nader's influence on the election. They, too, eventually walked out. The whole thing was really inspiring. It was a good night.

2004-10-19T20:16:00.000-04:00

Jon Stewart was on Crossfire on the 15th - a debate show hosted by conservative (bow tie wearing) host who tends to be a teency bit caustic. Stewart gave the host and other guests another outlook on things by calling the show theatre and co-host Paul Begala a dick. They kept accusing Stewart of asking Senator Kerry "easy" questions and Stewart was quick to mention that his show is on Comedy Central, which isn't exactly cable television's answer to journalism. This is from the CNN transcript:

STEWART: But the thing is that this -- you're doing theater, when you should be doing debate, which would be great.
BEGALA: We do, do...
[...]
STEWART: It's not honest. What you do is not honest. What you do is partisan hackery. And I will tell you why I know it.
CARLSON: You had John Kerry on your show and you sniff his throne and you're accusing us of partisan hackery?
STEWART: Absolutely.
CARLSON: You've got to be kidding me. He comes on and you...
[...]
STEWART: You're on CNN. The show that leads into me is puppets making crank phone calls.
(LAUGHTER)
STEWART: What is wrong with you?

2004-10-18T18:42:00.000-04:00

Traffic light in the basement

Merry Autumn

Weeeee

2004-10-15T20:24:00.000-04:00

Ok, I'm back. And Bill O'Reilly, Mr. Fair and Balanced, Mr. No Spin Zone, has been caught in a sexual harassment case. It seems that Mr. Upstanding Citizen doesn't seem to have much concern for women (or other people, as far as I'm concerned). An excerpt from a Washington Post article reads:

Mackris alleged in the suit that when she told O'Reilly in April that he had engaged in similar conduct with other staffers and should be careful, he replied: "If any woman ever breathed a word I'll make her pay so dearly that she'll wish she'd never been born. . . . It'd be her word against mine and who are they going to believe? Me or some unstable woman making outrageous accusations. They'd see her as some psycho, someone unstable."

In other news -- My Mom's side of the family has a restaurant out in a nearby small town (to give you an idea, the local high school has about 250 students, mine has about 1100). My Grandparents really wanted to go out there for dinner to visit and needed someone to drive them, and my Mom told me that she didn't want to take them alone. So I ended up going with them. We had dinner and then went to visit my Great Uncle who is having lung problems and just got out of the hospital. They have a significant amount of acreage with 10 horses, 5 or 6 barn cats and one dog. I went out into their barn to check out the animals, but I was under the impression that they had 2 or 3 horses, not ten.

Most of the horses were very friendly, only one was skittish (and came around pretty quickly). There was one colt, and every horse I pet nipped at my pockets hoping for some food other than hay/grass. The cats were really friendly, too.

So now I want a pony for Christmas. Ahem.

2004-10-02T22:07:00.000-04:00

I'm still alive, I've just been really busy. It'll probably be the same situation in the next weeks.

Pearl Jam was on Letterman a few nights ago. I had planned to stay up but me being the wuss that I am, I was out way before 11.30. I ended up downloading the video.

Click to download the performance (Masters of War, a Dylan cover).

2004-09-22T18:52:00.000-04:00

Millions Blocked from Voting in U.S. Election
By Alan Elsner

WASHINGTON (Reuters) - Millions of U.S. citizens, including a disproportionate number of black voters, will be blocked from voting in the Nov. 2 presidential election because of legal barriers, faulty procedures or dirty tricks, according to civil rights and legal experts.

The largest category of those legally disenfranchised consists of almost 5 million former felons who have served prison sentences and been released.

In total, 13 percent of all black men are barred from voting due to a felony conviction, according to the Commission on Civil Rights. Polls consistently find that black Americans overwhelmingly vote for Democrats.

"This has a huge effect on elections but also on black communities which see their political clout diluted. No one has yet explained to me how letting ex-felons who have served their sentences into polling booths hurts anyone," said Jessie Allen of the Brennan Center for Justice at New York University.

...[more]

2004-09-19T18:23:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow starts Banned Books week. To get started, pick up any of these books (check out #88) and get to readin`.

2004-09-17T16:32:00.000-04:00

Wake Me Up When September Ends
Green Day

Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
wake me up when september ends

like my fathers come to pass
seven years has gone so fast
wake me up when september ends

here comes the rain again
falling from the stars
drenched in my pain again
becoming who we are

as my memory rests
but never forgets what I lost
wake me up when september ends

summer has come and passed
the innocent can never last
wake me up when september ends

ring out the bells again
like we did when spring began
wake me up when september ends

here comes the rain again
falling from the stars
drenched in my pain again
becoming who we are

as my memory rests
but never forgets what I lost
wake me up when september ends

Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
wake me up when september ends

like my father's come to pass
twenty years has gone so fast
wake me up when september ends
wake me up when september ends
wake me up when september ends

The whole album is available for download here

2004-09-16T17:53:00.000-04:00

Random:

+ Proof that the apocalypse is near

+ My psychology teacher made a striking confession a few days ago: "I'm just a seventh grader with money. That's all I am."

+ There's only one member of the Ramones left... if you haven't read about it, here's an article from The New York Times. RIP.

+ I'm happier than a kid on Christmas morning that tomorrow's Friday. I'm sick (literally) of walking around the school with everyone packed together and hacking on eachother.

+ Next movie to see: The Downfall.

+ Next movie you should see: Adaptation.

+ I'm reading this book that I bought at a barn sale this summer, it was published in 1947. I think the people from the barn sale must have kept everything in that barn for years and just re-opened it during the summer, because the book looks 100 years old. I have a book from 1895 and it doesn't look that old. Everytime I've opened this book to read it in school the person next to me has commented on how old it looks.

+ I haven't been to the beach in a few weeks and I really miss it. I'll either go back tomorrow night or Sunday... Sundays are always fun because if it's nice out, it's packed, and people tend to lose their inhibitions there (or those that I've noticed). Punk in Drublic.

+ Quote du jour: "... We are here to unlearn the teachings of the church, state, and our educational system. We are here to drink beer. We are here to kill war. We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us." --Charles Bukowski

2004-09-14T16:38:00.000-04:00

This was in the local paper on Labor Day and I forgot to mention it.

Cartoonist Jeff Darcy's work appears in The Plain Dealer almost daily.

