saml

Sorry I didn’t write yesterday. My grandma’s internet is often unpredictable. I also didn’t really feel like writing because I was just so damn dandy. It’s hard to write when you’re happy. It feels almost unnecessary. A lot of times for me, writing is a desperate venting outlet when no one else will listen. But it shouldn’t be reduced to just that. I like happy writing and I made a commitment to blog so I’m going to do it even if I feel insecure in my happy-go-lucky fruit-cakeness. Anyway, let’s talk about relationships because that’s been a hot topic in my life since I became acutely aware of my hormones.  

Rule number 1. Do not let insecurity paralyze you [Sam]. Like I said, everyone is capable of showing compassion and judgmental assholeness. I think the trick is to know your audience, know how to tap into their compassionate side. Just because you’re scared that X doesn’t care about how you feel, doesn’t mean they don’t. Feelings make a lot of people uncomfortable, a lot of people are taught that they are weaknesses, but everyone has them… You can’t afford not to be upfront with yours. Try as one might, one can’t actually repress human emotion. They still exist within us, some just mistakenly choose not to acknowledge and deal with them. Honesty is key. Writing and talking helps you figure out what you really feel and how to best take care of yourself…

Exhibit A.  My mildly Retarded Brother

At 21 he is afraid of people because he assumes no one can love him. He knows that he is a judgmental ass-hole and therefore assumes that the rest of the population must be too. His logic: If he doesn’t take the time to empathize with people, why would anyone take the time to empathize with him? Especially because my brother takes a lot of patience to really be understood. He’s guarded by a layer of cold followed by a layer of crazy.

Mark: I have no patience for people’s bullshit, why should they have patience for mine?

Sam: Because there are a few decent people out there who aren’t so caught up in deflecting their low self-esteem.

Mark: I haven’t met anyone yet.

Sam: You haven’t been in the right environments. You haven’t strived to be. People like that take some looking for. Mark, am I decent person?

Mark: You appear to be.

Sam: See, they are out there.

Mark: Yeah, but Sam, you don’t know how special you are.

Sam: Awww Mark, that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me… (It really is the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. I can be a judgmental *** too but I am really less in touch with that part of me. I feel compassion first for most people and if I don’t, I try too. With a few exceptions of course, I am only human.) But Mark listen to me, I’ve talked to a lot of people and buried underneath everyone’s defenses is the human desire to love and be loved. Granted some people are very out of touch with their innate human emotions but everyone (except for some very mentally deranged people like sociopaths) has the capacity to care. Mark look at you, you’re such a jerk to so many people and you can be so judgmental. But you care about me. You obviously have the capacity.

Sam: (Tries to boil it down further) Some people, like you, don’t care about others easily. It’s a defense. If you don’t care you are not vulnerable and therefore can’t be hurt. But if underneath your cold exterior you know you are a decent guy, then couldn’t you assume most people are in that same boat. Underneath it all there is worth someone getting to know and love.

Mark: Thank you?

Sam: Mark, I love you a lot and I think you are an awesome person despite all the external bullshit. Someone will see that if you let them in a little. And someone will love you enough not to feed into your external crap.

The end

The moral of the story is that no matter how insecure you are, you have to assume that underneath the other person’s defenses they feel the same way.  Before you get too involved and paranoid about your own feelings, consider the other persons. Consider that they might hurt too and if they can’t find the courage to be honest about it, don’t resent them, feel sorry for them. It’s not easy to live by this and to stay aware of it… but try…practice…

I realized that for better or for worse, growing up with my brother taught me compassion. That attitude and behavior are only means for protecting vulnerability. Everyone is just scared to be hurt… but I’m pretty convinced that nothing hurts more than being paralyzed by fear.

I hung out with two close friends.  They are so cute and make life so happy. When I listen to them I am reminded that the majority of people are capable of showing both compassion and judgmental ass-holeness.

*** it, it’s about time. The flood gates of self-help have been opened, if I want to make a full recovery; I have to commit to honesty…G-d this is like rehab all over again.

It’s been 5 months since I got help for my eating disorder. Now, I know what you’re thinking; don’t tell me this *** was anorexic too. Yes, this *** was anorexic too. And recently I might add. I hate saying this. Its one thing to admit you’re an ex badass druggie. It’s another thing to admit you’re just another one of those… Another one of those pathetic girls obsessed with vanity and being thin. I pride myself on being nothing like them. I pride myself on being all “girl power” and I adamantly fight the hell-hole of superficiality. But I am just another fucking victim of popular culture’s fallacious ( I love that word) seduction. Well, victim would imply helplessness which really isn’t the case- for anyone. I chose to starve myself. In fact, it was fucking brutal. If I channeled the same energy into finding a cure for aids, I might actually have come close to finding one. That’s awful isn’t it? So, why am I coming out with this now? As I said, I’m on the path to a full recovery- a full assessment of what is really important to me in life and how I’m going to get it…

I was good today. I took good care of myself. Talked to some friends, read, did some math, encouraged myself, got the endorphins up… all that jazz. I was practicing yoga and it dawned on me how much I enjoyed it. This time, I didn’t go into the studio telling myself I was all about inner peace, when really I was all about suppressing hunger pangs. I didn’t have to lie or keep secrets from myself. This time I had no underlying intentions to repress. I could breathe easy… And it felt so good.

