Also last week, my flatmate and I finally went to the American bar down the King's Road. It was really fun to feel like we were back home and even their Christmas decorations were American.
Monday, December 10, 2012
Christmas Activities
One of my best friends visited me in London last week so I took her to Winter Wonderland to get the Christmas season started.
Also last week, my flatmate and I finally went to the American bar down the King's Road. It was really fun to feel like we were back home and even their Christmas decorations were American.
Also last week, my flatmate and I finally went to the American bar down the King's Road. It was really fun to feel like we were back home and even their Christmas decorations were American.
Monday, November 12, 2012
Whirlwind of life
Too much to process at the moment as my life suddenly takes off with gusto (and a bit of a disturbing sense of humour). I do have some final pictures from Munich to share.
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| We're just a cute couple being casually autumnal in Munich |
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| I move to England, find a British boyfriend, visit British boyfriend while he is living in Germany...and he turns into an American frat boy |
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| My favourite part of Germany is the candy (and chocolate was on sale) |
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| Spencer came to visit and we walked around old buildings |
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| They were probably talking about me |
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| My favourite shopping street in Munich, blue with one of my photo editing app's filters |
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| My photography skills are top-notch, especially when it comes to taking blurry pictures of old buildings and putting filters on them |
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| Look how cool my boyfriend and best friend look with my blurry photograpy |
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| Looking awkward with a lion, very necessary in every European city |
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| Coffee with Spence at a fancy rooftop cafe...guy in the back left over her shoulder kept making awkward eye contact with me |
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| Let's take a cute moment and make it blurry |
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| Looks like they're really excited to read about the statue |
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| Why not take a picture of a weird green lion? |
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| Bottom right to top left, counter-clockwise: Awkward, Almost Cute, Awkward Again, Cute |
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| Blurry art |
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Pictures of Bavaria
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| Just another Sunday afternoon wandering about Europe |
I am visiting Hugh in Germany over the reading week. We took a drive into the countryside of Bavaria to see Neuschwanstein, an old castle that is said to be the inspiration for Disney's Cinderella castle. |
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| The Alpine scenery was just beautiful |
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| Simply cannot be more picturesque. And we had perfect weather. |
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| Hugh is now shopping for a nice Bavarian castle to spruce up...I think I could get used to living in a castle (as long as my dad flies over to install central AC and heating, of course haha) |
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Rambling Life Updates (Photo Free)
As much as I've been enjoying my newfound love of recording my life with pictures, my first love is writing. So here I am, once again, writing about my life. I have a few bits and pieces that I am editing into longer posts for this blog, but for now I just wanted to stop by for a brief update. No editing and agonising over the perfect wording and sentences that are a manageable length. Tonight it's just quick and dirty, bullet points and bad grammar.
- I now have a job nannying for two beautiful baby girls. Obviously I am very happy to have some money coming in as I am incapable of living frugally (In my mind money only exists to be spent...so why not wait to spend money on boring bills when I can spend it on a cute new dress today? Clearly, I have not yet grasped the concept of bills), but I am also very excited to be spending my days with such cuteness. If I ever experience cuteness withdrawal, I start to go a little crazy - like buying kittens or choosing baby names. So this job will keep me in constant supply of cuteness.
- I am once again attempting NaNoWriMo. You have to give me credit for trying after three consecutive failures, each one more pathetic than the one before. Last year I'm not even sure I made it to 5000 words. And yet here I am - another November and another attempt at writing a novel (or at least 50,000 words). I almost can't remember how I did it all those years in high school. This year I have enlisted Hugh to be my wordcount moderator and he has promised to hound me everyday until I make my quota.
- Speaking of Hugh, this whole having a boyfriend thing is actually pretty great. One of the best (and most useful) perks - I get a foolproof wake up call every morning. He knows that I lie when he asks if I'm out of bed so he makes me put the kettle on and brush my teeth while he's on the phone. I am someone who sleeps through multiple alarms and is so braindead before coffee that she will try to lie down 'just for 5 more minutes' even if she's already twenty minutes late for class. So the boyfriend-wake-up-call is just what I need.
- There really isn't that much else going on in my life. I now have 4 different London library cards. Kensington & Chelsea public libraries, Senate House University of London library, King's College library, and the British Library. As someone who loves libraries, I am quite proud of this. I am also proud of my growing number of university cards - Syracuse, Oxford, King's. As I plan on continuing in academia for my career, a collection of university cards is like a CV in my wallet.
- It's snowing in Munich. This isn't an update on my life as I live in London, but Hugh is currently living in Munich so he sent me pictures of his street all covered in snow. It definitely made me miss snow days on the farm - drinking hot cocoa while wrapped in a blanket and watching the snow fall outside the window. Unfortunately it doesn't really snow in London, maybe once a year and then only an inch or so. I guess I can hope for a white Christmas in Maryland. There has been some crazy weather in recent years (blizzards the past two winters and now Frankenstorm) so maybe it's not as unlikely as you would think.
Ok, I'm rambling now. It feels good. I miss this kind of blogging...well, not too much. I think it's still best to edit my rambling down to some coherent thoughts on a single theme. But the occasional ramble through my thicket of unedited thoughts is kind of nice.
- I now have a job nannying for two beautiful baby girls. Obviously I am very happy to have some money coming in as I am incapable of living frugally (In my mind money only exists to be spent...so why not wait to spend money on boring bills when I can spend it on a cute new dress today? Clearly, I have not yet grasped the concept of bills), but I am also very excited to be spending my days with such cuteness. If I ever experience cuteness withdrawal, I start to go a little crazy - like buying kittens or choosing baby names. So this job will keep me in constant supply of cuteness.
- I am once again attempting NaNoWriMo. You have to give me credit for trying after three consecutive failures, each one more pathetic than the one before. Last year I'm not even sure I made it to 5000 words. And yet here I am - another November and another attempt at writing a novel (or at least 50,000 words). I almost can't remember how I did it all those years in high school. This year I have enlisted Hugh to be my wordcount moderator and he has promised to hound me everyday until I make my quota.
- Speaking of Hugh, this whole having a boyfriend thing is actually pretty great. One of the best (and most useful) perks - I get a foolproof wake up call every morning. He knows that I lie when he asks if I'm out of bed so he makes me put the kettle on and brush my teeth while he's on the phone. I am someone who sleeps through multiple alarms and is so braindead before coffee that she will try to lie down 'just for 5 more minutes' even if she's already twenty minutes late for class. So the boyfriend-wake-up-call is just what I need.
- There really isn't that much else going on in my life. I now have 4 different London library cards. Kensington & Chelsea public libraries, Senate House University of London library, King's College library, and the British Library. As someone who loves libraries, I am quite proud of this. I am also proud of my growing number of university cards - Syracuse, Oxford, King's. As I plan on continuing in academia for my career, a collection of university cards is like a CV in my wallet.
- It's snowing in Munich. This isn't an update on my life as I live in London, but Hugh is currently living in Munich so he sent me pictures of his street all covered in snow. It definitely made me miss snow days on the farm - drinking hot cocoa while wrapped in a blanket and watching the snow fall outside the window. Unfortunately it doesn't really snow in London, maybe once a year and then only an inch or so. I guess I can hope for a white Christmas in Maryland. There has been some crazy weather in recent years (blizzards the past two winters and now Frankenstorm) so maybe it's not as unlikely as you would think.
Ok, I'm rambling now. It feels good. I miss this kind of blogging...well, not too much. I think it's still best to edit my rambling down to some coherent thoughts on a single theme. But the occasional ramble through my thicket of unedited thoughts is kind of nice.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
I voted!
After waiting for weeks and weathering a small family drama, my absentee ballot made it to London and I have now voted in my first election. I felt so very American as I filled in the little boxes and never more proud to be one. So now I have done my civic duty and can feel assured that whatever the outcome next week, I cast my vote an did my part in serving our democracy.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Sprucing up the flat
Trying to make this little flat more homey - the Queen, Lady Liberty, and some florals. And now I can watch The West Wing on my new TV.
Monday, October 15, 2012
A weekend
Just some pictures from my wonderful weekend:
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| First, a few little things that made me happy (like the coffee table magazines, the seals on John Lewis bags, Tunnock's Caramel Wafer biscuits, and a cute outfit), |
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| Some good times with friends, driving by Buckingham palace all lit up at night, and (top right) the Pizza Express by my flat that is in a beautiful old building with an archway leading to the courtyard |
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| Finally, a lovely Sunday spent in the country visiting my boyfriend's parents |
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| Hugh and I took a nice long walk through the fields and I picked some wildflowers |
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| Just half an hour on the train to Guildford and then a short drive to the village Shamley Green in the Surrey Hills |
Sunday, October 7, 2012
My Sunday - tea, Hamlet, and praying for a miracle
I'm still feeling quite ill and the mysterious rash on my arm is worse. I have been avoiding the Internet bc once I go online to check symptoms I will always end up convinced that I have some awful, fatal disease.
No sick day for me, though. I'm re-reading Hamlet for what feels like the millionth time. Not that I'm complaining. Except that I had to run up the street to Waterstones (while looking like I had just been released from an insane asylum bc my personal hygiene was so horrible) to buy a new copy as I didn't have one on hand in in England despite owning no less than four copies at home in Baltimore.
I'm also drinking tea from my lucky Lion mug (stolen 4 years ago from a diner on the last morning of Senior Week, the week-long high school graduation party at the beach), which is resting on my intimidatingly thick course pack including all of the required reading for my first module.
Oh, and the big news of the weekend...the Orioles made it through the Wild Card play off and are facing off with the damn Yankees in the ALDS! This is our magic season. And I'm not lying when I say that I've been praying to every god imaginable for the Orioles to keep on winning. That's how much I love this team...and even more than my own devotion, I'm praying for my brother and my dad and my grandfather bc to them Orioles baseball is a religion. And they could really use a miracle. So I'm wearing my Orioles cap and cheering for my team all the way from London.