2004-09-13T18:42:00.000-04:00

I Know You
Henry Rollins

I know you
you were too short
you had bad skin
you couldn't talk to them very well
words didn't seem to work
they lied when they came out of your mouth
you tried so hard to understand them
you wanted to be part of what was happening
you saw them having fun
and it seemed like such a mystery
almost magic
made you think that there was something wrong with you
you'd look in the mirror trying to find it
you thought that you were ugly
and that everyone was looking at you
so you learned to be invisible
to look down
to avoid conversation
the hours
days
weekends
ah the weekend nights, alone
where were you
in the basement?
in the attic?
in your room?
working some job?
just to have something to do
just to have a place to put yourself
just to have a way to get away from them
a chance to get away from the ones that made you feel so strange and ill-at-ease inside yourself
did you ever get invited to one of their parties
you sat and wondered if you would go or not
for hours you imagined the scenarios that might transpire
they would laugh at you
if you would know what to do
if you would have the right things on
if they would notice that you came from a different planet
did you get all brave in your thoughts
like you were going to be able to go in there and deal with it
and have a great time
did you think that you might be "the life of the party"
that all these people were gonna talk to you
and you would find out that you were wrong
that you had a lot of friends
and you weren't so strange after all?
did you end up going
did they mess with you
did they single you out
did you find out that you were invited
because they thought you were so weird
yeah, I think I know you
you spent a lot of time full of hate
a hate that was pure as sunshine
a hate that saw for miles
a hate that kept you up at night
a hate that filled your every waking moment
a hate that carried you for a long time
yes I think I know you
you couldn't figure out what they saw and the way they lived
home was not home
your room was home
a corner was home
the place they weren't- that was home
I know you
you're sensitive
and you hide it, because you fear getting stepped on one more time
it seems that when you show a part of yourself that is the least bit vulnerable
someone takes advantage of you
one of them steps on you
they mistake kindness for weakness
but you know the difference
you've been the brunt of their weakness for years
and strength is something you know a bit about
because you had to be strong to keep yourself alive
you know yourself very well now
and you don't trust people
you know them too well
you try to find that "special person"
someone you can be with
someone you can touch
someone you can talk to
someone you won't feel so strange around
and you found that they don't really exist
you feel closer to people on movie screens
yeah, I think I know you
you spend a lot of time daydreaming
and people have made comment to that effect
telling you that you're "self-involved" and "self-centered"
but they don't know, do they
about the long nightshifts alone
about the years of keeping yourself company
all the nights you wrapped your arms around yourself
so you could imagine someone holding you
the hours of indecision
self-doubt
the intense depression
the blinding hate
the rage that made you stagger
the devastation of rejection
well
maybe they do know
but if they do
they sure do a good job of hiding it
it astounds you how they can be so smooth
how they seem to pass through life as if life itself was some divine gift
and it infuriates you to watch yourself with your apparent skill,
and finding every way possible to screw it up
for you, life is a long trip
terrifying and wonderful
birds sing to you at night
the rain and the sun
the changing seasons
are true friends
solitude is a hard won ally
faithful and patient
yeah, I think I know you

Listen

I've spent my days lately wandering from place to place trying not to think about why or how. I've spent my days trying to make the broken record in my head shut up. It's a hard sound to dull. It's loudest at night.

I've spent my weekends being a hermit, lying in bed, reading a book and listening to music. I've spent my weekends at the beach, walking the breakwall, digging my toes into the sand and trying to make myself feel better. But not like I used to.

I've spent my days trying to find the right poem that exactly articulates how I've been feeling. How I feel right now. Empty, but full. Raging, but calm. On and off. Off and on. I don't look like them, but do I want to? I stopped talking to him. We parted ways. I'm happy about it. Or am I?

I've also spent my days talking to some guy with a PhD in an office. Trying to figure out why I feel how I do. I'm going through a thing this week, where I've got a lump in my throat almost all of the time but I can't bring myself to cry. I stopped writing in my journal. I don't feel motivated to. Who's going to read that shit, anyway?

At night, I light a few candles and try to keep myself from old habits. I lay in bed, I listen to music. I wonder what will happen tomorrow. I just keep doing it, but I don't know why. Then again, who does?

Aaaah... ain't PMS a riot?

2004-09-07T16:56:00.000-04:00

Recently I've been involuntarily spending a significant amount of time seated in waiting rooms at doctor's offices. If you're reading this, you probably know that in early August I decided to come out about a few things that I've been struggling with over the past 5 years (or so). This lengthy and meticulous process has landed me in the air-conditioned waiting rooms of the doctor's offices of Northeastern Ohio... and I don't like it.

In August, a friend suggested that I visit a doctor to discuss options, just to talk to someone about my situation. My situation, as it were, was one that my life revolved around - a carefully arranged mess of secrets that had been a way for me to gain control over myself and my life. It was a great comfort, but I needed to tell my family about it because sooner or later they would find out the wrong way - during a routine checkup or in the office of the family dentist. This was not something I necessarily wanted to do, but rather a step I felt I needed to take in order to improve my life and make the future feel a little less scary.

The first waiting room I encountered was cold to the touch as a result of the powerful air conditioning. It was aquamarine and gray. The walls were decorated with the art of patients - a landscape, a tree, a bird, a house. Watercolors and crayons on computer paper, framed and matted. Hung in the waiting room, so that the other patients could admire their work. The first time I was in this particular waiting room, I was so nervous that my head was spinning and all I can remember clearly is focusing on one of the watercolors done by a little girl. A bright red barn, with a brown fence, green, bushy grass and cows grazing in the field. The chairs were green, the walls were stark white and the carpet was neutral gray. A secretary sat behind a sliding glass window, chewing gum and fixing her makeup every 30 seconds.

"Hi, I'm coming here as an emergency case, may I please speak to a doctor?"
"Have a seat."

The second waiting room was at the family doctor's. The doctor I had seen at the first place recommended that I get a physical just to check up on how things were going. I've been to this place a million times - for sore throats, rashes, the common cold, bouts of the flu - but this time, my head was once again spinning. The lighting in this waiting room is soft, almost inviting, and the chairs are pink and dark green. The secretary behind the window slides back and forth between the computer and the fax machine on her rolling desk chair, taking names and checking insurance details. She's snippy, she has an attitude, and I can understand how working at a doctor's office could do that to you. On top of her computer monitor sits a tiny teddy bear in a lab coat.

"Hi, I'm here for a physical, my name is Carey."
"Have a seat."

The third waiting room was that of my infamous psychologist - a quirky man of about 60 who regularly wears a trenchcoat and thick-rimmed sunglasses. He carries a suitcase, and his office was a godawful mess. His desk was littered with papers - even coupons - and there was a broken chair shoved in the corner. The typical office lighting engulfed this one, making everything seem and feel sterile and unfamiliar. A pile of calling cards on top of his desk is what I focus on. Then I look at my shoes. The lamp beside me. My insurance card that I have to show him. The kids toys that litter the ground because he's a child and adolescent psychologist. He has a clipboard, and clicks his pen while staring off into space, studying the information about me that the other doctors have given to him.

"I'm early, sorry... my name is Carey."
"Have a seat."

2004-08-30T19:09:00.000-04:00

Some more pictures from the beach...