I figured it was time to recognize that. Time to make the eating disorder an old self-destructive habit rather then one I’ m saving up the strength to reenter. Because anyone who’s ever had any kind of addiction knows; even when you get help, you don’t want to abandon your old coping mechanism. It gave you something, something every human desires; something you’re scared you can never regain… it gave you self esteem.

I became conscious of natural human suffering for the first time when I was 13. Before then I only existed in my sheltered world of childhood, I felt pain, but hardly knew that I was feeling it. I guess I was fortunate to have been able to hold onto those illusions for as long as i did. But when I became conscious of man’s natural feelings of inferiority, I didn’t realize they were natural. Or I assumed because I felt inferior I must actually be inferior. If only I was cooler, less sheltered… I know!! I’ll do drugs. And I did feel cooler, and I did feel less sheltered, and I no longer felt inferior. Awesome!! 60 billion regrets and 11 months in rehabilitation later… I go to high school again. Bam, there it is. My inferiority complex. I’m a rehabilitated 15-year old among a crowd of chic city kids. I don't think AA is in vogue for another ten to twelve years.. Oh, ***, maybe if I looked like that model, I wouldn't feel so... And that’s more or less how it started. Little did I know that insecurity is universal and that its just part of being a teeny tiny little organism in a gigantic universe.

We all have self-esteem outlets. Some people seek to oppress to feel like they are not actually irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. And some people seek to impress. Some people abuse others. While some abuse themselves. But we can find self-esteem in healthy ways; in our work, in our progress, in our commitments, in our self-respect… We unfortunately rely on self-esteem to be productive human beings.

To be honest, I think we are, in the grand scheme of things, actually all irrelevant. But right now we’re not. Right now we exist and have awesome opportunities. We should push ourselves to encounter all the mind-blowing information, all the Truths we can get our hands on, and all the cool people in the world … We can do this with clarity and appreciation for this strange over-simplified over-complicated abyss we are born into. We need self- esteem so we can free ourselves form the condemnation of everything from runway shows to the cosmos. So find it [Sam]! And never look back.

It’s all such a joke, you know? This “pressure.” Pressure to be cool, to be thin, to be perfect… Life is suffering. Nothing is going to take that a way. And instead of abusing ourselves to feel pretty or cool or special in our self-abuse. Instead of abusing others to feel smarter or more important; find ways to numb the pain with out inflicting new ones. Exercise, eat right, get a dog, do your homework, talk to your mom, confide in your friends, free yourself from the burdens of secret behavior, mistakes, or feelings…

Ok, enough pep talking for today. None of this will help anyone who isn’t looking for help. It’s the kind of thing you have to want to want. You have to be willing to give up a lot, a lot of security… I don’t know how to explain it any better. If you’re at the point where you just don’t think it’s possible to feel good about yourself with out being a ***, or drinking yourself retarded, or starving yourself… I suggest you look into counseling. Or maybe you can afford to wait it out a little longer… Or maybe you know you won’t feel good about yourself anyway so why give up your one salvation?

Well, the answer is because you can’t keep it up forever. Because at some point, if you are lucky, you will realize that you can not continue… And when you do, you’ll have to deal with the suffering you caused yourself along with natural human suffering along with whatever suffering comes with your particular circumstance.

Anyway- I’m saying these things for myself because I have to remember them. I like myself best when I take care of myself best. And really, my judgment of myself is the only one that matters. The only thing that is certain is that I exist in this body. No matter how much I’ve tried, I can’t runaway from it so I’m going to learn to love it.

Here’s a poem I wrote roughly a week ago about having an eating disorder. Hopefully it will help you gain a better understanding. I don’t want your sympathy. I don’t care. I want to free myself of its burden by not allowing it to be something I carry in secret. I want you to gain a better understanding. And if you already have plenty of understanding, I want you to know you’re not alone. There is an answer. And it’s not an easy one, but it’s the only one…

The blocks I came to know like the muscle groups, in my routine from uptown to downtown gym

That’s where I was this summer my friends

I was torturing my body, over expending my energy free of adequate nourishment

That I gave up everything and everyone to watch my flesh sink into the contours of my bones

It’s embarrassing to admit how hard I’m willing to work so that when people look at me they will see the con-

Temporary standard of beauty

I am so sorry

The uncontrollable impulses, the guilt, the very deliberate self-loathing, and the sustenance that is forever equated with the enemy

G-d I remember the fucking helplessness…

I will probably insist that I can exorcize harder

That I hate myself more

Why am I such a fucking idiot?

Because I pride myself on being truthful, on being above the superficial pressure of our culture

But whoever you are, I will blatantly beg of you to love me

P.S. Hopefully my blogs will be a lot less depressing after this… actually scratch that… I still have to write about my (mildly) retarded brother…

Thanks for letting me share...

