Fear and Sickness

I am going to New York City in two weeks. Exactly two weeks from today. And for the past few days, I have been in inundated with headaches and nausea. Nausea that grasps the back of the throat and does not let go. For awhile, I thought it was because of my phobia of taking medication, but I know it’s my travel fright. Ha! Travel fright. I think that should be a thing. Unless it’s already taken?

I feel guilty a bit because I just bought a plane ticket a few weeks ago and didn’t tell my parents. If you remember the horrid time I had in Paris, then you know I have bad luck. And since the trip to Paris and England (That Time I Got Lost And Had Several Seizures, Not In That Order), I’ve felt my family thinks I’m irresponsible in traveling and can’t take care of myself. I had this big fantasy when I bought the airplane ticket to go quietly to NYC, have an awesome time, and then reveal my successful journey to my fam later. They would be so surprised and impressed. Never would they say I was a bad traveler!

But it seems I already think I’m a bad traveler because I feel horrible.

My trip secret only lasted two days. I asked my brother to come with me, and he spilled the beans to my parents. Ugh, brothers. But after a lot of fighting, my brother gets to come to NY with me! So I won’t go alone. Because I was originally very scared to go alone. You must understand my mother, though–she is apprehensive when it comes to me traveling. True story: I was going to DC and it appeared my flight would land in Baltimore. I get a text twenty minutes after I told her. baltimore is the 32nd unsafest city in the united states

She kind of freaked out when I said I was thinking of living in the Big Apple after college for publishing.

So I am writing about my Travel Fright in hopes of curing it. Or postponing it. And so far, it’s worked.

More Updates That You Probably Don’t Care About

  • I’m off Facebook because the fucking politically correct feminazis pissed me off too much. And I just realized I cared too much what they and others thought of me.  Now I’m on Instagram and Pinterest. And Snapchat. Wow. Still too much SM.
  • Still single af. But not quite as bad. Actually went on two dates last week, but they both went terribly. My fault.
  • My pill phobia is worse.
  • I’m campaigning for Bernie Sanders, but kinda like Hillary Clinton. I bought a suit and it has shoulder pads and I love it. I feel like her when I wear it.

Epilepsy and props with meds

It’s been 18 months since I had my last seizure and was put on medication, and almost a year and a half since my August seizure episode.

On August 8th, 2014 while studying abroad in England, I started having a seizure during my sleep. I only know this because my bedmate was awakened by my jerking, and called for help. Apparently she had to get several people to carry me down the stairs (for some reason, this makes me laugh). I don’t remember any of that. I was not conscious for the seizure, only the odd aftermath:

Wake up. People are surrounding me.

Ambulance comes. They decide I should go to the hospital.

Hospital ride.

(Black out again. They say I had two more seizures and had to be sedated.)

Wake up in a South Warwickshire hospital bed almost 36 hours later. They’ve put needles in me, done a CT scan, X-rays, etc. My bed is wet. I fucking pissed the bed during the (second? third?) seizure.

I leave. My wonderful teacher, who stayed with me at the hospital, gets our train tickets. We go to Bath.

 

For the longest time, I didn’t want to write about it. Now it kind of seems comical. I can honestly say that time in the hospital was fine, great, even—I mean, how many times do you get to say, “Dude, I was so fucked up, they had to put me under.” And to this day, it was the best sleep of my life. The peeing part was embarrassing, but whatever.

pills

Before, I knew nothing about epilepsy or even what type of seizures I had. Now I know they are nocturnal seizures. They only happen when I’m asleep, because the brain is free to go crazy then.

Before, I took my medication semi-regularly. I had to take three pills a day (excluding my other meds) and I hated it. Now I have stopped. I told myself it was because I didn’t need to, because I hated pills, because I needed to focus on my depression. Surely I would die from complications from depression before I died of epilepsy. Now I think it’s because I hate parts of myself and I wanted my consciousness to melt away. It would be better if I had a seizure–maybe it would damage me so I wouldn’t feel bad. Or wouldn’t feel at all.

Fish-blood

I dreamt it was nightness

dived into the algid pool
  º   —grecian pillars encircling—

º
my blonde, fish-blooded sister
clamped         around my lovely businessman

º
an angler told me
the businessman loved me—

º

but sister revealed
an elephant in her belly
that would stay for two years,
that would keep him locked between her teeth

rupture my dreams

If we thought we could do better

Almost everyone does the best they can do at the time. I see this in my own life and when I watch my friends struggle and grow. Some people are so ignorant. They think people are lazy or make excuses. Sometimes that’s true. But believe me, if we thought we could do better—be better—we would. If we thought we could jump higher, we would, we would soar!