2004-08-26T18:10:00.000-04:00

My life has been a little insane lately. Yesterday, we shoved all of my brother's stuff into two cars and delivered him and the two carloads to Kent University. He has his own room, a tiny little cubicle with a bed, floor to ceiling closet, dresser, desk, and chair. It took us about an hour on a 90 degree day to get all of his stuff up into his room. Sorting through it and organizing it was another story. :) Kent seems like a very nice school. After we got my brother settled in, I started to walk around and I ended up at the Student Center and the building was very impressive.

I went back to school today and felt my brain die. The first days of school, as I'm sure you know, are always filled with those first awkward moments with teachers. They hand out cute worksheets that have questions on them like, "What grade did you earn in this subject last year?"... "What would be the ideal learning environment for you?"... and the all important, "Do you have any pets?". Going from class to class, I started to notice that a lot of girls are carrying around purses to match their outfits. I was sitting next to a few of these girls in my first study hall, reading a book, and I overheard them:

"Do you like my Gucci? It's brand new!"
"Oh my god, I love it! Where did you get it?"
"That new place, downtown. It was soooo expensive... but I just had to have it."
"Oh my god, I know. Gucci handbags are, like, definitely in this season."

At that point my brain decided to throw it's hands up in frustration and march away from me. We gave up. The lights went out, and I spent the rest of the day in zombie mode. It's not so bad, though - the teachers seem pretty nice and I picked my classes at random so I could run into some new people. The super-prissy girls are at least a source of some amusement.

The picture (below) that I posted earlier today was just one that I snapped while on a walk a few miles from my house. There are a lot of dirt roads around here, and I'm convinced that the deer use them more than the people. There are 3 or 4 farms on these 3 or 4 streets, and the power lines sit a few feet into the woods.

Tomorrow I am up at 5.45 again. Which reminds me...

"You can't learn anything out of one bloodshot eye."
-- Lewis Black

Amen.

2004-08-26T15:18:00.000-04:00

2004-08-18T21:37:00.000-04:00

Lyrics du jour.

American Idiot
Green Day

Don't wanna be an American idiot.
Don't want a nation under the new media.
And can you hear the sound of hysteria?
The subliminal mindfuck America.

Welcome to a new kind of tension.
All across the alien nation.
Everything isn't meant to be okay.
Television dreams of tomorrow.
We're not the ones who're meant to follow.
Convincing them to walk you.

Well maybe I'm the fuckhead America.
I'm not a part of a redneck agenda.
Now everybody do the propaganda.
And sing along in the age of paranoia.

Welcome to a new kind of tension.
All across the alien nation.
Everything isn't meant to be okay.
Television dreams of tomorrow.
We're not the ones who're meant to follow.
Convincing them to walk you.

Don't wanna be an American idiot.
Don't want a nation controlled by the media.
Information nation of hysteria.
It's going out to idiot America.

Welcome to a new kind of tension.
All across the alien nation.
Everything isn't meant to be okay.
Television dreams of tomorrow.
We're not the ones who're meant to follow.
Convincing them to walk you.

2004-08-17T22:29:00.000-04:00

New templates are what happen when you're bored and embracing spontaneity.

Nobody Loves a Fat Kid is next up on my list of books to find & read. This quote from the article sold me:

Vermeersch dedicated the book to fashion designer Calvin Klein, the man he considers to have made the most visible contribution to the crisis of body image in contemporary culture.

I couldn't agree more... the battered and torn body image is definitely something I can rant about and relate to. I was sucked into the thin obsession early on and it's not something that I've been able to shake. I don't feel sorry for myself - I just wish that the younger kids could learn the art of keeping an elevated self esteem at any weight. Instead, a lot of them end up ingesting the bullshit that Calvin Klein et al feed them, which can take quite a toll on body image/self esteem. I realize that most kids can balance the world of models and reality, but for those that can't... it's tough, and can be very harmful.

On a lighter note, Robert Novak is officially a douchebag of liberty.

2004-08-13T23:44:00.000-04:00

I visited my childhood babysitter today. She's one of the most considerate, loving and kind people I've ever met and I'm not just saying that. She's a sweet lady who's suffered quite a bit of tragedy in her life - she lost one daughter about ten years ago and has another daughter who suffers from a mental disorder and has a hard time taking care of herself. I was over there all the time when I was little and she was really like a third Grandmother to me. I wanted to visit her mainly because I knew it would shock them to see me drive up to their house, but also because I just wanted to check in on them. Their lives revolve around getting the groceries, taking care of the dog and keeping up with their health.

Being around them forces me to reminisce about what I got myself into when she was looking after me. It reminds me of what my life was like back then. I had my bike, my friend who lived next door, a non-stop cycle of grass stains and a story to go with every scar (the biggest tomboy in all the land, thankyouverymuch). I always used to come running into her house with a new wound caused by the latest bike crash. My best friend for a while was the neighbor's son, Billy, who taught me how to hop fences, play truth or dare, and dart through backyards without getting caught.

Her husband is hilarious - I asked how he was doing and he replied, "Oh, you know... I'm old and tired." All of her daughters have L names - Laura, Leslie, & Linda (her name is Lois) - and her son is Don Jr. Her son works the night shift as a janitor at my high school and was always around to humor my brother and I when we were little. I can't even imagine all of the insanity I must have caused her - she started to look after me when I was in diapers and stopped when I was 7 or 8. So, I felt like I needed to thank her for at least a small percentage of what she did for me.

Aaaah... I had nowhere else to put that. You can open your eyes now.

Edit: & just because I can, another beach picture.

2004-08-09T21:54:00.000-04:00

My new favorite place to be is a local beach at around 7.30PM. A few days ago I went to the beach just to relax, watch the sunset and have a little quiet time to myself. People had started to go home by the time I got there so it wasn't too crowded. Anyway, I walked the coast, sat down in the sand and started to take pictures. Now I want to go there every night.

My life has been pretty chaotic lately, which is why I haven't posted in a little while. It's probably safe to say that anyone (are you out there?) reading this can expect more of the same. In the meantime, you can read a good article, listen to some good music, read a good book, or just keep living. :)

2004-08-01T20:05:00.000-04:00

Spotted near the Historic District of Little Italy in Cleveland, Ohio

- I was at the beach today and it made me miss the ocean. Granted, it's only Lake Erie, and it's not the same, but seeing waves crashing and sailboats out on the water almost made me weep.
- I mentioned Marge before, my Grandma & Grandpa's neighbor. I was over there last Thursday and he came pulling in the driveway in a huge SUV. They are going to sell their house in Florida soon, so he went out and bought a "Deluxe" SUV (with a TV in the back and a separate radio) to help with getting their stuff back home. I don't understand why anyone would want an SUV right now with the gas prices, nor do I understand why you'd need one so huge, with 3 rows of seats and a TV, if all of your kids are grown up and living out of state. Moving trucks, people!
- Bushy was in my neck of the woods last week, attending a ridiculously expensive dinner ($2000/plate) at a mansion placed in the middle of 71 acres. Rich people gathered en masse to financially aid his campaign. I'm nauseated.
- I got to drive home Friday evening behind an old El Camino. Made my day.
- It's August. Uh oh. 26 days until I'm back at school. Uh. Oh.
- I had a dream last night that it snowed. I miss the cold.