Sorry. I’m really too tired to blog. Plus I didn’t really learn anything new today. I talked to my old therapist… that was good. I really am almost out of this anxiety period. I’m coming to accept that my life is what it is. As cheesy as it sounds I’m just trying to figure out how to live it to the fullest. I want the best future I can earn for myself but I also want the most fulfilling present. Balance… Balance… Balance… Balance… So it was really warm today which is unusual as it the winter season. And I was tired all day. O yeah, that’s another thing… I know I’m getting better because my sleep patterns are becoming normal. So yay for me. Anywho, I’m going to turn in early. I’m really going to try to take good care of myself- self satisfy-love my self- happy-happy-happy-happy-happy-happy- think positive…think positive… it’s harder when your in a crazy new environment like college. I mean, you have so many priorities; it’s hard to make mental stability your number one. But seriously, there is no reason why you can’t have a good time, take care of yourself, and do your work, all in the same day. It’s just harder because that means eliminating the quick fix of the whole “get drunk-hook-up-and-feel-shitty-the- next-day scene.” But there are other ways to ease social anxiety… I don’t know. Some people can afford to do that kinda *** in moderation… at this point; I really don’t think I can risk it. That wasn’t even my problem in college anyway. My problem was that I didn’t see why working hard was relevant. I thought life was about being happy and there are much easier ways of getting happy… It’s how I used to think before rehab… Living moment to moment, high to high, eliminating as many sobering voids as possible. In my head I had engineered a more efficient way from point A to point B. I didn’t have to work for my happiness, I could just buy it. And when that little pill or tab or bump or drag’s effects would fade, I would just get myself another… No more reality and no more pain. Did I think I could keep up the charade forever? You know what? As you probably have gathered, at the time, I really didn’t think my brilliant “life theory” through. All I knew was that my whole world had changed and all I could think to do was find a way to cope with the discomfort… I had no vocabulary to articulate what I was feeling and even if I actually knew, I wouldn’t have told anyone. At the time, I was just too proud. (And I said I was too tired to blog…) This time was a little different… Although not really… I don’t know… I thought I was happy… ya know? I convinced myself I was happy in my little self-destructive world because part of me was satisfied… It was dangerous and immoral and having the guts to do it anyway gave me power. But if I can convince myself that I’m happy in a self-destructive world I can convince myself that I’m happy in the real world. I can find power in resisting temptation, in being good to myself, in being successful. Basically I can find power in self-care. Because it’s really fucking hard to find the point of optimal productivity/healthy/happiness. It’s really hard and anyone who finds the motivation and strives for it- is a fucking hardcore badass. Point Blank.

It's funny because these are the kind of lessons I learned in rehab. I did internalize them then, but somewhere along the line, I became sure that they didn't make sence in the real world. But I think the truth is that they were alot harder to accept and stay conscious of in a world where people aren't constantly reminding us of these "higher truths." In fact people are giving attention to and following the very people that work against them. We or at least I have to find the strength to value attention a little less even in it's most mature forms. Nothing will ever be as effective as self-love. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Ok, one more thought. When I was in rehab it occured to me that if "Old Sam" ran into "New Sam." Old Sam might be inclined to punch New Sam in the face. I'm starting to get that feeling again... but *** it. I can't afford to be judgmental toward myself. I am a friut cake. A happy-go-lucky fucking fruit cake and I love it.

Seriously, someone should hand me a ****ing master's degree in self help... Maybe, I don’t know. There’s still more on my mind but I feel like keeping it brief. You know how when we’re little babies we are taking in impression after impression and our brains are making connections rapidly and overwhelmingly? Well, that’s happening to me again. I coming to stark realization after stark realization and my mind is close to collapsing under the pressure. Ok, not really. I’m fine, I’m just going through a period of anxiety but it’s almost over as I contemplate my way out. I think I found what I’m looking for. And I didn’t find it lying in bed thinking about it. I found it while watching this really fucking awesome movie, I don’t remember the name, something weird, but it’s in theaters now. Anyway, the movie was kind of boring, much like life- most of the time. It was all the stupid little things that the characters did and these trivial ironies that made it funny. These guys were being over-dramatic, they were being childish, they were being aloof, bossy… seriously, you name it. Yeah the movie monotonous, but the characters didn’t know it, and they certainly liked to pretend it wasn’t. What’s so wrong with that? As children we assign meaning to things that have no meaning. We give our stuffed animals voices, personalities, names. We create symbols, we enthusiastically pursue happiness, we make adamant demands, we touch, we feel, we love, we are content in the world that we believe in. Granted, that is before we are exposed to social standards and before we comprehend that reality is somewhat separate from our imagination. But still… The revelation that; in our independence, we alone have to take care of our physical and mental health can be quite suffocating. Life turns out to be hard work after all. But the cool thing about independence, an appreciation that quickly flees when we first feel its burden, is that we struggle with in the context of our imagination. We take from reality only what it imposes on us, and the rest, the rest we assign meaning to ourselves. We are working to attain what we dream of. Don’t worry, I have no idea what the *** I want to do in ten years either… but right now, I want good grades, I want to be physically healthy, I want to relax, I want to learn, I want to laugh… There’s about 15 hours of conscious living a day. I’m sure I can find time to meet my own standards as well as societies standards of success. Especially when I have every opportunity to choose responsibilities that I enjoy. Yay, for me.