No sick day for me, though. I'm re-reading Hamlet for what feels like the millionth time. Not that I'm complaining. Except that I had to run up the street to Waterstones (while looking like I had just been released from an insane asylum bc my personal hygiene was so horrible) to buy a new copy as I didn't have one on hand in in England despite owning no less than four copies at home in Baltimore.
I'm also drinking tea from my lucky Lion mug (stolen 4 years ago from a diner on the last morning of Senior Week, the week-long high school graduation party at the beach), which is resting on my intimidatingly thick course pack including all of the required reading for my first module.
Oh, and the big news of the weekend...the Orioles made it through the Wild Card play off and are facing off with the damn Yankees in the ALDS! This is our magic season. And I'm not lying when I say that I've been praying to every god imaginable for the Orioles to keep on winning. That's how much I love this team...and even more than my own devotion, I'm praying for my brother and my dad and my grandfather bc to them Orioles baseball is a religion. And they could really use a miracle. So I'm wearing my Orioles cap and cheering for my team all the way from London.
Saturday, October 6, 2012
Another day
Despite illness I ventured out to the library today. The mess in my flat is just too much to handle but I don't have anywhere to put my clothes and books until my furniture comes from Argos later this week.
I live a few doors down from the Chelsea library here in London, which I take to be sign that I need to stop spending so much money on books. So I registered for a library card and I can now borrow to my heart's content. Except today I only borrowed a CD and DVD.
I was also quite happy with my new comfy outfit. It's not exactly the Chelsea standard, i.e. Sloane Ranger haha
I live a few doors down from the Chelsea library here in London, which I take to be sign that I need to stop spending so much money on books. So I registered for a library card and I can now borrow to my heart's content. Except today I only borrowed a CD and DVD.
I was also quite happy with my new comfy outfit. It's not exactly the Chelsea standard, i.e. Sloane Ranger haha
Friday, October 5, 2012
Londontown
Life is rushing past like the red double decker buses that squeeze past unbelievably close to pedestrians on the sidewalk. I am that pedestrian who jumps back and watches in horror as the passengers on the bus smirk at her through the window.
I have been taking more photos recently and would love to incorporate more visual storytelling on this blog. I made a collage, today. So here are some bits and pieces of my day:
Polite signage, tube reading, colourful socks peeking out, and my two addictions (Diet Coke and Orioles baseball).
I have been taking more photos recently and would love to incorporate more visual storytelling on this blog. I made a collage, today. So here are some bits and pieces of my day:
Polite signage, tube reading, colourful socks peeking out, and my two addictions (Diet Coke and Orioles baseball).
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
In all seriousness...
I know there is nothing wrong with the fact that I use this blog to ramble on about my thoughts and feelings about life. But reading back through my recent posts (most of which aren't particularly recent, but I digress), I don't think this little corner of the blogosphere represents me fully. Yes, I spend a lot of time struggling with anxiety and depression, the disorders that so often rule my life with iron fists. Yes, the enjoyment of young adulthood and contemplation of growing up are a very intimate concerns of mine. Obviously I will be writing about these things. There is nothing wrong with nostalgia or musing about my life. But whenever I look at my blog I gag on my own self-indulgence.
While this blog is a testament to my thoughtful, sentimental inner life, it tends to under-represent another part of my inner life. The part that is deeply invested in politics, closely interacts with literary texts, seriously contemplates literary theory as well as philosophy and psychology, and spends quite a lot of time considering various other intellectual topics. I don't say this to sound intelligent or important or pretentious, although inevitably it will sound that way.
It's ok to say that you have graduated from university and it's nice if you are proud of your degree. To mention that you are proud to have graduated Summa Cum Laude, however, is pretentious. I hate that valuing intelligence is labelled as pretentious. I am really fucking proud of being smart and I don't want to be humorously self-deprecating about it. I'm a nerd and I don't mean that in any cutesy kind of way. I am beginning my post-graduate study in English specialising in the text and transmission of early modern literature and I'm planning to forsake financial security to devote my life to academia. The only part of my undergraduate experience that I enjoyed was my classes. I complained about the workload at Oxford, but the hours I spent reading in the Radcliffe Camera are now some of my fondest memories.
Most of my anxiety stems from the unreachable academic standards I set for myself - in my mind, it doesn't matter that I'm only 21, I expect myself to be writing essays as intellectually sophisticated as the articles written by tenured professors that I reference from scholarly journals. I am proud to say I went to Syracuse University, but I am applying to top tier universities for my PhD study (Harvard, Oxford, etc.) because I want to surround myself with the best literary thinkers in the world. I am committed to becoming a serious writer - in my creative writing I aspire to write meaningful works of art, and most of all, I wish to contribute something important to the reading and writing of literature. I pride myself on being intelligent, even if my mind is not the most impressive you will ever find*. The fact that I value intelligence and seriousness is a very important part of my identity. I don't care if it means I'm pretentious.
All of this is to say, that there's a seriousness to me that I wish I could share here. But for some reason I don't bring the serious side of my personality or interests to this blog. I find that I can't write about this article I read about American politics or this one about the state of American poetry today or this one about balancing the purposeful and the beautiful when writing sentences. Mainly because I don't want to sound pretentious.
I can't promise that this blog will suddenly become very intellectual and sophisticated. It probably won't. But this blog is a representation of me and at the moment I feel like it's full of Pip while lacking Rosalee**. So I guess what I'm trying to say is that I like to be serious sometimes and I don't think there's anything wrong with that***.
*I'm smart, I'm not a genius. I have no delusions of grandeur. I hold myself to standards that I know are well beyond my means. The title of this blog is massively ironic.
**Very convenient that I have two names, isn't it? My therapist says that I shouldn't treat my different names as separate identities...but I've always relied heavily on compartmentalising my life. England and America, school and home, internet and "real" life, my depression and the exterior I present to the outside world, etc.
***Yeah yeah yeah. Cue The Joker reference: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F_5dP_83O7o
While this blog is a testament to my thoughtful, sentimental inner life, it tends to under-represent another part of my inner life. The part that is deeply invested in politics, closely interacts with literary texts, seriously contemplates literary theory as well as philosophy and psychology, and spends quite a lot of time considering various other intellectual topics. I don't say this to sound intelligent or important or pretentious, although inevitably it will sound that way.
It's ok to say that you have graduated from university and it's nice if you are proud of your degree. To mention that you are proud to have graduated Summa Cum Laude, however, is pretentious. I hate that valuing intelligence is labelled as pretentious. I am really fucking proud of being smart and I don't want to be humorously self-deprecating about it. I'm a nerd and I don't mean that in any cutesy kind of way. I am beginning my post-graduate study in English specialising in the text and transmission of early modern literature and I'm planning to forsake financial security to devote my life to academia. The only part of my undergraduate experience that I enjoyed was my classes. I complained about the workload at Oxford, but the hours I spent reading in the Radcliffe Camera are now some of my fondest memories.
Most of my anxiety stems from the unreachable academic standards I set for myself - in my mind, it doesn't matter that I'm only 21, I expect myself to be writing essays as intellectually sophisticated as the articles written by tenured professors that I reference from scholarly journals. I am proud to say I went to Syracuse University, but I am applying to top tier universities for my PhD study (Harvard, Oxford, etc.) because I want to surround myself with the best literary thinkers in the world. I am committed to becoming a serious writer - in my creative writing I aspire to write meaningful works of art, and most of all, I wish to contribute something important to the reading and writing of literature. I pride myself on being intelligent, even if my mind is not the most impressive you will ever find*. The fact that I value intelligence and seriousness is a very important part of my identity. I don't care if it means I'm pretentious.
All of this is to say, that there's a seriousness to me that I wish I could share here. But for some reason I don't bring the serious side of my personality or interests to this blog. I find that I can't write about this article I read about American politics or this one about the state of American poetry today or this one about balancing the purposeful and the beautiful when writing sentences. Mainly because I don't want to sound pretentious.
I can't promise that this blog will suddenly become very intellectual and sophisticated. It probably won't. But this blog is a representation of me and at the moment I feel like it's full of Pip while lacking Rosalee**. So I guess what I'm trying to say is that I like to be serious sometimes and I don't think there's anything wrong with that***.
*I'm smart, I'm not a genius. I have no delusions of grandeur. I hold myself to standards that I know are well beyond my means. The title of this blog is massively ironic.
**Very convenient that I have two names, isn't it? My therapist says that I shouldn't treat my different names as separate identities...but I've always relied heavily on compartmentalising my life. England and America, school and home, internet and "real" life, my depression and the exterior I present to the outside world, etc.
***Yeah yeah yeah. Cue The Joker reference: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F_5dP_83O7o
Monday, September 3, 2012
Coping with uncertainty
I have been reading poetry. And whilst reading poems such as this one, I found myself wanting to write. Yet, no matter how hard I try, I cannot make heads or tails of this mess I call my life. So here I am. Once again I have lines of poetry tumbling about in my head as I try to make sense of it all...
"I believe in the violence of not knowing."
In my experience it is very, very violent. And on nights such as this I almost cannot withstand the violence.
I spent the evening at a family reunion. Although I would suggest the title be changed to something more accurate such as "depressing reminder of how diminished family has become" because these events only serve to show us just how far removed we have become to each other. We are not united except in time and place and expense ($24 a person, check made out to Angela). And blood, I suppose. But family, it seems, has now become a reductionist concept. A family is now merely the sum of its individuals, gathered together at a family reunion, counted and catalogued, each check processed for membership. Most of all such events are a reminder of how a union of blood does not equate to a union of any other substance. Although this family reunion was also a reminder of just how much people change over the course of four years. And I suppose my cynicism regarding a reductionist concept of family is merely a response to this. We don't know each other. What a depressing reality.
This family reunion was also reminder of just how much I detest such events. A reminder of why I've always chosen to keep a distance between my family and myself. Because, of course, it was another a reminder of just how uncertain my life has become. So uncertain that I cannot adequately answer the questions required for the basic familial catch-up or catalogue. How many times this evening did I have to answer questions about my future? Too many times to count. $24 dollars for cole slaw, crab dip, cookies, strawberries, a dozen comments about how much I look like my sister/my mother/my aunt, and even more questions about what I plan on doing with my life. And, as always, all of my answers were unacceptable for my family.
