"Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?" or "The Dark Place...And The Decision To Seek The Light" or "Fuck You All, I Just Feel Bad, OK?"

"There's no one to beat you, no one to defeat you, just the thoughts of yourself feeling bad" 
- Bob Dylan 

I have been neglecting my mental health for quite a while, thinking time and circumstances will heal it or moving to a new place and starting over will bring me enough of a fresh start to overcome my problems. It's really sad that I have to reach a breaking point, a moment that I can only describe as a crisis that I must finally hit my wall.

(Flashback exactly five years ago. I was starting sophomore year at college and I was super excited to be back in Boston after a long, oppressively hot summer of mostly work and very little real play in Houston. The first week was a lovely New England September. I had moved to a beautiful part of campus, right next to the river. I started cycling. I was living with a totally cool girl (who is now one of my closest friends) and I was hitting the ground running with everything I wanted to do that year. For all intents and purposes, I was alive, well and my world was in good shape. And then the first weekend came. And I wasn't invited to a party where a guy I wanted to meet was going to be. One thing led to another, I was sitting alone in my room...and I snapped. I had a complete and total mental breakdown.
I was so frightened of what was happening to my mind that the only real relief came from making the call to the school psychologist. By the time I got there, I may have already met my ex, with whom I would spend a very confusing 2.5 years. I can't remember anymore what insights, if any, I gained from the brief therapy sessions.)

Anyone reading Prozac Nation, whether they like it or not, will probably agree that Elizabeth Wurtzel comes off as extremely, melodramatically self-absorbed and self-defeating. That's why I so appreciated and - though it's been while - probably still appreciate this book. She damn well knew how she presented herself and she took the risk anyway. And though she sold millions of copies, you still get the love-or-hate response from a wide range of readers, from people with severe clinical disorders to those who haven't gone beyond run-of-the-mill bouts of depression.

And just like Elizabeth, I am self-absorbed. I am self-defeating. I am infuriating and whiny and I imagine, nearly unbearable in some states. All these traits, I must realize, most closely resemble childhood. I've pretty much been this way my entire life.

I give of myself to people who won't love or care for me unconditionally, while callously walking over and using those who would and do. I am frequently like a helpless child. I have grand plans and ambitions, but too often can't get the nuts and bolts right, missing some important detail that obliges people to take care of me. I can make a huge list of incidences like this. I've been so fortunate to meet patient people who refuse to walk away from me, yet I keep pushing their boundaries, testing their "loyalty" with my irrational outbursts.

I love life and sometimes I am so filled with joy, hope and magic that I gleam and shimmer. I smile, I laugh, I am a great conversationalist, listener, wild dancer, lovemaker, a shining light. That's one side of the coin. And the other side is the overwhelming black cloud of darkness. Could I ever have one without the other? I truly believe that this is not a madness of destruction, but a madness that should be harnessed into cosmic and creative energy. It should be used to teach children, who are most receptive to it. It should be used to tend to nature. It should be used to write. It should be used to sing and dance. It should be used to make music. It should be used to love fully and to create, create, create.

I have long been fascinated with insanity, what it means, how you can detect it and how people live with it. In Boston, I kept hearing about The Icarus Project but I need help right now and yet I am so frustrated about the prospect of going to a "normal" mental health practitioner who will time me or label me or forcefully channel my thoughts. I know that beggars can't be choosers and I *must* have an open mind about this if I truly want to get better, but all I really want is to have sessions like the other day, where three of us beautiful & smart ladies shared a communion.

The difference between me at 19 and me at 24 is the truths that mistakes and open communication have taught me. No one is out to get me. No one is lying to me or purposely hurting me. People appreciate my goodness and they are exasperated with my badness, just as anyone would be. All of us are, at different moments, selfish, inconsiderate, frustrating and impossible. And all of us are capable of great kindness, tenderness, respect, love and compassion. My desire for empathy must stem from my empathy for others.

And here's the most important truth: just like I have the responsibility to earn my own living, I have the responsibility to take care of myself. I owe it to the world. After all the gifts that life has presented me with, the least I could do is to show a little humility and make some effort to say "thanks" by getting help.

Homage to España

I spent one week in Spain in December. I went there, like I went to Athens, barely knowing a thing about the country. I'm not sure how it's possible, being around anarchists, reading the news, knowing some things about twentieth century history. I even read For Whom the Bell Tolls on my own at the end of high school, though I found it monotonous, like a lot of Hemingway. I don't know how I was fortunate enough to have friends to visit in Greece AND Spain, where seeds of revolution have been planted for so long and not actually know a thing until I got there.

But this is not a post about bitter lament. This post is about Spain. I finally got around to reading Homage to Catalonia, which I'm about halfway through now. On the drive between the Zamora-area countryside and Vigo, I was tired from travelling but still totally fascinated by the stories of Irati's father. Apparently, back in the 70s, he and her mother were dedicated Marxists. He was telling me all about Anarchists during the Civil War and suggested I read this book. I'm glad I'm reading it now, late as it is. Orwell is a gift to the English language and all of human literature. I'm actually quite in awe of how a person who spent only 47 years on this Earth could have experienced so much and graciously left it with the rest of us bystanders.

I'm not going to go as far as saying that I regret not sticking to Spanish as I had planned and tried and not applying for the Spain assistantship. I am merely saying that when I can catch bits and pieces of real understanding, I feel lucky and privileged.

OK so this is not entirely about Spain. More to come.

***

I finished the book. Orwell's gift for language also extends to his ability to write so much in so few pages.

Back to Spain, where I started 2011. Some of the most beautiful views, captured more deeply in my memory than in these images:

Baoina, Galicia

After meeting Marine at CCL, the way we really connected was through our tiny Spanish class at the Union Française de Jeunesse, which I took seriously for quite some time. There was one point in Spain where I had to dig up my Spanish skills, just to communicate with the family. I imagined the possibility of applying to be a teaching assistant in Spain and now I'm wondering if that wouldn't have been a good choice. But that's not my journey right now. That is Rebecca's journey.

I also had imagined going to the Primavera Festival in Barcelona at the end of May, to see Pulp together on stage for the first time in 10 years. I had so many ideas of going back to Spain, after just one week of being there. Amazing how much can happen in one week. There was even a Korean girl there, and already then I was laying the foundation for the idea of teaching in Korea.

Irati told me about this farm, run by French people. I wanted to go there and help out over the summer too. Spain, why did I abandon you?