Ok world, here’s another Fucking paradox: The only way to maintain our childlike enthusiasm, is to except (not reject- which I get caught up in) our new adult responsibilities and, you guessed it, show enthusiasm for them.

It just occurred to me that thinking might not be the most productive thing one can do, though it does often carry that connotation. I mean, we are intellectual animals capable of higher thought, but how useful is higher thought when we are just animals? Not to say higher thought isn’t cool or good for our psychology… because I think it is. But I think we have to remember not to spend too much time in the clouds when we’re living down on earth. I’m suffering a bit from man’s existential crisis; that we are above nature in so many complex psychological ways, but we are still physically in nature.

I find it very hard to suppress my thoughts, when I try; I get a kind of separation anxiety. Saying “no, I’m not going to think about this right now” feels unnatural. It’s like I’m not being true to myself by denying my thoughts the right to surface. It’s funny that to me, I am my thoughts but to you, I am my actions. So who am I? Probably some combination of the role I play in society and the reasoning behind it. It’s funny. I go through extended periods of mindless action and then short periods of all-consuming sleep-depriving introspection. I should probably find a better balance.

Right now I am facing the latter and have to reason my way out of it. But this time I do not want to disown introspection completely however frustrating and pointless it can seem; I’m sick of these mental breakdowns after years or months of repression. The truth about thinking is that with time, we might eventually figure “it” out but we will soon forget anyway. And the truth about actions is that their evidence is eternal as far as we’re concerned. The mind processes concrete proof better anyway.

I have this anxiety about art and writing sometimes too. If I draw a body part too small or too big, I often don’t want to erase it. It may be off in proportion but I’m scared I can’t replicate its other qualities. And I never want to throw away my writing just like I never want to suppress my thoughts. Every product of my imagination feels precious in a way. But editing usually produces better results, and if for one particular instance it does not, the odds are still in our favor. After all, G-d or nature or I, depending on what you believe in, kill(s) his or her or my creations to make room for the new ones. As special as you think you are, it’s the cosmic pattern that is important and not the individuals. I suppose that is how I am meant to think about life as a young adult. It is my life that is important and not the individual moments. So a world modernizes and so a person matures…

When we have revelations of awareness it’s hard not to get caught in the paralysis of analysis. But being aware of that helps us not get caught. That is a paradox that works in our favor. Another one; nothing makes sense unless we make sense of it. To end with a brilliant example, I told my father that it was hard for me to except that success was 10% inspiration and 90% perspiration. And he said to me “Ok, how about 80:20?” And you know what? That really makes it easier…

Example No.1: No safe haven to call “home”.

My parents permanently relocated to a different state after they dropped me off for college. “We” still have not moved into the new house they bought.

Sam: I am getting sick of writing, I should just carry around a tape recorder.

Sam’s Dad: Do you still have the little one I bought you?

Sam: Last time I checked it was in my room… wait, last I checked I don’t have a room…

Example No. 2: No more authority.

Slowly but surely everyone I used to pretend to listen to, hide my immoral actions from, rebel against,  feel disappointment from… Teachers, parents, grandparents, therapists, are becoming “just people” to me. Granted, people I love and people I admire… But still…just people. People who cannot shelter me from the truth anymore, people who cannot control me anymore, people with emotions and insecurities, and people who’s inquiries about the world- are often as good as mine. I feel profoundly alone for the first time. Ironic how the freedom I’ve been asking for since pre-adolescence feels like a burden I’m not prepared for.

Later that day Sam’s grandfather hands her a gigantic wad of money for some coming-of-age reason…

Sam: Yay, I can afford one boob!!

Sam’s Grandfather: Just spend it in good health.

And Example No. 3: Out with the fundamental lie, in with the fundamental paradox.

I can finally see the appeal in a life dedicated to math and science where it seems everything can be explained and all the facts add up. But isn’t mathematics a human-generated system? Everything we understand is limited to that of a human understanding. However profound this can be, the truth is certainty still dangles before us at infinity. Fundamental Paradox: Nothing makes sense unless we make sense of it.

Sam’s Grandma:  You know Sam, laughter is a good thing, we even laughed in concentration camp. We sang sometimes, we… (she laughs to herself) there was this one time when they moved me to a new camp. I went to the new bunk bed and there was some one in it. I said to her “this is my bed, I have this number,” and the girl says “No, I’m not moving.” (Sam gives her grandma an inquisitive look wondering when this story is actually going to get funny) You know, I was not there as a Jew…

Oddly enough, talking to my grandmother really puts things into perspective. My grandmothers goal at a time was as direct as our animal instincts can get- her goal was to stay alive. In everyway that is harder and more serious then any goal I have the luxury to posses. But there is a difference. The body knows that goal; the body is programmed for that goal. I have the opportunity to work toward goals people don’t even know to dream about. These goals are foreign to my animal instincts and I will have to impose disciplined habits on my un-tamed impulses. That’s why I am suffering from the anxiety of the unknown. Because I don’t really know what the *** I’m doing. But I believe my mother when she says everything will be ok. I mean, to a degree she offers fairly dispensable blind optimism. But the truth is, there is no reason to believe life won’t be good. My grandmother and my mother both tried and found success in a life harder than my own, all the while using love and support to help ease the pain. The fact is- I am one of the lucky ones.