This made me laugh.

2004-07-30T22:40:00.000-04:00

I just finished reading a book called Food and Loathing, A Lament by Betsy Lerner. I loved the book and related to it so much so that it took me 2 days to finish it. It's a life-story about Lerner's tumultuous relationship with food, citing the major landmarks: becoming a devoted Overeaters Anonymous member, her first serious bout with depression, going to see her first therapist, taking anti-depressants, and eventually landing herself in a Psychiatric Hospital. An excerpt:

She was smiling at her own good news. Then she pulled her chair in closer. "Tell me, do you really think you need to be here?" Her voice sounded softer now, almost conspiritorial. Bettina wanted some kind of explanation and I had none to offer. Mostly I was ashamed of my size. When had she seen me last? Thirty, forty, fifty pounds ago?
"Betsy, what happened?"
I didn't know how to answer. I was no longer sure which version was true. Had I tried to kill myself? Was I just trying to get attention? Pulling a Plath? There was nothing sexy or glamorous or dark or poetic about me. I was hardly creating the dark sonnets of my soul on the ward. Mostly I was watching TV, biding my time playing cards, and trying to get my paws on another serving of Jell-O.
"I don't know," I said weakly.
"What are they doing for you?"
"Well, they've been trying me on different medications." As I said it my mouth went dry.
"What kind of medications?"
"Antidepressants."
"That's a mistake," she said. "You need to get out of here. All you need is the program. And your Higher Power."
I felt the room go cold with her presence. She clasped her hands and leaned forward on the bed, resting her forehead on her hands, locked in prayer. I moved toward the wall, feeling like Linda Blair faced with the priest. She wanted to expunge the demon that had seized my soul. I had lived with the program for more than ten years -- ten years of daily torture, of failure, of a tape loop that ran through my brain: feast or famine, binge or abstain, live or die. Whatever she thought of my being here, however much she needed to cling to the twelve steps, I couldn't believe that she had come to proselytize. To pray.
Fuck her and fuck the program.

If you've ever measured your self worth by what you see in the mirror, you'll relate to the book on one level or another. It's a good 'un. I was looking for any reviews online, and ended up coming across an NPR feature.

2004-07-28T18:43:00.000-04:00

Good Coffee Always

I was given a digital camera for my birthday and last Sunday I went on a little adventure. Two weeks ago, I went with my Mom to an art show in a nearby city. I started to notice the old signs and murals as we walked around, and decided that before summer was out I'd go back there to take pictures. I waited a week to take one of that mural, so I figured I'd do something with it. :) Thank you & Goodnight.

2004-07-27T00:07:00.000-04:00

When I started going to school, my parents enrolled me in one of the four local elementary schools in the town. The social hierarchy of a kindergarten class was not something anyone expected me to try to tackle or even be involved in, as I had never seemed to be very social. Soon after I took my first steps into elementary school, I met a girl named Maggie. Maggie carried the attitude some people might associate with a powerful CEO or mob boss, squeezed into the body of a 6-year-old. She quickly acquired a gang of fellow kindergarteners, who dutifully surrounded her in a protective circle on the playground and obeyed her every request. I quickly became one of those in the protective circle - a sheep looking out for the sheepdog (don't you just love metaphors?!) - deciding that I was going to prove myself to Maggie.

Looking back on it now, our kindergarten class must have appeared to be a West Side Story to any parent or teacher. Maggie's arch enemy was Sara, a thin blond girl who was also constantly accompanied by her gang of devout followers. The cafeteria quickly became a battleground of cliques, and a convenient place for each group to sit and study eachother. The idea was to seek out the most minute of defects in the other group, provide a giggly report to Queen Maggie, and then build some sort of cruel joke on to the observation. The jokes could last for weeks, and would of course be responded to with one of their jokes aimed at us. If you aren't already creeped out, keep in mind that these are first & second grade kids. We hadn't quite managed how to color in the lines, but we sure had mastered the art of cruel and unusual humiliation.

I was a part of Maggie's group/gang/army for most of the time I spent in Elementary School. At one point in the early 90s, a re-make of the film Grease came out and Maggie made it our movie of the year. We all had to have the soundtrack cassette tape memorized, and all of us had watched the movie together at weekend sleepovers and birthday parties. Even though we were pre-hormonal, pre-sexual, full on boys-are-icky, she told us which celebrities to have crushes on. While the Grease movie was popular, we all scribbled I heart John (Travolta) onto everything. After that, it was Jonathan Taylor Thomas. I remember her coming to school one day and reciting the lines to a TLC song (Bad early 90's R&B... ugh) to us at the lunch table.

In around fifth grade, my friend Jackie and I drifted away from that group and it was just us until we got to Middle School. These days, Maggie's clan is still in tact. As a testament to peace and equality (or something), Sara's group and Maggie's group have since merged into one big, mean, prissy, catty family. I've never been acknowledged by any of them since, and I'd like to keep it that way. However, I'll always look back on my days as a part of Maggie's flock and smile... because nothing warms my heart like two groups of rival first graders.

2004-07-23T22:09:00.000-04:00

One of the most memorable people I've met in my life thusfar is one of my Grandma & Grandpa's neighbors, a woman of about 80 named Marge. My Grandpa has always has always taken a great interest in gardening and taking care of his yard, and enjoys tending a large garden. He's becoming weaker with age, and for years his wife and entire family has been trying to convince him to plant only what he absolutely needs. However, he enjoys having too many of one thing and then delivering the extras to his neighbors, so he is stubborn about changing his ways.

Yesterday, he was released from the hospital and both my Grandma and I knew that he would want to be outside doing some sort of work, so we did everything for him in order to keep him resting. I was told to go outside and pick cucumbers, so I did, and was done in about 15 minutes. I came back inside and asked my Grandpa if he wanted anything else done, and he and Grandma both said yes, they wanted me to deliver the extra cucumbers. They tell me how many to give to each person, and off I go.

Okay, first of all, imagine this. I am a 16 year old girl walking down a busy street with a bag full of vegetables. I'm barefoot, and the bottoms of my feet are muddy from working in the garden. I'm sweaty. It's hot out. Most of these people aren't home, so I'm putting cucumbers on their front porches and moving on to the next house. Like a drive by. Bringing Marge back into the story... at first glance, you'd probably make a concious effort to stay out of her way. She had only one cataract attended to, leaving one of her pupils very dilated and the other looking normal. She's loud and nosy, spying on the street and calling my Grandma to report to her daily findings.