If I thought I was a treasure, I would polish myself till I gleamed, and come out of that bottle the most beautiful genie. If they thought they were worth it, my friends would put down their razors and make their beds and sleep for eight hours. If we knew in our hearts that we could achieve something wonderful, we would. But we are afraid. We don’t think it’s true.

Sometimes it’s a struggle to get out of bed, make food, do my homework. So little things don’t seem important. They seem ridiculous.

How can my teacher be angry that I was 2 minutes late? I’m proud I even got to class. 

Someone wants me to sit them at a larger booth.

I have to use the term “folks” instead of “guys” bc it’s more inclusive? Get fucked.

I still care, which is the worst. I care too much about the little things and not enough about the important things. I am a zombie. So please, be considerate and communicative with depressed and anxious people. “It’s not like we can’t handle criticism,” said a friend. “I’m not going to kill myself if you don’t like something I’ve done.”

But please understand that I have a lot going on my mind, often things I haven’t shared.

Stay–free writing exercise with music

I’m listening to the Violent Femmes and wondering how a supermoon can change a relationship. I’m thinking about how I’ve never been dancing–no one’s ever asked me to dance. And this is the time I should go and dance. I should go and not care that I’m alone.

I don’t know why I almost cried when my lover said he didn’t like dancing. My mother used to dance forever with me. In a living room with oak that melted like the barn my father burnt down, probably for the insurance money. It was the happiest memory I have of my youth.

I think my favorite lines are “just a come on from the whores on 7th avenue. I do declare I was so lonesome, I took some comfort there.”

How will I live on my own if I don’t work? How will I be a good human if I have no money or opportunities?

Two stink bugs on the window to the right of me–they’ve found each other.

This is poetry. This is tension, and I love this. Sex and drugs. What more could an angst-ridden teen want? It’s kind of scary, all the drugs and the neighbor who beats his wife. But it’s so beautiful. I ache when I hear these words.

I feel too much, don’t I? It bubbles up inside me and I must cut it out.

The Clitoris (by Nikky Finney)

about_photo
is 9 cm deep
in the pelvis,
Most of it is scrunched & hidden
New studies show
the shy curl
to be longer
than the penis,
but like Africa,
the continent,
it is never drawn
to size.
Mapmakers, and the others, who draw
important things for a living,
do not want us to know this.
In some females,
the clitoris stretches,
unfurls,
8 in,
with 2 to 3.5
in, shaft free,
outside the body.
The longest clitoris of record
has been found in the blue whale.
In water
desire can rise,
honor sea levels,
ignore land-locked
cartographers.
In water,
desire  refuses retreat.

Micro-poems

Beard

Let’s fucking paint with that beard,

let’s roll on the hardwood floor.

Cover ourselves with scratchy redness

before we grey and dye.

Hearts

Maybe it is a dead thing, my heart–

or maybe my brain’s to blame, for

my heart is useless–

only keeps me alive

How Grows a Garden

One has not the strength

of a garden

or the breath that makes a man.

Here Are the Four Types of Drunks, According to Science

TIME

You know when you’re out with your friends at a bar, and you’ve all had the same amount to drink, yet one friend is giggling uncontrollably, another is telling a hilarious story to a group of strangers, a third is picking a fight with the bouncer, and the last is talking to the bartender as if those four Jägerbombs never happened? You might have wondered, well, what’s up with that?

Science to the rescue. Psychology researchers from the University of Missouri at Columbia have published a study in Addiction Research & Theory attempting to bring the conventional wisdom that there are many distinct ways to be drunk to its logical, scientifically-based conclusion. Their study, which involved 374 undergraduates at a large Midwestern university, drew from literature and pop culture in order to conclude that there are four types of drinkers: the Mary Poppins, the Ernest Hemingway, the Nutty Professor and…

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No One is Born Gay (or Straight): Here Are 5 Reasons Why

What are your thoughts?

Social (In)Queery

This post has been elaborated here.

1.  Just because an argument is politically strategic, does not make it true:  A couple of years ago, the Human Rights Campaign, arguably the country’s most powerful lesbian and gay organization, responded to politician Herman Cain’s assertion that being gay is a choice.  They asked their members to “Tell Herman Cain to get with the times! Being gay is not a choice!”  They reasoned that Cain’s remarks were “dangerous.”  Why?  “Because implying that homosexuality is a choice gives unwarranted credence to roundly disproven practices such as ‘conversion’ or ‘reparative’ therapy. The risks associated with attempts to consciously change one’s sexual orientation include depression, anxiety and self-destructive behavior.”

Image Cynthia Nixon (right) and wife Christine Marinoni (left)

The problem with such statements is that they infuse biological accounts with an obligatory and nearly coercive force, suggesting that anyone who describes homosexual desire…

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