I had an anxiety attack last night. A repression that had been developed by my minds careful denial system had suddenly been lifted. A terrifying reality escaped into the for-fronts of my consciousness and haunted me into despair. Luckily my parents were there and helped to guide me out.

I have had only two other anxiety attacks in my life. The first occurred at my friend’s house when I was alone in her room. I was 11 years old and it was a few months after my grandmother’s death. For the first time, I comprehended the fact that she was gone- dead. Every routine in my life that once included her was forever altered. She would never again make me my favorite soup and I would never again be welcomed by its familiar scent. “She’s dead, dead, dead, dead…” kept repeating in my head. I’m not sure what it was that jarred loose the repression of her death. I think it had something to do with the fact that I was sleeping in her old neighborhood and not going to see her.

I must have a really well-developed denial system, (I probably get that from my mother) because my next anxiety attack didn’t happen until the 5^th (or so) time I took ecstasy. Actually, I had also taken ecstasy the day before and was warned not to do it two days in a row. But I am retarded. I’m also a perfectionist. So If I commit to a life of retardation- I’m going to do it 100% percent. It’s funny because my brother is actually (however mildly) retarded and he has already informed me that he will never touch ecstasy. I love ironies. Anywho, I was on a roof top with all my usual badass druggie friends and it occurred to me that none of them really knew who I was. It occurred to me that I didn’t know who any of them were. And somewhere in that I had come to the conclusion that I was screwing up my life and that I knew better than this. That is the only time I ever confronted that truth until well into my stay in Utah. See, my denial system is so strong that even two days of mind-fucking ecstasy was not enough to fully remove the repression.  “Nothing’s real” kept repeating in my head as in these friends aren’t real, this life isn’t real… what am I doing?

And last night….

After writing last night’s blog, I was still shaken by the surreality of it all. My old therapist approached me almost as if I were… almost as if I were an intellectual equal. It was scary. Someone who had once had so much influence over me no longer radiated with that same authoritarian presence. All too fast I became aware that I bear my own reins. This is real…

Sam’s brain thinks: ***…I’m in trouble.

Sam’s subconscious asks: How the *** am I supposed to trust that I’m not going to run myself into the ground? I don’t exactly have the best track-record…

Sam’s conscious feels: Anxiety, Anxiety, Anxiety, Anxiety, Anxiety….

Sam’s Mom asks: What are you going to do tomorrow?

Sam: Not now mother… I am having an anxiety attack.

I want to lie down in the closet-turned bedroom my grandmother made for my “special” visit. I want to lie down with my friend from rehab and cry and figure out how we’re going to get through this. This!! This new sense of independence; this aloneness. This making of a new life in a new place with new people. I know her task is harder then mine in so many ways. Maybe crying with her might make me feel some gratitude. I love her and I don’t know her and I know her and I don’t love her. But I really truly feel for her. I want her to be happy and for once I know it has nothing to do with me wanting to be the one to do that. And I want to be happy, but right now, I don’t ever want to get out of bed. That’s the first step isn’t it? Getting out of bed and then creating a routine that’s going to get you where you want to go. Not getting caught up in the anxiety of the unknown. Figuring out what’s important to you and constructing a means of getting it. That makes life seem worth living. That makes life carry meaning. That makes hard-work seem relevant.

            My friend from rehab doesn’t have a college to imitate a little world for her. No student run organizations no get to know each other games, no meal points, and no student support center. She’s in the real world and she’ll have to work harder to suppress the anxiety of uncertainty. She’s much more alone in a much bigger world.

I want to hug her because to an extent I know what she’s going through. And if she asks I’ll tell her to cheer up. If she asks I’ll take her to focus on the positives; on the things in her control. And if she asks I’ll tell her to take advantage of the opportunity that I’m jealous of. But inside I’ll feel her terror; inside I don’t feel ready for that challenge either. Inside I know that I am still limited to the mentality of a spoiled teenage girl. One who may not love herself enough, value her future enough, and believe in herself enough to cope with the pain with out the instant gratification of self-destruction. I need you so badly right now.

I need someone I can trust to encourage me not wonder from the right path however tempting. I need someone who will give up the façade of teenage bullshit for me and not marvel at the idea of hard-core. I need someone who loves me enough to truly want what’s best for me.

I know my parents are a good resource but it might help to find someone who is lost in the struggle too. I don’t want to remind my parents of how small they are in the context of the whole world- I don’t know that they can afford to feel that anxiety again. I know they know what I’m going through but it’s so distant to them now… at least I know there is “light at the end of the tunnel.” At some point, something makes sense, something clicks, or more likely, new repressions are formed. I hope that whatever it is- it’s more satisfying than the idea of suppressing my anxiety with routine. Maybe that concept will be more satisfying when put into action.