I wish I could just quote a poem to all of my relatives instead of attempting any answers to the questions of my life. All I have to understand my life is poetry*. How am I supposed to explain it to an almost stranger who happens to share my blood and therefore a curiosity about my life?
What are you doing this year? What will you be studying? Where will you be living? How are you paying for it all? What about after school? - "I do not believe things are reborn in fire. I believe they're consumed by fire, and the fire has a life of its own."
Oh really? Are you sure? - No, goddamn it. Of course not.
The answers I could produce were met with sceptical looks. And I just wanted to tell them that, I'm sorry but I have no fucking clue what I am doing with my life. I can't sleep because I am kept awake by the nervousness carried in the wind. And this not knowing, this uncertainty, is so goddamn violent. I can only hope that this fire is cleansing as well as consuming. I just wish I were stronger, for whatever comes next.
And so I will continue to read poetry, because maybe I'll find a poem that will give me strength enough to withstand the not knowing. That's all I can do, all anyone can do - cope with the uncertainty.
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*says the poor English graduate student as tears silently fall onto her Macbook while pouring her heart out on her pathetic little blog that she thinks is a worthwhile outlet for expressing her profound emotions, which are (of course) expressed in prose worthy of a Pulitzer Prize.
"I believe in the violence of not knowing."
In my experience it is very, very violent. And on nights such as this I almost cannot withstand the violence.
I spent the evening at a family reunion. Although I would suggest the title be changed to something more accurate such as "depressing reminder of how diminished family has become" because these events only serve to show us just how far removed we have become to each other. We are not united except in time and place and expense ($24 a person, check made out to Angela). And blood, I suppose. But family, it seems, has now become a reductionist concept. A family is now merely the sum of its individuals, gathered together at a family reunion, counted and catalogued, each check processed for membership. Most of all such events are a reminder of how a union of blood does not equate to a union of any other substance. Although this family reunion was also a reminder of just how much people change over the course of four years. And I suppose my cynicism regarding a reductionist concept of family is merely a response to this. We don't know each other. What a depressing reality.
This family reunion was also reminder of just how much I detest such events. A reminder of why I've always chosen to keep a distance between my family and myself. Because, of course, it was another a reminder of just how uncertain my life has become. So uncertain that I cannot adequately answer the questions required for the basic familial catch-up or catalogue. How many times this evening did I have to answer questions about my future? Too many times to count. $24 dollars for cole slaw, crab dip, cookies, strawberries, a dozen comments about how much I look like my sister/my mother/my aunt, and even more questions about what I plan on doing with my life. And, as always, all of my answers were unacceptable for my family.
I wish I could just quote a poem to all of my relatives instead of attempting any answers to the questions of my life. All I have to understand my life is poetry*. How am I supposed to explain it to an almost stranger who happens to share my blood and therefore a curiosity about my life?
What are you doing this year? What will you be studying? Where will you be living? How are you paying for it all? What about after school? - "I do not believe things are reborn in fire. I believe they're consumed by fire, and the fire has a life of its own."
Oh really? Are you sure? - No, goddamn it. Of course not.
The answers I could produce were met with sceptical looks. And I just wanted to tell them that, I'm sorry but I have no fucking clue what I am doing with my life. I can't sleep because I am kept awake by the nervousness carried in the wind. And this not knowing, this uncertainty, is so goddamn violent. I can only hope that this fire is cleansing as well as consuming. I just wish I were stronger, for whatever comes next.
And so I will continue to read poetry, because maybe I'll find a poem that will give me strength enough to withstand the not knowing. That's all I can do, all anyone can do - cope with the uncertainty.
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*says the poor English graduate student as tears silently fall onto her Macbook while pouring her heart out on her pathetic little blog that she thinks is a worthwhile outlet for expressing her profound emotions, which are (of course) expressed in prose worthy of a Pulitzer Prize.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Well, hello again little blog!
I have been neglecting this humble little corner of the internet that I call my personal blog. I don't really have much of an excuse except for the usual "I was busy; life is complicated; zombies; school comes first; I was struggling with crippling anxiety and depression; I am lazy; I was fighting the Silence; I graduated and am preparing to move to London; etc."
But here I am again. Back on the purple couch, watching old re-runs of Friends that I've seen dozens of times before. Well, I'll be here for the next two weeks at least. Then I really am flying to England to start my Masters and King's College, London. It will be the second time I'll be moving to England...this time I don't really have any plans to return. That is pretty darn scary. I haven't exactly stopped to comprehend this huge life event, but I'm sure I'll be back here in about a month with lots to say on the matter.
The news from my world: I am graduated; I am starting my Masters in a month; I am applying to PhD programs for next year; I have a new boyfriend; I am broke; and, most importantly, I have completed the 50 Books Challenge and have now read 56 books this year.
I suppose each of those things could use its own blog post but I don't have the patience for such an endeavour at the moment. Instead I will just continue on as if I were never absent and record my life as I always do, with no routine or reason for my rambling.
Today I only have this poem to share. I didn't write it...although I have been considering whether or not to post some of my own poems here. This poem is just very nice and I wanted to share something in this post so it isn't just a worthless "apology for being away" post. Now it is a poem appreciation post.
I like this poem because it captures the moments that are saturated with something we can't see or touch or understand, but we know something's there. Those are the moments we are most human.
Categories of Understanding by Catherine Barnett
I'm studying the unspoken.
"What?" my son asks.
"What are you looking at?"
But there is no explaining,
I can only speak the way light
falls, the way the cotton sheet
lays itself over his sleeping or resting
or dissolving body, touching him with
its ephemera, its oblivion.
But here I am again. Back on the purple couch, watching old re-runs of Friends that I've seen dozens of times before. Well, I'll be here for the next two weeks at least. Then I really am flying to England to start my Masters and King's College, London. It will be the second time I'll be moving to England...this time I don't really have any plans to return. That is pretty darn scary. I haven't exactly stopped to comprehend this huge life event, but I'm sure I'll be back here in about a month with lots to say on the matter.
The news from my world: I am graduated; I am starting my Masters in a month; I am applying to PhD programs for next year; I have a new boyfriend; I am broke; and, most importantly, I have completed the 50 Books Challenge and have now read 56 books this year.
I suppose each of those things could use its own blog post but I don't have the patience for such an endeavour at the moment. Instead I will just continue on as if I were never absent and record my life as I always do, with no routine or reason for my rambling.
Today I only have this poem to share. I didn't write it...although I have been considering whether or not to post some of my own poems here. This poem is just very nice and I wanted to share something in this post so it isn't just a worthless "apology for being away" post. Now it is a poem appreciation post.
I like this poem because it captures the moments that are saturated with something we can't see or touch or understand, but we know something's there. Those are the moments we are most human.
Categories of Understanding by Catherine Barnett
I'm studying the unspoken.
"What?" my son asks.
"What are you looking at?"
But there is no explaining,
I can only speak the way light
falls, the way the cotton sheet
lays itself over his sleeping or resting
or dissolving body, touching him with
its ephemera, its oblivion.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Yes, I know I'm supposed to be reading James Joyce right now.
In my last post, I talk about how I've been remembering my high school years a lot recently. It's nice to be able to look back on my teenage years in a positive light and I know it's because the the distance has let some of the painful memories fade. And so I keep telling myself that if I just wait patiently, eventually the painful memories of the past three years of my life will also fade. Hopefully one day I will be able to look back on my college years with fondness as well. But the truth is that, right now, that day feels a light-year away.
I am trying to graduate this summer and so I have been working with SU to get everything sorted out. It's been a frustrating mess of paperwork, annoying emails, and unhelpful administrators. This whole ordeal has also meant that, for the past month, my thoughts have been constantly forced back to SU. I keep reliving all of the painful memories from the two years I spent on its campus. Obviously this has not been a pleasant experience - I do not like to dwell on the past; I want to move on with my life. But I can't. Not until I have completed a Bachelor of Arts degree.
The whole process has been emotionally exhausting. And I just keep thinking, This isn't how graduation is supposed to feel. Graduating from college should be happy and exciting. My parents' eyes should be filling with tears of pride and joy as they watch me receive my diploma - their baby all grown up, all four of their children college graduates. But instead I just get headaches and an onslaught of sad memories.
What upsets me the most about graduation is that I don't have any happy memories of my college years to look back on. I didn't get the fun, crazy college experience - parties, friends, Greek life, school spirit, drunken embarrassment, and debauchery. Instead I just got crazy - depression, depression, a little bit of substance abuse, more depression, anxiety attacks, and expensive psychiatry bills. It's like if the show Greek had been made by the creators of The Wire. I had the same college lifestyle of parties, alcohol, drugs, sex, etc. but there was no rosy, ABC/Disney glow. Instead it was cast in bleak, gritty HBO realism.
And even though I've moved on - I've moved to England and life is good. I can't help feeling upset. I feel like I'm fourteen again crying because my parents wouldn't let me go to the school dance - I feel like stomping my feet and screaming, It's just not fair!
Now, I probably wouldn't have had fun at the dance. I was nerdy and unpopular and girls in middle school were vicious. I probably would have been miserable - no one would have wanted to dance with me, hell I would have been too awkward and scared to dance. But in my mind I imagined everyone at the dance without me having a jolly good time - it was a scene straight from a Disney movie starring Hilary Duff.
And I know the same is true about the college experience - I'm not missing out on anything important and I have this unrealistic, fantasised idea of what if is supposed to be like. But I see all of my friends on Facebook from Syracuse and elsewhere posting updates from their own college experiences and they all seem happy. I talk to my best friends from home who go to UMD and W&M and other colleges like SU and they tell me stories of their fun shenanigans. Yes, there's stress and other un-fun things thrown in, but they keep saying how they don't want to be seniors and have it all end. They love college - they made life-long friends and hilarious memories.