I had gone to 3 houses before I made my way to hers. I snuck through one gate, one backyard and up one driveway. I feel like I'm violating these people, and why? For cucumbers. Hmmm.

When I was little I used to make these rounds to get candy. Now I'm older and people think I've lost my desire for sugar, so I don't get any. It's formerly well paid hard labor turned volunteer work. Booo. Marge used to give my brother and I individual paper bags full of candy. It was like Halloween in the middle of summer. This time, I got to her door, rang the doorbell once, stepped back and took a deep breath. When the door swung open I felt a cold blast of air conditioned wind hit my face. She screams my name, grabs my shoulder, and gently pulls me inside. Now all of the sudden I am in this lady's living room, and why? For cucumbers. Hmmm.

Once inside she repeatedly tells me how much taller I am since she last saw me, asks me what I'm up to, asks about my Grandpa's health and then tells me not to get involved with "any weirdos". After answering all her questions and making a grin last longer than what should be considered healthy, I say, "These are for you, they're from the garden." She thanks me and then I leave -- back onto her doorstep in the nasty hot humidity, back down the busy road and back to Grandma & Grandpa's house.

Aaaah... summer adventures. :-/

2004-07-21T16:31:00.000-04:00

Sarah Vowell was on The Daily Show last night. It was a good interview... she mentioned her new book Assassination Vacation, adding that it's about the Presidential assassinations and tourism! In the meantime, here is a very good interview with Wolf Blitzer, key quote: "So, so... I'm gonna use a word here... is the presscore suffering from, as it were, 'group-think'? Or, um, another word... 'retardation'?"

I have been busy the past few days because my Grandpa was admitted to the hospital last Sunday. I've been visiting him with my Grandma from about 11AM to 1.30PM everyday, and then going back in the evening with my Mom. He was moved out of the Critical Care Unit today, and is acting more like himself. The doctors have been looking at his X-rays and MRIs, taking blood for cultures and monitoring his blood pressure and temperature. His health seems to be improving, but the doctors aren't sure what made his body go haywire late Saturday night (he was admitted with a fever of 103+ and was delusional, etc). So I have been at the hospital a lot these past few days.

Ha, ha.

2004-07-16T18:05:00.000-04:00

This is why more people need to start throwing triangles in the general direction of Lewis Black...

"It's for security purposes, you understand... and if you don't, YOU'RE UNDER ARREST!!!"

2004-07-14T23:47:00.000-04:00

Ban on Gay Marriage Fails

I never understood all the chaos surrounding the gay marriage issue and why people are so devoted to preventing marriage in same-sex couples. I can't even begin to wrap my head around the paranoia that some of the hardcore Republicans have been displaying. If gay people start to get married, they aren't going to ambush your home and take over your children's minds. It's okay... really, it's okay, the world is not about to end, and straight people can still get married just like it was before. Except with civil rights. Sounds crazy, I know...

Since I find it hard to believe that the paranoia is actually sincere in most of the conservatives, I wonder why President Bush has been speaking out against the supposed social ills of gay marriage? Hmmm...

But the Human Rights Campaign, the nation's largest gay rights group, called the vote a defeat "for the politics of distraction." Republicans wanted to exploit the issue for political advantage but found that it backfired by creating divisions in their own ranks, said Cheryl Jacques, president of the group. "Every poll shows the American people want Congress focused on issues like rising health care costs, the hemorrhaging of jobs and the war in Iraq," not gay marriage, she added.

Eureka!!

2004-07-13T17:34:00.000-04:00

First of all, thanks to Rob for the birthday post. I felt (and still feel) so honored to have recieved happy birthday wishes from Mr Dick Cheney! Go fuck yourself, good sir! Seriously... thanks.

I had a thrilling adventure today: I got my driver's license. The process of actually pocketing this little laminated card of freedom is actually pretty lengthy, not to mention the six months during which I held a temporary license and charted 50 hours of driving. There is a Bureau of Motor Vehicles office in town, and Mom and I went there today so I could take the "road test". When we walked into this little office, one of my friends was standing at the counter with his Mom answering obnoxious but necessary questions like "Are you a US citizen?" and "Are you under the influence of any drugs or alcohol, or addicted to any illegal substances?" (a personal favorite of mine, because you just know that someone who's high, drunk, or nursing a drug habit is going to shyly admit it). We sat down by another kid I know (it's a small town) and were making small talk. After about 25 minutes I went out to sit in my car and wait for the instructor.

She sat down in my car, asked for the paperwork and checked out the car and we left. I took the Maneuverability Test and then we drove around a nearby suburban development. I sort of felt sorry for her because she's the only person there who is in the car with these kids and she sounded like a recording - regimented. A very polite and dainty one. She coughed twice and even her cough sounded like it could do no wrong... Anyway, I'll stop rambling and the bottom line is that I passed and now I can drive alone. Best of all (this makes me a nerd), I can drive myself to school next year and arrive in a timely fashion. For the past two years my brother has driven me to and from school and while I appreciate his courtesy greatly... the kid could never get his ass out of bed in time. He's going to Kent State University here in Ohio and we'll be moving him in on the 25th of August. Which is good for me, because I can compare the campus to my first choice college (so far): Oberlin.

I got a digital camera for my birthday and have only been able to take pictures outside in the yard, anywhere within walking distance, and of stuff in the house. Mainly, the photogenic puppy that's here every weekend (View Image).

I write too much sometimes, huh? :)

2004-07-07T16:45:00.000-04:00

An interesting NPR feature titled Using Hitler to Make a Political Point.

2004-07-05T22:03:00.000-04:00

An update on what went on Sunday.

Fahrenheit 9/11 turned out to be one of the most moving, inspiring and thoughtful films that I have seen in the past, oh, year. The footage of wounded and dead Iraqi civilians got gasps and the quotes taken from the mouths of BushCo. got worried sighs. The movie recieved a standing ovation in the theatre and upon leaving the theatre I saw that the ticket line for the next show was pouring onto the sidewalk outside. It is a breath of fresh air, a little free speech stimulant during an election year. After seeing it, I can understand why Bush supporters are nervous.

On Sunday night, I went to this party. Alcohol was flowing. I drank a lot of 100 proof vodka. I had a beer that somehow got vodka mixed in with it (Uh... Brian?) and finished off my little bottle of pills a few hours prior. On an empty stomach. Miraculously, I didn't puke the entire night or get caught. Although, as a word of caution, when you're half drunk and stoned, don't turn around in a million little circles because you like the way it makes you feel. Your head won't like it. ;)

We Report, You Decide.