Today was hard. I’m tired again. Last night I slept pretty well but I guess the previous nights are taking a toll on today’s energy. Either that or I’m just emotionally drained. I went to the Crown Plaza to speak at a support group for parents who have sent their kids to my old residential treatment center. I go to these things as often as I can but this time there was a completely different atmosphere… For the first time since my graduation from the program, my old therapist came to my hometown (haha- hometown) to lead the group. I was so psyched (haha -get it?) to see him. Why are things suddenly so different? It’s strange. Usually these groups are filled with know-it-all kids who have just graduated and distraught parents who have just sent their kids away. The parents ask insanely detailed questions about how to structure home-visits and the former residents brag about their new-found maturity and insight. And me… I am usually in the minority if not the only one who tactfully insists life after rehab is borderline miserable. The world of rehab is completely controlled, if you’re having a rough time there is more or less a formula to change that. Do what they say, follow there rules and you get to listen to some shitty Midwestern radio stations. If you’re really good you might even get to play bop-it. Sorry, I can’t help the sarcasm sometimes. But seriously, the suckiness of your surroundings is more or less in your control but in the real world; life can just suck and you have no idea when it’s going to get better. In this group, most of the former residents had been out for over two years and were very open and honest about their struggles. It was just a very low-bullshit kind of environment. Life is hard. And it seems to me there are no highs and lows. It’s just if you commit to a routine and keep going despite the obvious suckiness, you notice that you’re struggling less. Or you get used to that particular struggle and it becomes a kind of second-nature. It seems only natural that transitions are a lot to bear- anything you don’t already know how to do is hard. But you do it and you learn and then it’s less hard. As for my old therapist- seeing him was more nostalgic than I expected. Somehow, I comprehended for the first time how long it really been. I think up until recently my life felt like an extension of rehab. Believe it or not my conscience would sometimes say to me “You don’t want to do this or you’ll have to go back.” But I think today it sunk in that there is no going back.

It’s hard when it finally hits home that a once central figure in your life no longer inhabits that role.  To me, my old therapist was the heart and soul of my recovery. He understood me, he knew me, and he taught me to understand myself. I confided in him and trusted him more than I’ve ever trusted anyone. In the unbeknownst processing of my thoughts, I would guess he is the symbol of truth.

But to him, I am so much more distant… To him, I was a person to be understood, to be examined, to be helped. Now, the details of my psychology melt and fade in the concoction of former-clients in his memory. Today I represent someone he once knew, still likes, but can no longer help… When I saw him watch the other former-residents speak, I watched his role diminish to that of polite encouragement and sincere hope. I think I felt him grieve a little that the success of these former clients were no longer at the mercy of his insight, creative consequence, or simple rewards. I think I saw something like paternal acknowledgement that we were not his children anymore- our lives are in our own hands. When I saw him sigh over this, I finally comprehended this truth. Rehab is not my home anymore- it is at most a distant resource. My old therapist is not my mentor anymore and I am not his apprentice. My life is not an extension of time spent in ______ _______ residential treatment center. My life is- mine. I am working toward a destination of my choosing and no one is going to know to kick my ass if I’m not on the path to getting there. G-d I wish this didn’t feel so somber. I wish he could still make the pain go away. I think he sometimes wishes he could to. But it’s over. It’s funny how right at the threshold of my 18^th birthday I finally feel like I have graduated from the bitter entitlement of adolescence to the longing and ambiguity of young adulthood. 

Now that I am a critically acclaimed award winning author- I’ve decided to try my hand at poetry. It’s something I have attempted in the past with some half decent results but I could never resist temptation to rhyme. Rhyming is so pretty, you know? But I did more or less avoid it this time and I think these two are pretty kick-ass if I do say so myself. I am warning you though- they’re pretty deep and intense. I tend to be really analytical especially when it comes to the psychological structure of man - a learned habit from all the therapy- I guess. (Wow, that makes me sound hardcore f’d up) Anywho, these poems are inspired by the nature of thought, by my own cosmic conclusions, and by a person… a person I feel the need to address. So, if your pretty sure that these poems (The latter more so, than the first) have nothing to do with you, you can skip the rest of the preface if you want. And yes I am self-centered enough to believe you will one-day read this and I’m pretty sure when you do, which is right now, (G-d I love that whole concept) you’ll recognize who I’m speaking to…

