the second most boring thing

When I first went to a physician in May 2011, after about two and a half years of depression, I was dead-set on not taking any medication. The reason it had taken me over two years to get there in the first place is that I had convinced myself I could beat it on my own; a strangely optimistic conviction for a cynical and bitter depressive. I finally realised, with a tonne of assistance from my mum in the form of worried nagging, that I needed help. But only therapeutic help – I did not need some shrink to tell me why I felt the way I felt, because that I already knew (and also I don’t quite see the point of psychology); and I certainly did not need any mind-numbing drugs! I told the physician this (well, at least the part about the drugs), and she was very accommodating, complimenting me on voicing my concerns and forming my own opinion outside the advice of medical professionals. She explained, however, that these pills were very common, not designed to numb or blunt emotion but simply provide the support needed for the part of the brain that absorbs serotonin (happiness hormones). This did sound way less scary than I had imagined, so I let her write me a prescription and said I would consider it. Two weeks passed before I found myself mentally prepared to start taking the medication.

I went on semi-regular check-ups, each time having to fill out a self-evaluation asking me to score my sleep, appetite, attention span, feelings of negativity, self-hate, et cetera. The result barely changed from time to time. This was apparently normal. I was asked whether I experienced any side effects. No, not really, I said every time. Nor did I experience any ‘effects’. The sole thing I’ve used to justify taking these pills for a year and a half is that I can more easily concentrate on large bodies of text; prior to the medication I had barely gotten through a novel in three years, when earlier in life I had been quite the reader. But for the last six months I’ve doubted this more and more. I cannot focus. I renew my loans at the library over and over, because I’m getting increasingly incapable of gathering the self-control to sit down with a book. When I last went to the hospital (for the umpteenth stage in the diagnosing of my psyche), I had to fill out the same self-evaluation I used to get at the physician’s , and I scored so much higher than I ever had before that I was genuinely afraid of myself.

When I first started taking the citalopram – after overcoming the initial scepticism – I felt…for lack of a better word, cool. Being on prescription meds made me special; part of a (relatively) exclusive club that you could not buy into. But the most important feature was that it was like a diploma. I had ‘achieved’ mental illness. I had something to back up the statement “I am depressed” with – more legitimate than the pile of school work I could not complete, the days of invalid absence from classes, the hours spent daily in front of the tv in lieu of doing something substantial.

I’m over that now. Medicine costs money. It comes with restrictions and obligations, which, ironically, my illness mostly makes me ignore. And it doesn’t even appear to be working. That is why I have decided to stop taking my SSRIs. I do not plan on quitting cold turkey, obviously (I’d like to think I’m somewhat more responsible than that), but I run out in two weeks and I have not yet made an appointment with my physician. Again ironically, my symptoms prevent me from it. I keep forgetting to call, and even if I would remember, my social phobia has me coming up with reasons not to. When I eventually get there, I’m sure she will want me to try another drug. But I’m not sure. I don’t know if I can handle being disappointed again.

I ran away from home once. I don’t recall why, but it was more likely than not because of a fight with my parents. I was about seventeen.

At first I sat at the bus stop, swearing over not having brought my bus pass; I would have gone to my grandparents’. Instead I texted my best-friend-at-the-time, who lived close by, and she was away but I was welcome as soon as they got home. So I sat freezing (it was spring…or autumn - either way it wasn’t very warm) at the bus stop for a couple of hours until I got the okay.

My parents called a few times. I ignored.

The Ring 2 was on tv. I don’t like horror but it wasn’t scary. I remember being impressed with the scene where the water in the bathroom rises to the ceiling and then is suddenly reminded of gravity and crashes onto the floor.

On the next day, a Sunday, I didn’t particularly want to leave. But the season finale of Las Vegas was on and I hadn’t programmed the VHS, nor were there any reruns, and I was too shy to ask for a channel change, so I went home at about four in the afternoon.

am ugly
but not enough
want to mutilate
won’t

Those are my four latest tweets. Not attention-seeking. Nor a cry for help. Just truth.

