***

Dear giant,

We are close, and you know just how to cut me.

I know I do it, too, but my weapons seem like measly butter knives: weak, unformulated, flat. You come at me with full-on sharp and dangerous machetes. Articulated and precise, you are confident. You are calculating. We both see that you know how to bring me down.

There's nothing but a ring of panic in my ears. I flinch, I throw my punches in fear and desperation. As always, there is no shield. I run, I shrivel, I look up.

You stab and I bleed, even if I can't really cry. All that's left to say is: congratulations, you won.

Love and un-love,
female

back

So, it's been two months since I last wrote here, and in that time I've been to Mexico and back. I meant to write in that time, of course I did. And actually, I did write, mentally, in my head. But my mind was far too often far too overwhelmed and tired by the time I was anywhere near a computer, and nothing materialized here.

So I am back. And I guess I'll start at the end and go backwardly from there.

I was nervous about coming back to the US. I always suffer from a severe culture shock when I return from foreign countries. Most of it having to do with the richness and greediness and the utter sterility and, often, a lack of soul that becomes so apparent about life in the US. I know that people experience this country differently, and in fact, most people love the comforts and the availability of stuff. But I get melancholic. Food starts to taste bland, the landscape only offers sprawling strip malls and oversized houses. Driving, again, becomes a necessity. Conversations start to seem trite and everyone around me carries an air of entitlement. And I don't even live in the most typical place of America. I live in the Bay Area, what with all its ocean life and redwoods, and naked people protesting something or other on almost every street corner. Yes, it's easier than usual to find some sort of meaning to life in this 30 mile radius. But even still, I remember coming back from England (the land of trains, and sheep, and pubs) last year, in tears, as we descended from the Sierra Mountains into the developed, oppressive valleys of Central California.

But this time, we landed in LA (I know, LA! The culture shock should be worse!) and I was quickly scooped away, past all the smog and vanity of the city and into a more rural life along the coast line. There I was met with ocean-fresh air and the smell of pine trees. I could go to the beach, and eat fresh sushi, and feel the dry heat on my shoulders. People were happy to see me, and I was glad to be exactly where I was.

For the first time in my busy two months, I breathed deep down and exhaled loudly. It was good to come home, after all. 

take me all the way

Under the bridge downtown
Forgot about my love
Under the bridge downtown
I gave my life away

Credit: Khataroo at DeviantArt


I mentioned before that there have been sad things happening in my life. I've been trying for months now to write something down, but it's difficult to find the words to really describe what has gone on, externally and internally. Everything I say sounds gauche and awkward. This is just another one of those clumsy attempts.

Three months ago today, a friend of mine committed suicide. She wasn't in my circle of closest friends, but she was a colleague in our small graduate program, and more than an acquaintance. We were in a class (of 12 people) together this past semester. And last semester, she planned a baby shower for a good friend of ours, where we all enjoyed her New Orleanese cooking. She was also the roommate of another close friend, and our paths crossed all the time, whether through studying, mutual social activities, or in conversations about dogs.

Credit: PostSecret

On March 17th, on St. Patrick's Day, she jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge. This fact feels just as beautiful and grotesque as it sounds. Beautiful, because it essentially bypasses the mess of death. This is exactly how I would picture her leaving this world: falling weightlessly into the abyss of the waters, surrounded by the beauty of the Bay. And grotesque, because there it is: the magnificent enormous symbolic San Franciscan sculpture transformed into a killing machine. I haven't brought myself to be near it yet (walking or driving), but whenever I catch a glimpse of it from across the Bay or through the buildings of the city, I feel it staring back, stoically and mysteriously. Just like in the movie, The Bridge:





Everybody always wants to know the facts surrounding this event, and the facts are that yes, she most likely had a mental illness. She was in a lot of pain, and many of us knew that. We think she had Bipolar II (depression is predominant to mania), which is actually one of the most deadly disorders, since as you come out of a depressive episode and you still taste the bitterness of depression, but you also have more energy and the impulsivity to hurt yourself. There were times when she was clearly manic, and (most) times when she was pretty depressed. She had attempted suicide before, and that just drives the risk even higher. She was in the field of mental health and knew all her resources, but this was her definite decision. There is such finality to taking that plunge off the bridge. There is no turning back and virtually no possibility of survival. As you're standing on that ledge, the pain of life must outweigh the fear of death.

While we knew she was quietly suffering inside, she poured her heart into giving to others. She was honestly one of the most selfless people I have known. She made everyone around her feel comfortable and accepted. She knew exactly how to converse with every person, on very diverse topics. She loved experiencing foods and culture, she loved to meet new dogs in parks, she loved to welcome everybody into her heart. And maybe that got a little too heavy.

And the feelings since then? There have been so many: disbelief (we were in class together two days before this happened, her name is still listed in our online class database), guilt (were we really all so wrapped up in our cocoons of grad school stress? and did these cocoons really matter so much that we couldn't look around? were we not watching/listening/understanding? and where was that suicide hotline number?), anger (because, wtf? WTF?!, sometimes I wish I could just shake her, screaming, are you f'ing kidding me?!). But the most prominent feeling is sadness. Powerless, despairing, soul-wrenching sadness. Because we lost an amazing friend and talented colleague. Because my first funeral was for a young classmate. Because the menacing Golden Gate Bridge is a reminder of the pain people in this world feel every day, when death seems like the best most logical option.

Credit: Vaggelisf at DeviantArt

I wanted to write more, especially about the aftermath and where all these events have brought me, but I'm afraid I am running out of steam tonight. You will just have to hold tight for an equally-awkward Part 2. Until then, stay safe, and please enjoy every moment with your friends and loved ones.

something's always coming

So give me something to believe
Cause I am living just to breathe

My clients don't even know it, but they teach me many interesting important extraordinary perspectives. They inspire me. They remind me that life goes beyond the books and my own personal achievements. They show me how important it is to give back to the community and feel passionate about something. They assure me that even one tiny positive step per day is more than enough. They affirm for me that this is the job I would really love to do.

I didn't feel this way in the beginning, but now, even after 10-14 hours at work, time flies, I feel engaged, and I come out changed at the end of the day.

sitting on a cornflake

Today I am feeling rather distraught and pessimistic about the state of humanity. That happens to me every once in a while. Actually, these feelings are in the back of my mind pretty much most of the time, but sometimes they surface for no apparent reason. I think: you know, life is pretty painful. Painful and pointless, in a general sense, so maybe that's why I can survive being in this profession.

People ask me how I can choose a career of listening to the awful painful stories of others. Doesn't it suck my will to live? Doesn't it make me want to cry, for a long time? Most students in my field will probably tell you that they're going into this because, yes, the stories of our clients are awful, but we are here to help them change for the better. I am here because life is painful, pain is a part of life, and that doesn't bother me. No point in trying to safeguard ourselves in all of our futile attempts to deny the true awfulness of life. Sure, I still want others to try to change for the better, but there's no point in holding out for much of a better world.

I don't know. I feel different from the people around me in this respect. This isn't utter hopelessness or depression, just a general disposition toward accepting the inevitable negatives of life. So I'm not bothered (in the sense of fear, that is, not injustice) to get harassed by the homeless on Shattuck St. and the crackwhores of the Tenderloin (I say this lovingly; I love all the crackwhores of San Francisco), or to see picketers outside the Hyatt and guerrilla street canvassers for the environment. Life deals many of us shitty hands, but to me there is a certain realness and humanity to floating through this shittiness of life.

What I will fight for, though, is justice. Not safety and comfort and other subjective goods of the world, but liberty and equality for all. Because, well, we all should have equal dibs on the painfulness and pointlessness of life.