It’s funny because I was going to pretend that I wasn’t actually trying to talk to you through this semi- anonymous social network that is the World Wide Web. But then I thought to myself- why pretend? It doesn’t matter- what am I risking? If you read it, you read it, if you don’t, you don’t and I will never know. Sure it’s a little creepy to try and get your attention this way but it’s not like I’m really trying… I promise, I get it, we’re not friends…blah, blah, blah… move on Sam…If you do read this though, I don’t want to leave you any room to misinterpret. I don’t trust your interpretations about human intention because you resent us (and by us, I mean man-kind) for being selfish animals. How do live with yourself if you loathe yourself? I’m sorry… none of my business… back to me… So I just want you to know that the latter poem is about you or at the very least, people like you. But it’s not for you- it’s for me. I don’t want you to think that I’m a weird, creepy, stalker of a person who is trying to win your heart through poetry over the internet (as if poetry didn’t already scream over-obsessed). It’s just writing is very therapeutic for me and it is how I dealt and continue to deal with overcoming the sadness that this situation brought me. I’m only sharing it with the world because A. It doesn’t feel like the world, as far as I’m concerned it’s just me and my shitty laptop. And B. I think these poems are pretty kick-ass. But I’m not going to pretend that I don’t miss you sometimes. It would be dishonest of me if I continued to let myself sound so detached. Rationally, I know that it is best for me to stay away from you. You are committed to unlocking the external truths of this world and I, to unlocking the internal ones. (Vague, I know- but I think you get it) Still, I liked your company and rational or not- this situation kinda sucks for me.

On that note:

Sorry- still can’t get over that whole concept. Although I will admit it’s a little bizarre to write dear diary- I think part of me needs to believe this is private to really be honest. Or maybe part of me just wants to burst my giant bubble of an ego for being self-centered enough to believe these entries aren’t basically private anyway…. Well… ok… back to reality… I think I’ll just make each heading

Dear shitty laptop and whoever else gives a ***, There, I like that, it’s honest. Not too self important- not to condescending, and it makes me sound like a bad-ass. And yes, unfortunately being scene as a bad ass is still important to me. However less, there are still potent remnants of my trusty self-destructive adolescent rebellion. Each year though, they manifest themselves to a lesser and lesser degree- sort of… I think I’m at the age (coming up on my 18^th birthday now) and I’ve put myself through enough bullshit to finally call the self-destruction quits. I don’t know- it’s not easy. It’s seems every human has some secret self-destructive habit, a bad-ass outlet if you will. I wonder if I can be content to make mine writing blogs on the internet. I hope so, because I am at the stage in my life where I really need to take good care of myself to stay sane. I really can’t afford the paradoxical luxury of teenage bullshit anymore. My readers (Translation: My shitty laptop) should know that I took some time off from college to pull myself together. It doesn’t feel great… I don’t know; to one day be the heroin who overcame the obstacles and the next the under-achiever who just couldn’t stay afloat… It’s hard… accepting it is hard and believing in myself after this setback is hard too. I don’t know- I just wanted to put that out there. It just occurred to me that I should not assume that you, yes You (still creepy), have already read my essay. I just wanted to update the eager world on the mental stability of Sam L today. I’m copying and pasting my little speech to Amy- It pretty much sums it up. O and Sorry for the train wreck of a blog that first submission was but I’m not going to lie, it was pretty true to my character.

I shall call this speech "The Post-Drama" 

In a lot of ways I have disowned the romanticism and over-drama I felt when I wrote this piece. I really believed I would never escape that part of my past; that it would always be such a big part of how I think and feel. It was so huge to me once and then time just passed and things became more important... but lately... I've been having a really really rough time.

Amy, I'm so sorry I've been so detached from this process. I know it's no excuse, but it's in my nature to disown everything that isn't happening right in front of me. I'm so numb so much of the time which is ironic because I devote my complete attention to each waking moment expecting to really feel. Does any of this make sense? It's relevant to what I'm about to tell you- I swear.

When I was 13 and 14, I devoted myself to a life of sex, drugs, and rock and roll to the best of my ability. Nothing existed to me but the present moments. My only goals were to get high and to numb the sobering voids- the ones where reality would sometimes force its way into my conscious and the shame, loneliness, and guilt would begin to float ashore. As you know, there was a particular instance in my past that left my parents no choice but to send me far away from the world I had come to know. I think I can comprehend for the first time, how much that saved my life.

After the wilderness program I spent my sophomore year in a rehabilitation center. There I learned to value myself enough to believe that I was worth a future. I understood for the first time, what a disservice it would be to myself and perhaps to others, if I wasted my potential for the sake of numbing pain. But unfortunately, over the years, I put those key life lessons on the back-burner and preoccupied my thoughts with the alienation I felt from my peers, the desire to be loved, and the desire to feel good.

At first it was ok. Junior year I decided to live with those pains because the guilt that I knew would come at the thought of relapse was just unbearable. I had been brain-washed in the way that I had practiced thinking that drugs, sex, and alcohol were bad so often that I was able to believe it for a while. I had practiced thinking that my future was important and so I had temporarily internalized that. Though productive, that year was very painful for me. I was caught up in resentment toward my parents for sending me away, toward rehab for turning me into a very confused and bitter loser, and toward my peers- for not showing any compassion. - That's what I miss most about rehab- the deep compassion everybody had for each other due to this one central understanding; that all issues, whether they appear big or small, ellicit some kind of emotion, and those emotions ellicit reactions. We have no right to judge others based on the way they choose to armor thier childhood pain. We can only sympathize and try to help- The real world is far less tactful and understanding. Everyone is so caught up in the lies they tell themselves that they don't have the energy to try and penetrate through anyone else's.