I missed out on all of that. I'm happy to be graduating. I just want college to end so I can move on with my life. It hurts to look back on my college experience - I only see pain and heartbreak and lost friendships - and that's not fair. I should have had four years of stupid, drunken memories. It's not fair that my depression took my college years and turned them into a depressing, HBO drama (maybe it's critically acclaimed but no one watches The Wire to cheer up and remember the good ole days of their youth)
I am trying to graduate this summer and so I have been working with SU to get everything sorted out. It's been a frustrating mess of paperwork, annoying emails, and unhelpful administrators. This whole ordeal has also meant that, for the past month, my thoughts have been constantly forced back to SU. I keep reliving all of the painful memories from the two years I spent on its campus. Obviously this has not been a pleasant experience - I do not like to dwell on the past; I want to move on with my life. But I can't. Not until I have completed a Bachelor of Arts degree.
The whole process has been emotionally exhausting. And I just keep thinking, This isn't how graduation is supposed to feel. Graduating from college should be happy and exciting. My parents' eyes should be filling with tears of pride and joy as they watch me receive my diploma - their baby all grown up, all four of their children college graduates. But instead I just get headaches and an onslaught of sad memories.
What upsets me the most about graduation is that I don't have any happy memories of my college years to look back on. I didn't get the fun, crazy college experience - parties, friends, Greek life, school spirit, drunken embarrassment, and debauchery. Instead I just got crazy - depression, depression, a little bit of substance abuse, more depression, anxiety attacks, and expensive psychiatry bills. It's like if the show Greek had been made by the creators of The Wire. I had the same college lifestyle of parties, alcohol, drugs, sex, etc. but there was no rosy, ABC/Disney glow. Instead it was cast in bleak, gritty HBO realism.
And even though I've moved on - I've moved to England and life is good. I can't help feeling upset. I feel like I'm fourteen again crying because my parents wouldn't let me go to the school dance - I feel like stomping my feet and screaming, It's just not fair!
Now, I probably wouldn't have had fun at the dance. I was nerdy and unpopular and girls in middle school were vicious. I probably would have been miserable - no one would have wanted to dance with me, hell I would have been too awkward and scared to dance. But in my mind I imagined everyone at the dance without me having a jolly good time - it was a scene straight from a Disney movie starring Hilary Duff.
And I know the same is true about the college experience - I'm not missing out on anything important and I have this unrealistic, fantasised idea of what if is supposed to be like. But I see all of my friends on Facebook from Syracuse and elsewhere posting updates from their own college experiences and they all seem happy. I talk to my best friends from home who go to UMD and W&M and other colleges like SU and they tell me stories of their fun shenanigans. Yes, there's stress and other un-fun things thrown in, but they keep saying how they don't want to be seniors and have it all end. They love college - they made life-long friends and hilarious memories.
I missed out on all of that. I'm happy to be graduating. I just want college to end so I can move on with my life. It hurts to look back on my college experience - I only see pain and heartbreak and lost friendships - and that's not fair. I should have had four years of stupid, drunken memories. It's not fair that my depression took my college years and turned them into a depressing, HBO drama (maybe it's critically acclaimed but no one watches The Wire to cheer up and remember the good ole days of their youth)
Saturday, April 14, 2012
I will continue on.
I have been thinking a lot about my high school years (and even a few musings on middle school). It is a side-effect of music.
Since I have been keeping up a music blog, I've been going through my music library every day looking for songs to share. Yes, I listen to a lot of new music and I love discovering new bands (I follow about a dozen, proper indie music blogs, I check Pitchfork and sift through HypeMachine every day). But on my own little music blog, that I really treat as one long playlist, I find myself only posting songs that I really love. And I've noticed that about 75% of my music that falls into the 'really love' category is from my high school and middle school years.
I know they say that smell is the sense most closely related to memory. But I think music is an even stronger link to our pasts. I hear the opening chords of Neutral Milk Hotel's album In the Aeroplane over the Sea and I am transported back to the winter of seventh grade - I remember exactly how I discovered the album. Neutral Milk Hotel, Death Cab for Cutie, The Shins, The Decemberists, Elliott Smith, Ben Folds, Pedro the Lion. Those bands were my solid foundation of indie music, all discovered in middle school. A song from Chutes Too Narrow or Castaways and Cutouts or Control or Figure 8 or Songs for Silverman comes up on shuffle and I am immediately an awkward, nerdy middle-school girl.
The music from high school is just as powerful - The Avett Brothers, Iron & Wine, Belle & Sebastian, Spoon, Jason Mraz, Regina Spektor, The Mountain Goats, Sufjan Stevens, The Hush Sound, Tegan & Sara.
Music from senior year - Vampire Weekend, Bon Iver, Laura Marling, Dan Deacon, Ra Ra Riot - and the summer after graduation - Dirty Projectors, Good Old War, Passion Pit, woodpigeon, Florence & the Machine, Phoenix, The XX - is the most potent.
So I thought I would do a playlist of memories for today's post*.
1. Bend to Squares - Death Cab for Cutie
Listening to this album almost every day after school in 7th grade when I was home alone with new puppies Birdie and Goosie.
2. Young Pilgrims - The Shins
Writing my first awful awful awful novel at the old desktop computer when I was 14, minimising the Word document whenever anyone walked in the room
3. Landed - Ben Folds
Packing up my grandmother's house in Long Island summer after 8th grade, sleeping in my mother's childhood bedroom, finishing Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy, the sound of the trains going by on the Long Island Rail Road
4. We Intertwined - The Hush Sound
Waking up at 6am sophomore year of high school to wait in line for Gym Meet tickets
5. Canonball - Damien Rice
Crying in the DMV on the day I got my driver's license...
6. Frozen - Tegan & Sara
Stopping for the cows to cross the road while driving to school junior year, I went through a serious T&S phase junior year of high school
7. Jenny - The Mountain Goats
In the Blockbuster parking lot with Jocie on a summer evening and introducing her to the greatness of John Darnielle
8. Oxford Comma - Vampire Weekend
Driving down country roads (mostly to Jocie's house) the summer before senior year - I listened to this album every time I drove anywhere that summer
9. Be OK - Ingrid Michaelson
Eating chocolate chip pancakes at Jocie's house and dancing around her living room
10. Scar Tissue - Red Hot Chili Peppers
Driving home with Johnny and his friends from a party in high school, a car full of boys, feeling scared and exhilarated because they drove too fast but loving every second of being young and rebellious
11. Can You Tell - Ra Ra Riot
Driving to Syracuse with Jocie to visit the campus for the first time after being accepted in the spring of senior year
12. Sleepyhead - Passion Pit
Parties the summer after high school with Johnny's crew - hot summer nights, smoking my first cigarettes, the freedom of being 18 with no curfew, my first experiences with drugs
13. Skinny Love - Bon Iver
About a hundred memories with this song - stopping in the reservoir on the way home from school one winter's afternoon in senior year - losing my virginity a week after graduation - slow dancing with a boy alone in his room the first week of college - smoke breaks in the snow outside Day Hall, my freshman dorm
14. Falling Awake - Gary Jules
Crying alone outside the dorm at midnight when Johnny was in the hospital, freezing because it was February in Syracuse
15. When My Time Comes - Dawes
Riding the bus to classes through the blizzard of December 2010 in Syracuse, the bus full of students going to morning classes, everyone bundled in big North Face parkas
16. Fool - Cat Power
Driving to my shrink every Wednesday night, depressed and scared, stopping at Wegmans on the way back for gummy bears
17. Said and Done - Jeff Pianski
Right now and the past month, alone in Oxford after Tom broke up with me
*This playlist doesn't include all of my favourite songs or even the songs that are most meaningful to me. These are just songs that come with a very specific memory attached.
Since I have been keeping up a music blog, I've been going through my music library every day looking for songs to share. Yes, I listen to a lot of new music and I love discovering new bands (I follow about a dozen, proper indie music blogs, I check Pitchfork and sift through HypeMachine every day). But on my own little music blog, that I really treat as one long playlist, I find myself only posting songs that I really love. And I've noticed that about 75% of my music that falls into the 'really love' category is from my high school and middle school years.
I know they say that smell is the sense most closely related to memory. But I think music is an even stronger link to our pasts. I hear the opening chords of Neutral Milk Hotel's album In the Aeroplane over the Sea and I am transported back to the winter of seventh grade - I remember exactly how I discovered the album. Neutral Milk Hotel, Death Cab for Cutie, The Shins, The Decemberists, Elliott Smith, Ben Folds, Pedro the Lion. Those bands were my solid foundation of indie music, all discovered in middle school. A song from Chutes Too Narrow or Castaways and Cutouts or Control or Figure 8 or Songs for Silverman comes up on shuffle and I am immediately an awkward, nerdy middle-school girl.
The music from high school is just as powerful - The Avett Brothers, Iron & Wine, Belle & Sebastian, Spoon, Jason Mraz, Regina Spektor, The Mountain Goats, Sufjan Stevens, The Hush Sound, Tegan & Sara.
Music from senior year - Vampire Weekend, Bon Iver, Laura Marling, Dan Deacon, Ra Ra Riot - and the summer after graduation - Dirty Projectors, Good Old War, Passion Pit, woodpigeon, Florence & the Machine, Phoenix, The XX - is the most potent.
So I thought I would do a playlist of memories for today's post*.
1. Bend to Squares - Death Cab for Cutie
Listening to this album almost every day after school in 7th grade when I was home alone with new puppies Birdie and Goosie.
2. Young Pilgrims - The Shins
Writing my first awful awful awful novel at the old desktop computer when I was 14, minimising the Word document whenever anyone walked in the room
3. Landed - Ben Folds
Packing up my grandmother's house in Long Island summer after 8th grade, sleeping in my mother's childhood bedroom, finishing Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy, the sound of the trains going by on the Long Island Rail Road
4. We Intertwined - The Hush Sound
Waking up at 6am sophomore year of high school to wait in line for Gym Meet tickets
5. Canonball - Damien Rice
Crying in the DMV on the day I got my driver's license...