2004-07-02T22:11:00.000-04:00

I'm going to a party on Sunday night. I just talked to a friend about it and she informed me that the other people who are going have been trying to get their hands on enough vodka to keep 20 teenagers drunk. My other friend has been pestering me to smoke weed with her. Eh, I won't be driving home Sunday night. :)

On Sunday, during the day, I'm going to see Fahrenheit 9/11 at the local theatre. I'll report back if and when I feel like it.

I turn 16 on the 11th. Nudge nudge.

Bye. :)

2004-06-25T22:05:00.000-04:00

Today I ran some errands with my Mom. We both like thrift stores and finding quirky, cheap, still-in-good-condition stuff at yard sales etc. In June, in Suburbia, there are a lot of yard sales because apparently people like to get rid of their crap when the weather is decent. Out here in the boonies, if people have barns on their property they usually just let the stuff they don't need overflow into the yard, officially making the event a barn sale - where you inch your way through their huge, dark, mildewy barn in hopes of finding a knick-knack from the 1970s. Yay!

Ok, I'm being cynical. Anyhow, we went to this barn sale today and I spent about 10 minutes petting the family's cat which walked up to me and meowed... a mystery unto me, but it was cute, and it sucked me in. After the cat got sick of me I took a deep breath and started to wade through the barn. In the back there were a few bookshelves - full and bowing from the weight - with each book costing a dime. I ended up spending .30 on two older fiction books and a Dave Barry book which I was happily surprised to find.

When we went to visit Oberlin College, there was a break at about noon to go walk around and see the area. We walked around downtown (which is across the goddamn street from the college) and saw a "Sale Inside" sign outside of a tiny house just down the street. We went in. I saw the top of a woman's head from behind all the piles of stuff - stuff is the only word - and she said, "Hi, go ahead and look around!". I looked at my Mom and she looked at me as if to say, "Do you think this is really her house?" I started to walk around, and soon saw that this lady had a collection of decorative plates devoted to the Kennedy family. No, I am not kidding. The entire first floor of her house was filled, floor to ceiling, with stuff. I couldn't understand two things: 1) why she wasn't just throwing it all away, and 2) why she thought people were going to come in there and see those plates and think to themselves, "Wow! That completes my Presidential Plates Collection!" I just don't get it.

I'm done. :)

2004-06-22T23:53:00.000-04:00

NPR's Morning Edition recently broadcast a few reports on the influence of media; primarily it's influence on the younger female population. Personally, I'm not cautious at all about making it known that the media can mold and shape impressionable minds into a very unhealthy state. In my experience, the definition of beauty that has been promoted for as long as I can remember has always seemed, felt, and been disappointingly unreachable. However, I think a large part of becoming obsessed with physical appearance has to do with never learning how to love yourself, your body, and everything that makes you an individual. Thin models, yo-yo diets and beauty magazines all play a hugely influential part in eroding the fragile framework that is the growing self esteem of a child. Hats off to anyone who remains unaffected by the hard-to-reach standards. Most of us could learn from you.

Here are the NPR features:

Setting the Beauty Agenda
&
Pitching Beauty to Teens

2004-06-20T21:38:00.000-04:00

Yeah motherfucker, we’re number one
All out of beer so go get your gun
And we’ll take what we want to
The price of freedom is getting steep
For everyone one we spend three
Just to take what we want to

George is teaching the kids to fight
Look at the world and you tell me it’s all right

I've been relatively busy these past few days. I sorted through an ungodly amount of paperwork that had been piling up for two and a half years, I visited a gorgeous college, and I took some time out for myself. Which includes a lot of do-nothings, but whatever. I like summer break.

2004-06-15T12:11:00.000-04:00

Roger Friedman over at FoxNews must have had an aneurysm yesterday, because he wrote this today.

As much as some might try to marginalize this film as a screed against President George Bush, "F9/11" — as we saw last night — is a tribute to patriotism, to the American sense of duty, and at the same time a indictment of stupidity and avarice.

...My God! Well, the honchos will have him lynched. Give it a week. ;)

2004-06-12T19:51:00.000-04:00

The Daily Show remembers Ronald Reagan

...followed on Monday by the post memorial re-buffing of the Capital floor. From what I'm told, that will entail the use of a backwards waxer, pulled by a riderless horse.

Aaaaaand...

Do It for the Gipper

Still, as tough as the week off will be on Kerry's campaign, the hiatus will be hardest on Presidential Strategist Karl Rove, who will be spending the week kicking puppies and tripping blind kids in order to stay, quote, "sharp".

2004-06-10T23:32:00.000-04:00

"He's high on God... he's cocky with Christ, this President."

I didn't link to it when it happened, but a few weeks ago Janeane Garofalo was on The Daily Show. There are some very good interviews here, including Al Franken, George Carlin, and, durr, Janeane Garofalo.

I have a few shelves of books in my room and when I get bored I sit down and rifle through the older textbooks that I've sort of inherited. Most of them were my Grandfather's, and he used them while getting his degrees in Mechanotherapy and Chemistry. Anyhow, I have these books, and they just fascinate me. I have a Third Edition Social Pathology book - it's sort of a testament to the evolution of sociological theory. The copyright date is 1946, and the First Edition of the series was published in 1933. I'll warn you ahead of time: only read this if you're bored enough or slightly interested in Eugenics, dated genealogical theories, or quirky sociological ideas. :)

This particular book is divided into two "parts", and the first is titled The Pathology of Personality. In this section there is a chapter devoted to investigating the scientific (and, obviously, sociological) reasons as to why people commit suicide. The author reviews three popular theories of the time; the first involving social reasons, the second involving a more scientific outlook, and the third a psychoanalytical reasoning. Rates of suicide are studied in variations of climate, race, religion, age, the business cycle, city vs. country, etc. With my Eugenics interest, I also take great interest in the fact that the term "feeblemindedness" is used throughout the text - which sort of creeps me out, because I know that colleges were handing out these books and a lot of Americans were involved in strategic breeding at the time.

The second section of the book is titled The Pathology of Social Organization. In this part of the book, there is a chapted completely devoted to figuring out why some people never marry. The first sentence of the chapter is:

The literature of every people of ancient times reflects the consensus of opinion that the unmarried state is abnormal.

...Yikes. At the end of the paragraph, however, it's written that "...the situation of the unmarried adult today is far different from that of the 'old maid' and the 'bachelor' of the 1900s." An excerpt from the Delinquency and Crime chapter:

Mental defect, or feeblemindedness, as a characteristic of delinquents and criminals has recieved marked attention in recent years. ... Since only about 2 per 1,000 of the total population are feebleminded, it is plain that feeblemindedness has been a potent factor in making the criminal, or else that the criminals studied had been caught because of their condition.

Shortly after that excerpt there is a review of studies that centered around the idea that heredity can be used to predict the likelihood of an individual committing a crime. Here are some good visuals.