 That’s fair- I guess. There is a lot of truth in the idea that one should not sacrifice their priorities to take on the emotional burdens of others. But maybe it's not about being selfless? I have learned in the last few weeks that ones priorities should include taking care of one's own mental health to some extent, which is not possible with out listening and being listened to. Mental stability involves pursuing emotional support but the key is pursuing it with out relying on it. That’s where I have room for improvement.

I know it will always be important to me to understand and support the people around me and as I get older I find a few lovable people who share those same values. But after my 1st college application went in sometime last November, I have foolishly devoted all my time to trying to feel "good". Yes, there was a series of relapse in behavior.  I allowed myself to *** around, rationalizing that I had nothing more important to do and that my intentions were different this time. After all I had been in rehab for a year, if there is any inescapable learned skill imposed there, its self awareness. But what I did not realize at the time and still need to comprehend is that it's not so much about moment-to-moment self-awareness. To know that you are making an impulsive decision and to make it anyway doesn't really do ***. It's about being aware and staying aware of the fundamental truths in the world; that instant gratification goes as easily as it comes, and that delayed gratification, hard work, has real and long-lasting benefits. I'm so grateful to have the opportunity to comprehend that.

 One very sad teenage girl wrote a little memoir once. She developed a passion for expressing herself through writing and worked hard to discover a pretty and true way of communicating. And two years later, at a time when she is more lost and unstable then ever and thanks to rehab is acutely aware of it, her hard work pays off tenfold. I am a fucking published author!!!!! G-d, that feels gratifying. And yes, in case anyone needs reassurance, it feels more gratifying then the glamour of active teenage rebellion, more gratifying then the altered sensations of drugs, and sorry boys- but more gratifying than any males attention.

I’m in a really good place right now mentally, but unfortunately my surroundings don’t exactly reflect that. The sad truth about school for me right now is that if I work my ass off in the three classes I’m taking, I can maybe achieve Cs. It’s ironic because it’s not like I spent the last few months engaging in any horribly self-destructive behavior. To use the lingo I obtained in rehab; it was the relapse in behavior that led to the diminishing value of self, which in-turn lead to the relapse in thinking errors and unproductive priorities. To put it more simply, I started adolescence adopting the o so cliché philosophy; live free and die young. I then moved on to believe whole heartedly in the pursuit of happiness. But I’m older now and I think I’m mature enough for a much less vague self-definition. I haven’t actually developed one yet. I need some time to toil with word choice but don't worry it’s in the works…

Ok- So I'm a little bit of a lier- I am not quite as mentally stable as I claim to be in this speech. But I know I can get there- I am getting there. Um... Why am I writitng this? O yeah- because I can. I do feel better to get it out there... all though some words of encouragement might be nice... hint hint...;)

(O and, when I say again, I'm referring to things i said in my bio, yeah... I suck at these things, you know what I'll copy and paste my bio... ok..)

Ahhh... Ok I suck at these personal bio sites. I sware to G-d it took me like a Freaking (are we allowed to curse? Anyone know? I hope so, cursing is fun!! Anyway...) year to figure out how to work facebook. I got the hang of it though- kind of... Anywho, Im really excited about this fancey blog thingy. I'll tell you, at first I was a little skeptical. I thought it was all self important to write about yourself all the time expecting other people to give a ***... I don't know, I figure I talk about myself eneogh, I might as well write about myself. This way if you don't give a *** you don't have to read it. So simple. And I get to talk about myself as much as I want because it's my freaking blog. Yeah, thats right. Who the *** am I talking to? No one. And yet anyone and everyone. Sorry it boggles my mind. And I'm writing as if I'm talking to someone... But noone is here...Hello? Helllooo-ooo? Ok, now might be a good time to admit that I am horribley sleep deprived... I get a little slap happy to say the least. Plus I get too lazy to check my spelling. Ok, thats a lie, even when I'm wide awake I can't spell for ***. Thats why G-d invented Spellcheck. Have I said eneogh about myself yet to qualify this as a lagit. personal bio? O, one more thing. You, and by you, I mean YOU reading this right now, (ahhh so creepy) you should know that I never had a blog before. I've had diaries and the like... but no ones ever read them. I mean, not to say I din't secretly write my enteries for an audience because I did. In fact deep in the very depths of my jewish soal- I wished someone cared eneogh, or found me intriguing enough to steal my diary and read them. (It sounds sad, but I wouldn't put myslef all out there if I din't think most people would relate, so stop being so judgemental, G-d!- FYI- This is what therapists label as being "defensive"; masking our insecurities with hostility anyway...) I'm really not all that sure how I am going to feel when I get my wish. I'm rather frightened. But I do have a comitment to myself and to my writerly morals to try and be as honest as my superego will allow. I do have a loooooooooooooooot to say- as do most people in this world. It is both my hope and my greatest fear (cue the music) that someone takes the time to listen, really listen, and... No, but seriously- I really think it would be awsome to talk to someone who volunteers to listen.O, and here is another awful Dorky confession. Once I decided to do this blog, i couldn't stop jotting down material, I litterly have pages and pages of handwritten entries to post. You can call me a dweeb,that's fine, but you should know that once apon a time this dweeb was pretty badass...