6. Frozen - Tegan & Sara
Stopping for the cows to cross the road while driving to school junior year, I went through a serious T&S phase junior year of high school
7. Jenny - The Mountain Goats
In the Blockbuster parking lot with Jocie on a summer evening and introducing her to the greatness of John Darnielle
8. Oxford Comma - Vampire Weekend
Driving down country roads (mostly to Jocie's house) the summer before senior year - I listened to this album every time I drove anywhere that summer
9. Be OK - Ingrid Michaelson
Eating chocolate chip pancakes at Jocie's house and dancing around her living room
10. Scar Tissue - Red Hot Chili Peppers
Driving home with Johnny and his friends from a party in high school, a car full of boys, feeling scared and exhilarated because they drove too fast but loving every second of being young and rebellious
11. Can You Tell - Ra Ra Riot
Driving to Syracuse with Jocie to visit the campus for the first time after being accepted in the spring of senior year
12. Sleepyhead - Passion Pit
Parties the summer after high school with Johnny's crew - hot summer nights, smoking my first cigarettes, the freedom of being 18 with no curfew, my first experiences with drugs
13. Skinny Love - Bon Iver
About a hundred memories with this song - stopping in the reservoir on the way home from school one winter's afternoon in senior year - losing my virginity a week after graduation - slow dancing with a boy alone in his room the first week of college - smoke breaks in the snow outside Day Hall, my freshman dorm
14. Falling Awake - Gary Jules
Crying alone outside the dorm at midnight when Johnny was in the hospital, freezing because it was February in Syracuse
15. When My Time Comes - Dawes
Riding the bus to classes through the blizzard of December 2010 in Syracuse, the bus full of students going to morning classes, everyone bundled in big North Face parkas
16. Fool - Cat Power
Driving to my shrink every Wednesday night, depressed and scared, stopping at Wegmans on the way back for gummy bears
17. Said and Done - Jeff Pianski
Right now and the past month, alone in Oxford after Tom broke up with me
*This playlist doesn't include all of my favourite songs or even the songs that are most meaningful to me. These are just songs that come with a very specific memory attached.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
BEDA died and has now reincarnated as BMFA (blogging more frequently in April)
Why does life involve so much goddamn paperwork?
All I want to do is graduate this summer. I started college with a semester's worth of credit toward my degree from AP classes in high school. Now, I am starting my seventh term of university courses. That should account for the 8 semesters required for graduation, but instead I have to take a full course-load this summer to fulfil a whole bunch of bullshit requirements. And in order to have all of my credits count toward my degree, I need to fill out a mountain of paperwork. Oh and it all has to be sent to and from my American university via email because I am currently living in a different time zone.
Also, I am filling out grad school applications - that means references and transcripts and personal statements.
Oh and I need medical treatment and a prescription for certain drugs. Well, that's just more paperwork - passport, letters from my Oxford college, proof of residence in the UK.
Everything, it seems, comes down to paperwork. And I am so fucking sick of it all.
All I want to do is graduate this summer. I started college with a semester's worth of credit toward my degree from AP classes in high school. Now, I am starting my seventh term of university courses. That should account for the 8 semesters required for graduation, but instead I have to take a full course-load this summer to fulfil a whole bunch of bullshit requirements. And in order to have all of my credits count toward my degree, I need to fill out a mountain of paperwork. Oh and it all has to be sent to and from my American university via email because I am currently living in a different time zone.
Also, I am filling out grad school applications - that means references and transcripts and personal statements.
Oh and I need medical treatment and a prescription for certain drugs. Well, that's just more paperwork - passport, letters from my Oxford college, proof of residence in the UK.
Everything, it seems, comes down to paperwork. And I am so fucking sick of it all.
Friday, April 6, 2012
Concerning Parents and Children
My father writes emails as if he were quoting poetry in MLA format. / Like this. / Each thought is made separate. / And sometimes it is surprisingly poetic. / As if he could be channelling E. E. Cummings. / It is an endearing quirk of a man I wish I could understand. / I know little things like this that make me so sad. / Because the man who writes his emails in such an avant-garde fashion was not the man I knew growing up. / I'm not sure I can remember the man I knew growing up. / There are too many hurt feelings...
Tonight, I received an email from my father that made me cry. In two lines that could be poetry, he finally said what I knew all along: "sometimes i think we are the opposite of 'helicopter parents' / we did this on purpose, now i regret this"
-----------------
It is a traditional trope of psycho-therapy to "blame" the parents. I spend quite a bit of time discussing my mother with shrinks. The experience has caused me great terror of my own future as a parent. One of the things I know in my heart is that I want to be a mother some day, but it is a terrifying desire - parents can really screw up their kids.
My relationship with my parents, especially with my mother but also with the man of the quirky emails, is fraught with unspoken resentments and disappointments. I do not "blame" my parents for any of the pain I have gone through over the past half dozen years. Depression isn't caused by bad parenting. The only way I could place "blame" on my parents is for the genes that gave me this illness - my grandmother and my mother have suffered clinical depression, one of my brothers was hospitalised for mental health reasons.
I don't blame my parents, but they weren't perfect. A fundamental part of growing up and becoming an adult is accepting the fact that our parents are flawed human beings. Mommy and Daddy are also Laurie and Vince. But a part of me always wanted them to remain Mommy and Daddy - the people meant to make me feel loved and safe. My fractured relationship with my parents came from that visceral need remaining unfulfilled for the latter half of my childhood. Growing up I felt that burning desire for Mommy and Daddy to love me and protect me and make me feel better, especially while I was hurting so much; but they failed me. They were distant and I felt as if there were an ocean of overlooked feelings separating them from me. But I know now that I failed, too. And I can't dwell on that feeling of disappointment in my parents, because my parents are only human and there isn't anything I can do or say now to change the past.
I am reflecting on all of this tonight because this week I have once again been struggling. I am returning to regular treatment with a psychiatrist here in Oxford and I had to email my mother to ask for money to pay for the sessions. Sending that email, admitting weakness again, was hard for me. When I had a serious breakdown last year, it was only my brother threatening to tell my parents that finally forced me to tell the truth and admit my depression to them. Telling my mother that I was very seriously depressed and planning to kill myself was a million times harder than telling the school counsellor. Even throughout my treatment I've struggled with being honest with my parents - I wouldn't talk to my mother until I had to beg to be picked up from school and taken home because I couldn't handle it all. Now living an actual ocean away, I still can't talk to my parents so much so that I only mentioned returning to therapy in a post script to an email about summer classes. An email post script.
I know my parents are as supportive as they can be - when my brother was hospitalised they were very strong and comforting to him despite experiencing marital problems; when I had my difficulties last year they were understanding and I know they really tried...
I remember that first night after I came home from school - I was broken into little pieces of myself, a ghost version of their daughter; my mother looked heartbroken as she helped me carry my suitcase into the house. After I unpacked and showered, I put on baggy sweats that hid how much weight I had lost in that past month and went downstairs to find my mother washing dishes in the kitchen. She watched me as I sat at the breakfast table and flipped through one of her interior design magazines.
You know - she said -your father and I just want you to be happy.
I know. I'm trying.
She went back to washing dishes. And then - I just wish you didn't have to try so hard.
Me too, Mom.
She was silent for a few minutes as she continued washing up, her final chore of a long day.
It's like the song. - she said - Don't Worry, Be Happy.
I couldn't laugh because at that point I was numb, only a shell of a person. All I could handle was breathing, I wasn't strong enough for feeling.
Now when I look back on that memory I smile even though it breaks my heart, because it reminds me that my mother is funny. Sometimes her sense of humour can be unkind to her children, a trait I could never understand in a mother. But then I also know that she falls back on humour when she doesn't know what to say. And in that moment, she was a mother witnessing a child come home broken for the second time in one year, the memory of my brother's hospitalisation still fresh in her mind. She was feeling helpless and no doubt very scared. But she couldn't express any of that except through a little joke to try in the simplest way to make her daughter feel better.
-----------------
And so it is very sad for me to read in my father's email that he regrets that he and my mother were distant parents. And it is bizarre for me to find out that it was a conscious decision. I know my grandfather was overbearing and my father has had a very rocky relationship with him because of it. But in trying not to repeat his own father's mistakes, he made his own. Because growing up I would have done anything for overbearing, "helicopter" parents. At least then I would have known they cared.
Tonight, I received an email from my father that made me cry. In two lines that could be poetry, he finally said what I knew all along: "sometimes i think we are the opposite of 'helicopter parents' / we did this on purpose, now i regret this"
-----------------
It is a traditional trope of psycho-therapy to "blame" the parents. I spend quite a bit of time discussing my mother with shrinks. The experience has caused me great terror of my own future as a parent. One of the things I know in my heart is that I want to be a mother some day, but it is a terrifying desire - parents can really screw up their kids.
My relationship with my parents, especially with my mother but also with the man of the quirky emails, is fraught with unspoken resentments and disappointments. I do not "blame" my parents for any of the pain I have gone through over the past half dozen years. Depression isn't caused by bad parenting. The only way I could place "blame" on my parents is for the genes that gave me this illness - my grandmother and my mother have suffered clinical depression, one of my brothers was hospitalised for mental health reasons.
I don't blame my parents, but they weren't perfect. A fundamental part of growing up and becoming an adult is accepting the fact that our parents are flawed human beings. Mommy and Daddy are also Laurie and Vince. But a part of me always wanted them to remain Mommy and Daddy - the people meant to make me feel loved and safe. My fractured relationship with my parents came from that visceral need remaining unfulfilled for the latter half of my childhood. Growing up I felt that burning desire for Mommy and Daddy to love me and protect me and make me feel better, especially while I was hurting so much; but they failed me. They were distant and I felt as if there were an ocean of overlooked feelings separating them from me. But I know now that I failed, too. And I can't dwell on that feeling of disappointment in my parents, because my parents are only human and there isn't anything I can do or say now to change the past.