I'm done being a nerd now. If you read all that, you deserve a cookie. :)

2004-06-08T11:23:00.000-04:00

Newbie film director John Dullaghan has made a documentary about Charles Bukowski called Bukowski: Born into This. Dullaghan decided to pick up Post Office while working a dead end job, identified with the tortured main character, and decided to learn more about the author. I hope this movie gets Bukowski's writing more attention... he stuck to fact and managed to turn it into several uniquely toxic fiction novels. Bukowski captured the ills of life like no other, and people love him for it... he just never loved people.

The first paragraph in this feature has managed to make me grin. This is the promotion site for the film, and here's an excerpt from a review:

Bukowski was, first and foremost, a working stiff, and his fourteen miserable years as a postal carrier gave birth to some of his greatest work, including his breakthrough novel Factotum. Dullaghan’s footage shows us a pot-bellied, angry, typically inebriated man looking back on those years as he tries to understand what he’s become and forget what’s gotten him there.

If you've never read Bukowski, go to the library, ask a friend, ask a relative, get one of his many books, and read it. If you don't like it, track me down and beat me up. If you do like it, keep reading. His work is addicting and contagious in the best possible way. :)

2004-06-08T00:25:00.000-04:00

Ever feel like being drastic? :)

2004-06-04T22:08:00.000-04:00

Random:

-I apologize for the sudden overflow of lyrics, but I had a friend (Hi Kyllan!) burn the Smile Empty Soul album for me. Every single they released grew on me, but I'm too cheap to actually buy the album. The song this time is This is War by Smile Empty Soul. Lyrics. Download it if you can.

-I'll be attending a graduation ceremony tomorrow. I've been told that they're painfully boring, long, and occasionally awkward. Yippie! Having never attended one myself, I don't know what to expect although I can't exactly see a graduation ceremony as particularly thrilling for someone who isn't actually graduating. We'll see.

-Buy this for me. :)

-Today was my last day of school, and from 7.40AM to 9.10AM I was taking an unbelivably tedious 115 question Biology final. Urgh. It was way too early for me to be doing any thinking, and my recently confused sleeping schedule didn't help matters. But, the school year is over.

-If all goes well, I should be visiting Oberlin College on the 14th of June. I started looking into colleges a few months ago and Oberlin immediately caught my eye. So that should be interesting if it actually happens.

-Last night I had a dream in which I was walking the peak of the roof on this house like a tight rope off into the trees, and then the trees turned into the stormy ocean. I dove into the ocean and the water turned red. Then I woke up. Any ideas?

I'm tired now. G'night. :)

2004-06-03T22:23:00.000-04:00

... Only because I can.

2004-05-31T14:53:00.000-04:00

After Hours
The Velvet Underground

one, two, three...
If you close the door
the night could last for ever
leave the sunshine out and say 'hello' to never
all the people are dancing and they're having such fun
I wish it could happen to me
but if you close the door
I'll never have to see the day again
if you close the door
the night could last for ever
leave the wine glass out
and drink a toast to never
Oh! someday I know someone will look into my eyes
and say 'hello'
you are my very special one
but if you close the door
I'll never have to see the day again
Dark cloudy bars
Shiny Cadillac cars
and the people are in subways and trains
looking grey under rain as they stand disarrayed
all the people look over in the dark
and if you close the door
the night could last for ever
leave the sunshine out and say 'hello' to never
all the people are dancing and they're having such fun
I wish it could happen to me
'cause if you close the door
I'll never have to see the day again
I'll never have to see the day again
once more
I'll never have to see the day again

2004-05-28T23:34:00.000-04:00

Earlier tonight I sat down and read Mitch Albom's newest book, The Five People You Meet in Heaven. It's a beautifully written, interesting, thoughtful and wise book (which I didn't expect). It's only 196 pages long, so I sat down and by the 15th page I knew I wasn't going to get up until the whole book was read. It's one of those books where everytime you look up at the clock, it's two hours later than the last time you bothered to check and you just don't care... The summary taken from here reads:

...Eddie is a grizzled war veteran who feels trapped in a meaningless life of fixing rides at a seaside amusement park. As the park has changed over the years -- from the Loop-the-Loop to the Pipeline Plunge -- so, too, has Eddie changed, from optimistic youth to embittered old age. His days are a dull routine of work, loneliness, and regret.

Then, on his 83rd birthday, Eddie dies in a tragic accident, trying to save a little girl from a falling cart. With his final breath, he feels two small hands in his -- and then nothing. He awakens in the afterlife, where he learns that heaven is not a lush Garden of Eden, but a place where your earthly life is explained to you by five people who were in it. These people may have been loved ones or distant strangers. Yet each of them changed your path forever.

One by one, Eddie's five people illuminate the unseen connections of his earthly life. As the story builds to its stunning conclusion, Eddie desperately seeks redemption in the still-unknown last act of his life: Was it a heroic success or a devastating failure? The answer, which comes from the most unlikely of sources, is as inspirational as a glimpse of heaven itself. ...

It's worth the time, trust me. On a much less relevant note, I haven't been posting here very often because I have been busy sewing up the loose ends of the school year. Go ahead, reminisce. Ack.

2004-05-22T23:01:00.000-04:00

Reruns. A This American Life production, that you should listen to, when you have an hour... If you don't, try to fit in Act 3, which begins at 47:43. It features Sarah Vowell discussing the growing cultural rerun in which people compare themselves to Rosa Parks, even if (when) the comparison is not appropriate. This is why I love Sarah Vowell...

Call me picky, but breathing second hand smoke, being subject to unfair dairy pricing, and not being able to mime, or lapdance, though they are all tragic, tragic injustices, are not quite as bad as the systematic segregation of public transportation based on skin color. And while fighting for your right to lapdance, and mime, and breathe just the regular pollution and not the cigarette smoker's is a very fine, very American idea, it is not quite as brave as being a middle-aged black woman in Alabama in 1955 telling a white man she's not giving him her seat despite the fact that the law requires her to do so. And oh, by the way, in the process, she gets arrested, and then sparks the Montgomery Bus Boycott, which is the seed of the Civil Rights Movement as we know it. The Bus Boycotters not only introduced a 26-year-old Pastor by the name of Martin Luther King Jr. into national public life, but, after many months of carpools, walking, and court fights against bus segregation, got the Separate but Equal doctrine declared illegal once and for all.

Viva la Sarcasm!

2004-05-20T19:02:00.000-04:00

Random:

- I mentioned the Ohio Graduation Tests earlier and it turns out I passed all of them. Ha. Take that, fuckers.

- I am reading a book called The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd. It's very good, which I didn't anticipate. I think only reading non-fiction humor essays and Bukowski novels had sort of put me in a mindset of realism... but this book is really quaint. It makes me think of summers spent in the woods getting all muddy and, of course, bee-bitten. Which is now a phrase, thankyouverymuch. Look into it here.