I’m free to do whatever I want, I’ve heard. But that’s not really true, is it? “Don’t cry” they tell me. As if I did it on purpose. “You’re not fat” I’ve been told. Even though I have unnecessary, unattractive fat on my body. And I’m not allowed to say I’m ugly. That first tweet got me three protests. Not “I don’t think so”, or “Why do you feel that way?”; simply “No, that’s crazy of you to say”.

They might be right, I am crazy. But I’m also ugly. When I look in the mirror and all I see is ugly, then I am ugly. But I’m not allowed to say it, because I’m conventionally relatively pretty. This is where tweet two and three come in. I wanted to cut my face up, so I could say I’m ugly without having to defend the statement. Be free to be ugly.

None of you have seen me when I’m ugly. Only I can see it. But when I do, that is reality, it’s truer than anything. I don’t say I feel ugly, because it’s inside and out; in every action, in every word, it is. I am.

A lot of the time I feel pretty and those times I like being pretty. And I know that sooner or later, that will come back. Tweet four is the voice of reason in my head that tells me this. It’s not saying “Stop it, you’re not making any sense”, but “It won’t be forever”.

a few months ago i discovered alex day, an english 21-year-old who acquired youtube fame by heckling twilight. that sentence alone makes one head over heels, right? but he’s also incredibly charming, smart, and funny. and he’s a pretty damn good musician, too.

my favourite song of alex’s is holding on from his debut album parrot stories. it’s a wonderfully beautiful song with lyrics like “i could bake a chocolate cake for you with tiers up to the moon”. the chorus goes “even if i know / i’ll never be your leo / i’ll keep holding on”, which of course raises the question leo, who? (i briefly considered leo dicaprio in titanic before i remembered the character’s name is actually jack.) a comment on the youtube music video claimed alex had mentioned somewhere that leo was a character from teen novel stargirl. smitten as i was (am?) with alex and this song, i put the book and its sequel love, stargirl in the shopping cart while ordering course literature online, even though the shop recommended it for 9-11-year-olds. now it’s been more than two months of the term and i’ve barely opened half of the course books, but i finished stargirl more than tree weeks ago. i just had to.

i put off starting it for a while. ‘it could be a total cliché, and the song would be ruined.’ ‘alex probably loves this book, i could find it ridiculous and lose confidence in him.’ ‘all the praise on the cover could just set me up for disappointment.’ none of these things were true. stargirl is utterly amazing.

often teen books, or ‘youth novels’ as they’re formally known, can be terrible. unrealistic dialogue written by forty-somethings who think they know ‘how kids talk’; poorly scripted ‘happily ever after’ plots that make one’s own life seem all the more depressing (‘oh, i can relate to this! …no, wait, i’m still a loser.’); stereotypical characters who completely turn their personalities over, just in time for ‘and the prince and princess lived…’. granted, i do read and watch film/tv to escape reality, but i aim for made-up people, not a made-up humanity.

stargirl is so brutally real it hurts. the bitch head cheerleader hillari isn’t a nice bitch who eventually drops the ‘bitch’ part and joins stargirl in the bunny hop. her strong-and-silent jock boyfriend wayne doesn’t fall in love with stargirl, dumps hillari, and makes stargirl prom queen. the guy-nobody-dislikes kevin doesn’t really choose sides when his best friend is becoming an outcast. leo, who’s desperately determined not to choose sides when he’s becoming an outcast, chooses right, then wrong, then right… then wrong. stargirl is so right and so wrong.

i read the last few chapters on the coach home from uni. it was nearly 7 p.m. and almost completely dark outside. i cried. not just tears-in-my-eyes, but actual tears-down-my-face. the whole bus was dark except for my reading lamp, so i turned it off and cried, invisible. it took me a good few minutes to notice that, poetically enough, it was raining outside.

now, the conflicted but essentially good-hearted leo, whose lack of determination and self-esteem i’ve felt myself many a time, seems to fit the profile of holding on leo. but i don’t care anymore. i opened stargirl looking for the person alex day wanted to be for somebody, and closed it with a broken heart, eternal gratitude, a wish that i had discovered it sooner, and the will to translate it into swedish. because it can’t just be me.

tinysprout:

kissingunderspiderwebs:

Scott Adams wrote this post today, March 7 2011,  on his blog and then deleted it. 