I am reflecting on all of this tonight because this week I have once again been struggling. I am returning to regular treatment with a psychiatrist here in Oxford and I had to email my mother to ask for money to pay for the sessions. Sending that email, admitting weakness again, was hard for me. When I had a serious breakdown last year, it was only my brother threatening to tell my parents that finally forced me to tell the truth and admit my depression to them. Telling my mother that I was very seriously depressed and planning to kill myself was a million times harder than telling the school counsellor. Even throughout my treatment I've struggled with being honest with my parents - I wouldn't talk to my mother until I had to beg to be picked up from school and taken home because I couldn't handle it all. Now living an actual ocean away, I still can't talk to my parents so much so that I only mentioned returning to therapy in a post script to an email about summer classes. An email post script.
I know my parents are as supportive as they can be - when my brother was hospitalised they were very strong and comforting to him despite experiencing marital problems; when I had my difficulties last year they were understanding and I know they really tried...
I remember that first night after I came home from school - I was broken into little pieces of myself, a ghost version of their daughter; my mother looked heartbroken as she helped me carry my suitcase into the house. After I unpacked and showered, I put on baggy sweats that hid how much weight I had lost in that past month and went downstairs to find my mother washing dishes in the kitchen. She watched me as I sat at the breakfast table and flipped through one of her interior design magazines.
You know - she said -your father and I just want you to be happy.
I know. I'm trying.
She went back to washing dishes. And then - I just wish you didn't have to try so hard.
Me too, Mom.
She was silent for a few minutes as she continued washing up, her final chore of a long day.
It's like the song. - she said - Don't Worry, Be Happy.
I couldn't laugh because at that point I was numb, only a shell of a person. All I could handle was breathing, I wasn't strong enough for feeling.
Now when I look back on that memory I smile even though it breaks my heart, because it reminds me that my mother is funny. Sometimes her sense of humour can be unkind to her children, a trait I could never understand in a mother. But then I also know that she falls back on humour when she doesn't know what to say. And in that moment, she was a mother witnessing a child come home broken for the second time in one year, the memory of my brother's hospitalisation still fresh in her mind. She was feeling helpless and no doubt very scared. But she couldn't express any of that except through a little joke to try in the simplest way to make her daughter feel better.
-----------------
And so it is very sad for me to read in my father's email that he regrets that he and my mother were distant parents. And it is bizarre for me to find out that it was a conscious decision. I know my grandfather was overbearing and my father has had a very rocky relationship with him because of it. But in trying not to repeat his own father's mistakes, he made his own. Because growing up I would have done anything for overbearing, "helicopter" parents. At least then I would have known they cared.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Someone should probably take this bag of chips away from me now...
I am listening to calming music - soft piano melodies and violin interludes. Specifically I am listening to Philip Glass's score for The Hours film. It is an absolutely gorgeous score, heartbreakingly beautiful actually. Given my current emotional state and the fact that I am re-reading Mrs. Dalloway it felt perfectly fitting.
Since I am having difficulty expressing how I am feeling today, I will just have Virginia say it for me:
Since I am having difficulty expressing how I am feeling today, I will just have Virginia say it for me:
She would not say of anyone in the world now that they were this or were that. She felt very young; at the same time unspeakably aged. She sliced like a knife through everything; at the same time was outside, looking on. She had a perpetual sense, as she watched the taxicabs, of being out, out, far out to sea and alone; she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day. Not that she thought herself clever, or much out of the ordinary. How she had got through life on the few twigs of knowledge Fraulein Daniels gave them she could not think. She knew nothing; no language, no history; she scarcely read a book now, except memoirs in bed; and yet to her it was absolutely absorbing; all this; the cabs passing; and she would not say of Peter, she would not say of herself, I am this, I am that.
(p. 7)
And now it's time for a cup of tea.
And now it's time for a cup of tea.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Life is crumbling down around me.
So what else is new?
I am feeling quite shit at the moment. I don't feel like writing, but here I am anyway...because it's April and this month exists for self-inflicted misery.
Sometimes I wish I were sixteen again. It's not very often that I wish to be a teenager, because in general I detested the experience of adolescence. But sometimes, like tonight, I wish I were sixteen. Because then I could cry and rage, act like the whole world is out to get me and sulk around for days. Teenagers are allowed to be over-dramatic and immature. When I was sixteen, I was the queen of the emotional rollercoaster. I was moody and I wrote endless journal entries about how no one understood my pain. If something wasn't how I wanted it to be, I would lock myself in the room and blare melancholy music and cry into my pillow. I would yell at my parents when they asked what was wrong. I would just give in to despair and wallow in the unfairness of it all.
Now, I just want to be an immature teenager. I just want to wallow in despair and wail about life's unfairness.
But alas I am an adult. I have to suck it up and get my work done. Life isn't going according to plan? Get over it. Get a new plan. Welcome to reality - where everything sucks and you just have to get by.
I am feeling quite shit at the moment. I don't feel like writing, but here I am anyway...because it's April and this month exists for self-inflicted misery.
Sometimes I wish I were sixteen again. It's not very often that I wish to be a teenager, because in general I detested the experience of adolescence. But sometimes, like tonight, I wish I were sixteen. Because then I could cry and rage, act like the whole world is out to get me and sulk around for days. Teenagers are allowed to be over-dramatic and immature. When I was sixteen, I was the queen of the emotional rollercoaster. I was moody and I wrote endless journal entries about how no one understood my pain. If something wasn't how I wanted it to be, I would lock myself in the room and blare melancholy music and cry into my pillow. I would yell at my parents when they asked what was wrong. I would just give in to despair and wallow in the unfairness of it all.
Now, I just want to be an immature teenager. I just want to wallow in despair and wail about life's unfairness.
But alas I am an adult. I have to suck it up and get my work done. Life isn't going according to plan? Get over it. Get a new plan. Welcome to reality - where everything sucks and you just have to get by.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Oh my gosh, guys, I've been so busy I almost forgot!*
Today I spent over 100 pounds on books for next term. And I realised that I have 20 days to finish my applications, work out graduation for this summer, and read about a dozen books.
Paradise Lost. A 500 page biography of Milton. All four Gospels plus the Psalms, Genesis, and the Book of Judges in the King James Bible.
A 500 page survey of criticism on European Modernism. Lord Jim by Joseph Conrad. A Passage to India by E. M. Forster. The Waves by Virginia Woolf. And A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce.
And a thorough survey of pre-WW2 poetry bc I also have to write an essay on the topic for 1st week of Trinity (April 20).
Remember how I said my passion for literature was a bit tepid at the moment? Well, these next twenty days will force it back into action.
I don't do well under pressure. I tend to freeze up and everything goes to crap. For example, for the past week I have been so wracked with anxiety that I couldn't check my email. And then when I finally did log into Gmail yesterday, a week's worth of emails had piled up and I had a minor anxiety attack. Now, I just have to find the confidence to actually send a few very important emails. I've never had very serious issues with anxiety but in the past few weeks I've definitely felt some serious negative effects - worse than is probably healthy. I can't check my email anymore let alone send emails to figure out some pretty important life details. I'm putting off some very serious decisions about my future. And every day I have a To Do list that never gets done because I can't stop thinking about everything that I've failed in the past. I don't need my shrink to tell me what's going on - I'm terrified of my uncertain future.
*Ahahahahaha JOKES I am pathetic and I have no life
Paradise Lost. A 500 page biography of Milton. All four Gospels plus the Psalms, Genesis, and the Book of Judges in the King James Bible.
A 500 page survey of criticism on European Modernism. Lord Jim by Joseph Conrad. A Passage to India by E. M. Forster. The Waves by Virginia Woolf. And A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce.
And a thorough survey of pre-WW2 poetry bc I also have to write an essay on the topic for 1st week of Trinity (April 20).
Remember how I said my passion for literature was a bit tepid at the moment? Well, these next twenty days will force it back into action.
I don't do well under pressure. I tend to freeze up and everything goes to crap. For example, for the past week I have been so wracked with anxiety that I couldn't check my email. And then when I finally did log into Gmail yesterday, a week's worth of emails had piled up and I had a minor anxiety attack. Now, I just have to find the confidence to actually send a few very important emails. I've never had very serious issues with anxiety but in the past few weeks I've definitely felt some serious negative effects - worse than is probably healthy. I can't check my email anymore let alone send emails to figure out some pretty important life details. I'm putting off some very serious decisions about my future. And every day I have a To Do list that never gets done because I can't stop thinking about everything that I've failed in the past. I don't need my shrink to tell me what's going on - I'm terrified of my uncertain future.
*Ahahahahaha JOKES I am pathetic and I have no life
Monday, April 2, 2012
My music and my books.
I've started posting music at a new blog: strawberry fizzy laces
I've been feeling a bit burned out on literature lately, which is something no English major ever wants to be. So I thought I would turn to my next love - music. Already just having something fun to do with my empty days has cheered me up. Listening to good music is like a glass of orange juice in the morning - it boosts your soul's immune system.
Books and music are my two oldest loves. I started playing the piano when I was six, right around the time I started falling in love with books. In first grade, I remember learning to read and learning to play music in quite the same way - the excitement of a new book, each one a level higher than the last. I just wanted to keep reading as many books as I could get my hands on; and in much the same way, I wanted to learn as many songs on the piano as possible. Growing up I loved music and reading with an equal passion - my two escapes.
I loved discovering new worlds in books and in middle school I fell in love with playing classical piano. Also in middle school (after discovering Death Cab for Cutie and The Shins in 2003) I became obsessed with finding new bands to fall in love with. It was also during those years that I was fully obsessed with Harry Potter and Jane Austen and Lord of the Rings. My twin passions - music and literature - growing together, becoming intertwined.
Then, I remember clearly making a decision in high school. It was in my sophomore year, when I was sixteen. I was starting to think about applying to college; and although for a time I seriously considered applying to fine arts schools to study musical performance, in the end I chose books over music. There were all sorts of secret reasons, but I made the decision and I have never looked back. Literature instead of classical piano.
While I still love playing the piano, I have let it fall to the side. I don't even have a piano to play while here in England so it's been months since my fingers have touched those keys. But I've never stopped loving music and I remain to this day obsessed with discovering new bands. I've always been that girl who listened to bands none of her friends had ever heard of. But I've also been that girl who makes her friends mix CDs filled with new music every month. Yes, I love finding good music, but I also love sharing my discoveries.