- A little while ago, one of the resident art teachers at my school pointed me towards a local artist named Christa Donner. My art teacher and I share a quirky obsession with anatomical art, and she hands me illustrations of bones and guts to draw from. She's one of the best teachers I've had - one of those teachers who sees you for you and tries to work with you and build on what's already there instead of pigeonholing you.

- This makes me giggle. :)

2004-05-15T20:42:00.000-04:00

On Friday morning, a Holocaust survivor was speaking at our school to a small group of people. I was anticipating information about the speech but didn't hear anything about it until Friday, when one of my teachers mentioned it in class. She allowed me to leave her class to listen to the speech. For a nerd like me, that was definitely the high point of my day.

This woman had such an interesting, tortured, and inspiring life story. She suffered through six years under the Nazi Regime, lost 6 of 7 siblings, and both of her parents. She was in Auschwitz, a Jewish Ghetto, and then in another smaller labor camp. While in the Ghetto, more and more people kept flowing in and her father volunteered her to be sent to a labor camp. She said that her father must have known that the Germans would soon send everyone to Auschwitz, Birkenau or Treblinka because of the overcrowding. They did, and that's how she thinks most of her siblings died. She made it out of the last concentration camp alive, and returned home with her eldest sister. She and her sister came to America, and she went to John Hay High School in Cleveland. Even though she walked into High School with a fourth grade education, she graduated 5th highest in her class.

It goes on and on, but anyway, The United States Holocaust Museum (I've been there three times... yes, three) has an interesting online exhibit having to do with racial hygeine under the Nazis. I won't even try to explain how much it interests me, because that could easily result in spontaneous combustion. :) Download the video when you have the time and just sit back and read and absorb it all, even if you are not interested in Eugenics. It also goes into the American Eugenics Society in places... Fitter Family Contests, etc.

This is all extra interesting to me at the moment because when I get the time to sit down and read I have been looking at a book called *take a deep breath* The Nazi Doctors: Medical Killing and the Psychology of Genocide. A lot of this book focuses on the gruesome and indescribably cruel experiments performed in the infamous Block 10 of Auschwitz. A large part of it also deals with the situation of prisoner doctors and how, in some cases, they were treated with some respect compared to the other prisoners. It is a good read if the topic interests you.

2004-05-11T20:46:00.000-04:00

Blogger has been remade, and I still like the older available templates. I wonder if that makes me a simpleton.

In the spirit of the Matt Good air that seems to be floating around here lately, I post these lyrics because I don't really have much else to say or show at the moment. :) Read 'em and let it sink in...

Prime Time Deliverance
Matthew Good Band
The red red lips
Of some secret solution
The Central Intelligence Agency
Has a file that's a mile longer than peace
She's naked on the phone
Watching them back
No eyes just their stupid grins
They long to be liberal mannequins
And in their tiny room
They eat Chinese food
And they don't call their wives
Cause the girl in the window is
Pressing her breasts
Up against the window pane
The guy they're after
On the floor below her
Is cutting cocaine
Higher than the building

A one way trip
Who ever thought she'd miss
The ins and outs of oxygen
The darkest side of the biggest God damn ride
You've ever been on
Her mother loves that show
Even though she never gets the answers right
It's easier to play along
Sometimes more than being wrong
They found her in her room
Wearing a pink bunny suit
In sour cherry lipstick
Hanging from the closet door
Her eyes were wide maybe to despise
Maybe just to look into your head light
Morning glow

And this is it, well this is it
Prime time deliverance

That you have and you hold
And you have and you hold
And you have and you hold
And you have and you hold
And you have and you hold
And you have and you hold

And she says the best thing you can do
Is hang around for a while

2004-05-05T21:20:00.000-04:00

I've said it before and I'll say it again: Matt Good is my hero.

Download these.

Alert Status Red
But the sun comes up instead
In the wilderness
The only place to find freedom
Is in the dictionary
Under "F".

:)

2004-05-04T19:20:00.000-04:00

Today is the 40th anniversary of the fatal shootings at Kent State University. During a four day protest against the Nixon Administration's decision to invade Cambodia, the protest became larger and angrier, prompting the Mayor of Kent to call in the National Guard. When the attempts to disperse the crowd using tear gas failed, Guardsmen armed with loaded guns and bayonets marched up a hill. The Guardsmen fired into a large crowd of students, killing four and injuring nine. Only one of the students killed was actually involved in the protest. One of the local news organizations has an article about the Vigil that was held today.

2004-05-01T21:45:00.000-04:00

I'm on a Janeane Garofalo kick, and this quote is relevant...

"I was raised very Catholic. I have been very Catholic. I remember, as a child, my favorite phrase being, 'The mass has ended, please go in peace,' and I was like, 'Oh my god, thank you! One down, 1,100 to go!'... After much deliberation, in my thirty-second year of life, I feel that I am not religious. I feel Secular... and drawn to science." -- Janeane Garofalo

For those of you who haven't had the pleasure of listening to me bitch about my situation with religion, I was, have been and am being raised as a Catholic. I was taken to church as soon the adult types could handle me in that environment. I have protested, I have complained, I have been as much of an annoyance in church as possible since I was old enough to walk... and yet they make me go. In my family, it seems like making choices about your own life is an inane concept if you are under 18 (which is not all that bad). The fact that my family even tried to push a certain religion on me makes me respect them that much more - that takes guts, and it's the thought that counts. Anyway, I turned out to be more prone to questioning than accepting and I have grown to despise most organized religions. Catholicism gets an extra special mention because I've been forcefully involved in it since I was a baby.

So, with Ma still hoping that I get converted by a parade of priests, deacons, and nuns, we go to church each week on Saturdays at 4.30PM. Today we got there, and Ma ran off somewhere to pick up paperwork and socialize - which leaves me in the empty lobby of the modern style, geometric, drywall and stained glass empire. Precisely, in front of a brochure and advertisement display. I start to look at the different religious ads people have posted. Religious drive-bys... amusing in a funky way.

I see a brochure with a cute ass little cartoon guy wearing a hula skirt. In my head I am thinking, "What the hell is that..." and I'm sure I looked just as confused. When I read into it further, I see that it's an ad trying to convince kids (or, more likely, trying to recruit parents to convince kids) to join up for.... gulp... ready?

... Summer Bible School.

Eeeewwww. A noxious combination of three highly contradictory words in the English language. Yuck. Summer Bible School. But you know what the best part is? They kept saying that it was on an island. The Summer Bible School is on an island... in Ohio. Uhh... apparently the Summer Bible School Administration isn't too good at their Geo-gra-ma-phy. One would guess that their island happens to be a cabin in the middle of a field, probably fully equipped with a cheesy Hawaiian interior. I repeat: Yuck.

2004-04-24T15:10:00.000-04:00

This is a fun way to look at a scary situation. 1.7MB download, but worth it.