The topic my readers most want me to address is something called men’s rights. (See previous post.) This is a surprisingly good topic. It’s dangerous. It’s relevant. It isn’t overdone. And apparently you care.

Let’s start with the laundry list.

According to my readers, examples of unfair treatment of men include many elements of the legal system, the military draft in some cases, the lower life expectancies of men, the higher suicide rates for men, circumcision, and the growing number of government agencies that are primarily for women.

You might add to this list the entire area of manners. We take for granted that men should hold doors for women, and women should be served first in restaurants. Can you even imagine that situation in reverse?

Generally speaking, society discourages male behavior whereas female behavior is celebrated. Exceptions are the fields of sports, humor, and war. Men are allowed to do what they want in those areas.

Add to our list of inequities the fact that women have overtaken men in college attendance. If the situation were reversed it would be considered a national emergency.

How about the higher rates for car insurance that young men pay compared to young women? Statistics support this inequity, but I don’t think anyone believes the situation would be legal if women were charged more for car insurance, no matter what the statistics said.

Women will counter with their own list of wrongs, starting with the well-known statistic that women earn only 80 cents on the dollar, on average, compared to what men earn for the same jobs. My readers will argue that if any two groups of people act differently, on average, one group is likely to get better results. On average, men negotiate pay differently and approach risk differently than women.

Women will point out that few females are in top management jobs. Men will argue that if you ask a sample group of young men and young women if they would be willing to take the personal sacrifices needed to someday achieve such power, men are far more likely to say yes. In my personal non-scientific polling, men are about ten times more likely than women to trade family time for the highest level of career success.

Now I would like to speak directly to my male readers who feel unjustly treated by the widespread suppression of men’s rights:

Get over it, you bunch of pussies.

The reality is that women are treated differently by society for exactly the same reason that children and the mentally handicapped are treated differently. It’s just easier this way for everyone. You don’t argue with a four-year old about why he shouldn’t eat candy for dinner. You don’t punch a mentally handicapped guy even if he punches you first. And you don’t argue when a women tells you she’s only making 80 cents to your dollar. It’s the path of least resistance. You save your energy for more important battles.

How many times do we men suppress our natural instincts for sex and aggression just to get something better in the long run? It’s called a strategy. Sometimes you sacrifice a pawn to nail the queen. If you’re still crying about your pawn when you’re having your way with the queen, there’s something wrong with you and it isn’t men’s rights.

Fairness is an illusion. It’s unobtainable in the real world. I’m happy that I can open jars with my bare hands. I like being able to lift heavy objects. And I don’t mind that women get served first in restaurants because I don’t like staring at food that I can’t yet eat.

If you’re feeling unfairly treated because women outlive men, try visiting an Assisted Living facility and see how delighted the old ladies are about the extra ten years of pushing the walker around.  It makes dying look like a bargain.

I don’t like the fact that the legal system treats men more harshly than women. But part of being male is the automatic feeling of team. If someone on the team screws up, we all take the hit. Don’t kid yourself that men haven’t earned some harsh treatment from the legal system. On the plus side, if I’m trapped in a burning car someday, a man will be the one pulling me out. That’s the team I want to be on.

I realize I might take some heat for lumping women, children and the mentally handicapped in the same group. So I want to be perfectly clear. I’m not saying women are similar to either group. I’m saying that a man’s best strategy for dealing with each group is disturbingly similar. If he’s smart, he takes the path of least resistance most of the time, which involves considering the emotional realities of other people.  A man only digs in for a good fight on the few issues that matter to him, and for which he has some chance of winning. This is a strategy that men are uniquely suited for because, on average, we genuinely don’t care about 90% of what is happening around us

Wow.

Just…wow.

You were a childhood hero of mine dude, and all my respect for you just died.

Not only because you wrote this load of shit, but then you deleted it like a coward when it made people angry.

Well done.

kurt: why did you pick me to sing that song with?

blaine: … kurt, there is a moment, when you say to yourself, “oh. there you are. i’ve been looking for you forever.”
watching you do blackbird this week, that was the moment for me, about you. you moved me, kurt. and this duet would just be an excuse to spend more time with you.

blaine: um, we should…we should practise.

kurt: i thought we were.

[gifs by stephenell]