So while my passion for literature is feeling a bit tepid, I thought I would just pick up my other great love - music.
And that is one fucking long story about how I came to start a music blog. (And it's incomplete because I didn't even mention that I used to write for a proper indie music blog last summer - but that information is really just unnecessary supporting evidence)
I've been feeling a bit burned out on literature lately, which is something no English major ever wants to be. So I thought I would turn to my next love - music. Already just having something fun to do with my empty days has cheered me up. Listening to good music is like a glass of orange juice in the morning - it boosts your soul's immune system.
Books and music are my two oldest loves. I started playing the piano when I was six, right around the time I started falling in love with books. In first grade, I remember learning to read and learning to play music in quite the same way - the excitement of a new book, each one a level higher than the last. I just wanted to keep reading as many books as I could get my hands on; and in much the same way, I wanted to learn as many songs on the piano as possible. Growing up I loved music and reading with an equal passion - my two escapes.
I loved discovering new worlds in books and in middle school I fell in love with playing classical piano. Also in middle school (after discovering Death Cab for Cutie and The Shins in 2003) I became obsessed with finding new bands to fall in love with. It was also during those years that I was fully obsessed with Harry Potter and Jane Austen and Lord of the Rings. My twin passions - music and literature - growing together, becoming intertwined.
Then, I remember clearly making a decision in high school. It was in my sophomore year, when I was sixteen. I was starting to think about applying to college; and although for a time I seriously considered applying to fine arts schools to study musical performance, in the end I chose books over music. There were all sorts of secret reasons, but I made the decision and I have never looked back. Literature instead of classical piano.
While I still love playing the piano, I have let it fall to the side. I don't even have a piano to play while here in England so it's been months since my fingers have touched those keys. But I've never stopped loving music and I remain to this day obsessed with discovering new bands. I've always been that girl who listened to bands none of her friends had ever heard of. But I've also been that girl who makes her friends mix CDs filled with new music every month. Yes, I love finding good music, but I also love sharing my discoveries.
So while my passion for literature is feeling a bit tepid, I thought I would just pick up my other great love - music.
And that is one fucking long story about how I came to start a music blog. (And it's incomplete because I didn't even mention that I used to write for a proper indie music blog last summer - but that information is really just unnecessary supporting evidence)
Sunday, April 1, 2012
I have nothing better to do with my time.
Another April. Another attempt at blogging every day.
I suppose I will get the necessary life updates out of the way up front: I have completed two terms at Oxford. I am spending my Easter holiday in Oxford by myself. And I am freshly single after my latest romantic disappointment.
The month spreads out before me, a large expanse of days waiting to be lived. But it is a bleak landscape. The spring weather has added light and hopeful colours, but it has no effect on me. The month that lies ahead promises only blank days of solitude. My friends in Oxford have all gone home or on holidays. The only person I was planning to spend time with in Oxford was Tom, but now that is over.
I spent a lot of time alone growing up. The youngest of four children, solitude was a precious commodity when we were young so I actively sought out chances to pass time by myself. When I was a little older, from the age of ten until I graduated high school and moved away from home, my time spent alone wasn't a choice. My mother, previously a stay-at-home mom, went back to work, and so after school, I would be dropped off at the house hours before anyone in my family came home. Every day from 3pm to 7pm, I would have the house to myself. Those hours were not particularly pleasant. Our house was too big and it's empty rooms were too quiet. I would turn on the TV and the radio just to fill the silence. Since we lived on a farm, I felt even more isolated - cut off from the rest of the world by twenty-five acres of fields.
I found the solitude so unnerving that I started letting the dogs into the house just for company. I formed an unnaturally close bond with Birdy and Goose during those years - I would tell them all of my secrets, all of my thoughts and feelings. When I said goodbye to Goosie before coming back to Oxford after Christmas, I knew it would be the last time I saw him. I hugged him tight and cried, my heart breaking for my beautiful friend. And even though I knew my parents were planning to put him down, when I got the email letting me know he had died, I cried even more. He and Birdy will always be my dogs - all of the new puppies my parents have gotten this year can't compare.
All of this is to say that I am used to spending time by myself. But I am not looking forward to this month of loneliness. I am an introvert so I need some time to myself to decompress. Too much time alone, however, makes me uncomfortable. I feel on edge, unsettled. I get lost in the thorny forest of my dark thoughts. One of the first things my psychiatrist told me last year when I first entered treatment for my depression, was to surround myself with a support system and not to cut myself off from the world. Even if I feel horribly depressed, one of the best things to do is to get out of bed.
This past week I have been forcing myself out of bed. I get up, I make the bed, I pick out an outfit, I put on makeup, I leave the house. But I don't have anyone to see. I don't have anything to do. So I end up at this Starbucks, where the employees recognise me and know my order. I sit upstairs in the sunny room packed with tables and armchairs, surrounded by a mixture of tourists, teenagers, locals, and students. And even if I am just on Tumblr for hours, at least I am not alone in my room.
So blogging every day this month will give me something to do. I will be forced to put my thoughts into words and hopefully it will help pass the time.
I suppose I will get the necessary life updates out of the way up front: I have completed two terms at Oxford. I am spending my Easter holiday in Oxford by myself. And I am freshly single after my latest romantic disappointment.
The month spreads out before me, a large expanse of days waiting to be lived. But it is a bleak landscape. The spring weather has added light and hopeful colours, but it has no effect on me. The month that lies ahead promises only blank days of solitude. My friends in Oxford have all gone home or on holidays. The only person I was planning to spend time with in Oxford was Tom, but now that is over.
I spent a lot of time alone growing up. The youngest of four children, solitude was a precious commodity when we were young so I actively sought out chances to pass time by myself. When I was a little older, from the age of ten until I graduated high school and moved away from home, my time spent alone wasn't a choice. My mother, previously a stay-at-home mom, went back to work, and so after school, I would be dropped off at the house hours before anyone in my family came home. Every day from 3pm to 7pm, I would have the house to myself. Those hours were not particularly pleasant. Our house was too big and it's empty rooms were too quiet. I would turn on the TV and the radio just to fill the silence. Since we lived on a farm, I felt even more isolated - cut off from the rest of the world by twenty-five acres of fields.
I found the solitude so unnerving that I started letting the dogs into the house just for company. I formed an unnaturally close bond with Birdy and Goose during those years - I would tell them all of my secrets, all of my thoughts and feelings. When I said goodbye to Goosie before coming back to Oxford after Christmas, I knew it would be the last time I saw him. I hugged him tight and cried, my heart breaking for my beautiful friend. And even though I knew my parents were planning to put him down, when I got the email letting me know he had died, I cried even more. He and Birdy will always be my dogs - all of the new puppies my parents have gotten this year can't compare.
All of this is to say that I am used to spending time by myself. But I am not looking forward to this month of loneliness. I am an introvert so I need some time to myself to decompress. Too much time alone, however, makes me uncomfortable. I feel on edge, unsettled. I get lost in the thorny forest of my dark thoughts. One of the first things my psychiatrist told me last year when I first entered treatment for my depression, was to surround myself with a support system and not to cut myself off from the world. Even if I feel horribly depressed, one of the best things to do is to get out of bed.
This past week I have been forcing myself out of bed. I get up, I make the bed, I pick out an outfit, I put on makeup, I leave the house. But I don't have anyone to see. I don't have anything to do. So I end up at this Starbucks, where the employees recognise me and know my order. I sit upstairs in the sunny room packed with tables and armchairs, surrounded by a mixture of tourists, teenagers, locals, and students. And even if I am just on Tumblr for hours, at least I am not alone in my room.
So blogging every day this month will give me something to do. I will be forced to put my thoughts into words and hopefully it will help pass the time.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Maybe I need a new life plan...
It's 10 PM. I have an essay due tomorrow and I haven't started. It's not that I don't find the topic interesting...it's just that I don't want to read or write or do anything. I wish I could be one of those people who can get work done efficiently. I can't even focus on subjects I love and yet I'm putting myself into all kinds of debt just to be here.
God, I'm such a hopeless human being. I'm going to go cry in the shower now. And then read Bacon's Essays until I cry myself to sleep. But don't worry. I definitely hate myself for crying over my privileged life when there are children dying of hunger all over the world. I've got all the proper self-loathing. I've been here before. I know the rules.
Also, I really wish I had a comfier desk chair. That would probably vastly improve my situation. Yes, a new desk chair will soothe all of my psychological pain. God, I really hate this fucking chair. It makes me want to puke.
My life is so goddamn difficult!*
-----------------------------------------
*Oh la dee da and fiddle dee dee! War, war, war - all this war talk is spoiling all fun at every party this spring.
God, I'm such a hopeless human being. I'm going to go cry in the shower now. And then read Bacon's Essays until I cry myself to sleep. But don't worry. I definitely hate myself for crying over my privileged life when there are children dying of hunger all over the world. I've got all the proper self-loathing. I've been here before. I know the rules.
Also, I really wish I had a comfier desk chair. That would probably vastly improve my situation. Yes, a new desk chair will soothe all of my psychological pain. God, I really hate this fucking chair. It makes me want to puke.
My life is so goddamn difficult!*
-----------------------------------------
*Oh la dee da and fiddle dee dee! War, war, war - all this war talk is spoiling all fun at every party this spring.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
February 2011 vs February 2012
On Friday I got lunch with my friend Spencer at a cute little cafe by my house. I ordered a tuna melt, of course. We read the new issue of British Cosmo (only to discover that the British version isn't full of ridiculous sex advice like the American one, or at least this issue wasn't). And we talked about Valentine's Day.
"So what did you do last year on Valentine's Day? Who were you thinking of?" Spencer asked.
I just laughed in her face. I'm pretty sure I was thinking of killing myself. And I think I had an emergency session with my psychiatrist. My parents may or may not have threatened to pull me out of school...it was really romantic.
Actually, I don't remember the specific day, February 14, 2011, but that was the theme of last winter so when I look back on November-April of last year all that comes to mind is that scenario on repeat for six months. It's funny now, a year later, to look back on that time and realise that I let the details of my life just slip away, swallowed up by the sickly darkness of my depression. I don't even remember my classes very well. All I remember from those six months is snow, crying in my shrink's office, and sitting alone on my bed wishing I didn't exist. I've blacked out everything else.
What a difference a year makes. This year I have a big spoon, but I have been very careful about avoiding anything Valentine's Day related. It will be just another Tuesday filled with stress over my essays. I've only been dating Big Spoon for a month or two* so Valentine's Day really couldn't have come at a more awkward time. In general, however, I don't really see the point of worrying about the holiday. For couples in serious relationships I think it's a nice holiday, and I like the idea of a day set aside for loved ones. But my holiday will consist of stress, Jacobean revenge tragedies, and chocolate. After Valentine's Day, however, I have decided to have the official "what is this-where are we" talk with Big Spoon, so I am mildly terrified about that.
*A month from our first official date, but we've been "talking"/"hooking up"(to use the most ambiguous terms) since my birthday.
*A month from our first official date, but we've been "talking"/"hooking up"(to use the most ambiguous terms) since my birthday.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
February
I just had to change a song that came up on my shuffled iTunes because it was too happy. That should give you an idea of my general state of mind at the moment.
It is February. It's cold and grey. I have no energy. And I am bogged down in constant reading that never, ever ends. I know I'm an English major so reading shouldn't be a burden...but sometimes Oxford's style of tutorials just becomes a bit tiring. It's a constant stream of work. There is never a break. It's two months of reading-then writing-then more reading-then more writing-repeat ad nauseam. I won't have a break until March 7. Yes, I have started the countdown. My last essay of term is due Wednesday, March 7 at 18:00. 5 more weeks and 10 more essays. And I'm already feeling rundown.
Then there are the other things: I'm broke but I am trying to plan a tour of Europe, which seems like an impossible dream; I am seeing a new guy and as exciting and fun as it can be, it also brings up a lot of anxieties and insecurities; all winter I have been steadily gaining weight and for someone with a rough history when it comes to body image and weight perception even just a few extra pounds can be catastrophic for my psyche; I am trying to graduate this summer, which means I have to deal with all of the administrative details of credit transfer and fulfilling subject/major requirements; and I also have to figure out what I will be doing this fall...and then possibly for the rest of my life.
So yeah. It's February.
And I just want to curl up under the covers and forget about life until winter is done and gone.
It is February. It's cold and grey. I have no energy. And I am bogged down in constant reading that never, ever ends. I know I'm an English major so reading shouldn't be a burden...but sometimes Oxford's style of tutorials just becomes a bit tiring. It's a constant stream of work. There is never a break. It's two months of reading-then writing-then more reading-then more writing-repeat ad nauseam. I won't have a break until March 7. Yes, I have started the countdown. My last essay of term is due Wednesday, March 7 at 18:00. 5 more weeks and 10 more essays. And I'm already feeling rundown.
Then there are the other things: I'm broke but I am trying to plan a tour of Europe, which seems like an impossible dream; I am seeing a new guy and as exciting and fun as it can be, it also brings up a lot of anxieties and insecurities; all winter I have been steadily gaining weight and for someone with a rough history when it comes to body image and weight perception even just a few extra pounds can be catastrophic for my psyche; I am trying to graduate this summer, which means I have to deal with all of the administrative details of credit transfer and fulfilling subject/major requirements; and I also have to figure out what I will be doing this fall...and then possibly for the rest of my life.
So yeah. It's February.
And I just want to curl up under the covers and forget about life until winter is done and gone.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Blogging Twice in One Week
Blogging is kind of like smoking cigarettes. You can't just have one. And since I've stopped smoking the damn things I've found myself searching for just the right replacement. Oh God, I just want a cigarette. I'm like a pathetic lovesick girl who can't stop herself from mentioning her crush every five minutes. I can't go five minutes without telling some pointless story about cigarettes. "You think Meryl Streep deserves an Oscar for The Iron Lady? Oh my God, that reminds me of that time I smoked a cigarette while watching a The Hours! *gazes wistfully into the distance daydreaming of all the cigarettes I have known and loved*"
Here's the thing about quitting - at first, you think you're superwoman. I'm not addicted. Who needs cigarettes? Life is grand. I feel great. I'm a whole new woman. This is the beginning of a beautiful new life. Look out world! Then, you realise that you've started drinking an extra five cups of coffee a day and can't go a day without a dozen sugary snacks. So you decide to cut back on coffee and candy...and then the world comes crumbling down around you. Suddenly you can't focus, you're constantly on edge, you have a neverending headache, you've become a tornado violent emotions. I've been taken to old episodes of Grey's Anatomy and sobbing myself to sleep. I am a wreck.
But I'm blogging.
Currently, I am sitting in Starbucks. I got one of the coveted armchairs by the window and I intend to stay here all afternoon. The sun is blinding me but it'll move eventually and when it does I will still be here reading about John Donne and trying not to think about cigarettes.
Also, Emma Watson and her friends were sitting in front of Spencer and me last night in the movie theatre. We saw The Iron Lady and it was fantastic. I couldn't help but lust after Emma's scarf, though. She looked very cute. Although I definitely feel a little bad for how long it's taking her to grow out her hair. I mean, she's still gorgeous with short hair but you can tell she's trying to grow it out and it's probably very difficult.
Ok. That's really all I have to say today. See why I don't blog regularly? Maybe blogging should be my new replacement for cigarettes...
Here's the thing about quitting - at first, you think you're superwoman. I'm not addicted. Who needs cigarettes? Life is grand. I feel great. I'm a whole new woman. This is the beginning of a beautiful new life. Look out world! Then, you realise that you've started drinking an extra five cups of coffee a day and can't go a day without a dozen sugary snacks. So you decide to cut back on coffee and candy...and then the world comes crumbling down around you. Suddenly you can't focus, you're constantly on edge, you have a neverending headache, you've become a tornado violent emotions. I've been taken to old episodes of Grey's Anatomy and sobbing myself to sleep. I am a wreck.
But I'm blogging.
Currently, I am sitting in Starbucks. I got one of the coveted armchairs by the window and I intend to stay here all afternoon. The sun is blinding me but it'll move eventually and when it does I will still be here reading about John Donne and trying not to think about cigarettes.
Also, Emma Watson and her friends were sitting in front of Spencer and me last night in the movie theatre. We saw The Iron Lady and it was fantastic. I couldn't help but lust after Emma's scarf, though. She looked very cute. Although I definitely feel a little bad for how long it's taking her to grow out her hair. I mean, she's still gorgeous with short hair but you can tell she's trying to grow it out and it's probably very difficult.
Ok. That's really all I have to say today. See why I don't blog regularly? Maybe blogging should be my new replacement for cigarettes...
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
What if I actually blogged about studying abroad? JOKES I'm boring and lazy.
Liz is writing a nice, little blog about her study abroad experiences in Copenhagen. Last term, Samantha blogged about her time in Spain. And yet here I am with this blog sitting around gathering dust. I have perfectly capable typing fingers and yet I do nothing.
To be fair, Liz and Samantha and other people taking a semester abroad are travelling and seeing sights. They have things to blog about. My life is not particularly blog-worthy. Take today for example:
8am - hit snooze on my alarm, continue to do so every ten minutes for an hour and a half
9:45am - get out of bed and make my face presentable for the outside world, pack bag with heavy books on sixteenth century poets
10am - Starbucks for coffee and muffin, spill coffee all over books [insert cultural observation: in England they charge you an extra 30p to eat in, they give you a real mug and a plate and it's completely pointless]
10:30am - joined by Spencer, spend more time talking than working on my essay
11am - go to Rad Cam for serious study timez
11:30am-3pm - write essay on Thomas Wyatt, blow nose every five minutes, get mean glares from other students trying to study
3pm - tutorial: quizzed on early modern utopian writing, read this week's essay aloud to my tutor, then discuss the life and poetry of Thomas Wyatt for an hour
4pm - return library books to History Faculty Library, return home to shower
5pm - buy tuna and sweet corn panini from Cafe Creme on Broad Street, sit on bench outside library and eat panini too quickly, feel sick, go to History Faculty Library to check out new books for next history essay
6pm Tuesday - 6pm Wednesday - write history essay on the social and economic impacts of population growth in Tudor England
Thursday 10am - history tutorial
Exciting I know. I guess I could write about my weekend, which included a date and other fun activities (except for the Ravens losing). But I don't feel like it.
Maybe one day I will write a proper study abroad blog with pictures and cute anecdotes about British people. Maybe one day...
To be fair, Liz and Samantha and other people taking a semester abroad are travelling and seeing sights. They have things to blog about. My life is not particularly blog-worthy. Take today for example:
8am - hit snooze on my alarm, continue to do so every ten minutes for an hour and a half
9:45am - get out of bed and make my face presentable for the outside world, pack bag with heavy books on sixteenth century poets
10am - Starbucks for coffee and muffin, spill coffee all over books [insert cultural observation: in England they charge you an extra 30p to eat in, they give you a real mug and a plate and it's completely pointless]
10:30am - joined by Spencer, spend more time talking than working on my essay
11am - go to Rad Cam for serious study timez
11:30am-3pm - write essay on Thomas Wyatt, blow nose every five minutes, get mean glares from other students trying to study
3pm - tutorial: quizzed on early modern utopian writing, read this week's essay aloud to my tutor, then discuss the life and poetry of Thomas Wyatt for an hour
4pm - return library books to History Faculty Library, return home to shower
5pm - buy tuna and sweet corn panini from Cafe Creme on Broad Street, sit on bench outside library and eat panini too quickly, feel sick, go to History Faculty Library to check out new books for next history essay
6pm Tuesday - 6pm Wednesday - write history essay on the social and economic impacts of population growth in Tudor England
Thursday 10am - history tutorial
Exciting I know. I guess I could write about my weekend, which included a date and other fun activities (except for the Ravens losing). But I don't feel like it.
Maybe one day I will write a proper study abroad blog with pictures and cute anecdotes about British people. Maybe one day...
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