I haven’t written in a long time and a million times I’ve wanted to. Every time I’ve started to though, I’ve been overcome by this overwhelming sense of ennui. This is really unfortunate since so many things, most of them dramatic, have happened to me in the past few months. Most of them have been shitty, but some of them have been okay to good:
-- I protested at the Republican National Convention, which was kind of cool and interesting until the end of the night.
-- I moved out of my posh East Village apartment with two lovebird roommates into a shithole up up Uptown apartment in Manhattan and so, went from having just barely enough money to being fucking frighteningly broke all the time and becoming very familiar with cereal as a meal.
-- I got digital cable and a cable modem internet hook-up (*CHEER!*) and then my laptop broke down, once and for all. (*SOB*). It looks like I won't be able to think about buying a new computer 'til January which means now I'm fucked since my phone service is connected to my cable modem hook-up. So, if I get rid of my cable modem (which I should), I'll have no phone service which I've already paid all the expensive start-up fees for.
-- I was a part of a crazy medical experiment which tests brainwaves and was filmed by ABC for a piece on it. The cap I had to wear with electrodes all over my head and face was something I’m sure any of my friends would have paid to see.
-- I’ve became overly-medicated like my grandfather once was.
-- I have developed an unusually close relationship to a urologist due to a medical problem that seems to completely flabbergast him and completely piss (ha ha) me off.
-- My genial ex-husband suddenly turned into a typical asshole one.
-- Just when I thought maybe I was going to get myself fired at work I got one of the most glowing reviews of my life.
-- I briefly dated some guy from the internet who started off great and ended up being a damn disappointment.
-- I was bumped from the Jon Stewart show (*angry scream*) and was shepherded off to the Collin Quinn show which was a fun experience, though missing J.S. after not only waiting several months, but also taking off early from work and standing in line for an hour and a half and HAVING TICKETS as well. Jon Stewart, you’re show is great, but that really sucks.
It is my goal to write about all these things, but I don’t know if it will happen. I’ve been feeling pretty depressed. Let me rephrase that, I’ve been Depressed. Notice the capital “D.” I know the signs. It happened once before when I was in grad school – my “forever” marriage had ended by my own doing, the reigning love of my life (different person) had moved in with me, treated me like dogshit, and them moved out all within the space of a year, I wasn’t doing as well in grad school as I thought I would (I started off behind), and I was broke (familiar theme). I spent about a full year praying to the non-existent god to catapult me in front of a fast-moving SUV and end my fucking miserable life since I lacked the courage to do it myself. After an initial visit to the counseling service with the intention of getting help with my already documented memory problems (in grad school you have to memorize GOBS of material), I ended up seeing a psychologist and psychiatrist respectively twice a week, medicated, and six months later, I was noticing the blooming flowers and the blue of the sky.
This is one reason that every time I’ve started writing in this blog again I’ve stopped. 1) I hate spilling my private personal stuff all over the page like some kind of morbid road kill. 2) I hate writing stuff that makes me seem whiny, complaining, DEPRESSED! Nobody likes that. I’ve had enough friends who needed professional and pharmaceutical help to know that they’re not fun to be around after awhile. It’s like someone slowly drowning you in black water.
Anyway, not wanting to get to the point I was nine years ago where death seemed sweet and seductive, I wanted to get help. I have health insurance this time, but apparently its mental health component is pretty lacking. Not to mention that everything needs a referral and it takes six weeks to get in to see my regular physician. In one of the local papers I noticed an advertisement from Columbia University for people who thought they may be depressed and wanted to be a part of free services. To make a long story short, I was all over that. Here’s the catch: no talk therapy. Just medication. It’s free. They do all the medical tests, you talk to psychiatrist, etc. But it is what it is – a medical study. Medical studies have their own agendas as well do I. I’m there to get free medication, they’re there to use me as guinea pig to (dis)prove their theory. I have no qualms with that, though I do admit I was rather disappointed not to have shrink sessions. I enjoy therapy. I feel it was valuable for me last time (as was the medication). But this is how it is. They want to try and experiment to see the effectiveness of aggressive medication (I won’t get into it now) and no therapy. Hell, I’m curious myself.
This is why I tell very few friends about this blog. I like to write about my experiences in Bangkok and NYC which they usually enjoy reading, sure, but I also need this blog to barf out all this secret stuff I’m ashamed of, just like I did on this page today. Sure, to the couple of people who actually KNOW me and might read this, I’m pretty humiliated right now, but that can’t really be helped. I have some damn good friends in my life right now, not a lot, but I’d say the quality of my friends is fantastic. My mother’s been pretty great too for the past year or so (so strange that I’ve often wondered if she’s secretly dying). And yet, I don’t feel like there’s anyone I can really talk to about this, and let’s face it, Depression still has its stigma. In fact, I know one person I know who may read this and puke on his own. He’s never really believed much in mental illness.
And naturally, I’m ashamed of my own weakness. Sometimes I even surprise myself at how independent and strong I am. Sometimes I feel I can do just about anything (not in that euphoric bipolar sort of way, mind you! *cough*). Sometimes I think there’s not anything I can’t adjust to. And yet, here I am, nine years later, back on the weak track. Yes, yes, I know all the arguments against that. I know all about how it’s more about a drop in your serotonin levels than it is about being “blue.” Nevertheless, I am disappointed in myself. And I think it makes me less attractive as a person to know, as a friend or lover. I know that personally, when I have met men with an enormous amount of baggage, I have just flat out not been interested (unlike my early twenties when I would have relished the challenge to “save him!”). And here I am now, a baggage carrier myself. Blah.
Well, the pills begin tonight. In eight weeks I should be flying higher than a kite. Will it be me or the wellbutrin???
Saturday, October 09, 2004
Back in Black, Part I: Protesting at the RNC
Forgive me for writing about something that is so far in the past that no one gives a shit anymore. But since this blog has always been a selfish endeavor – to 1) practice writing on a consistent basis and 2) record my experiences in Bangkok and NYC – I hope you’ll overlook its staleness. I just don’t have the greatest memory and I enjoy reading about past events which are hazy, at best, in my mind.
During the last night of the RNC, when “W” was going to speak, I had worked late, ran some errands, and got home somewhere in the 9pm hour. Seconds after I was in the door, I got a call from “Adam” who was there at the protest, marching down the street with a giant crowd somewhere near Union Square. I was shocked and impressed. Though Adam is always willing to argue his political view, I never took him for someone actually getting out there and doing something like this. That was more of my territory, though I hadn’t done shit so far except for hang out with some academics studying the protestors in a hotel overlooking the protestors’ path.
Standing there, still with keys and bag in hand, I suddenly thought to myself, “WHY am I not there? I really do care about this election. I’m terrified that “W” will be re-elected. Why am I at home?” It wasn’t too late. My phone was beeping warnings at me that it didn’t have much juice left before it died, but I knew it would be crucial in order to meet up with Adam since he was obviously on the move somewhere between downtown and midtown. I plugged the phone into its charger while screaming into the phone, “I’m coming, I’m coming! I’m coming down now!” He kept telling me not to bother, but by then, the conversation was over to me and I hung up. As I quickly shed my work clothes and put on something more appropriate for running around the streets, I hoped that my phone would charge just enough to be able to call and find Adam once I got there.
In a few minutes I was out the door, and I turned off my phone to save energy. As the subway was chugging along, I felt a thrill. It felt right to be there, and although the majority of people at my work (a non-profit with politically-minded individuals with very strong feelings) had participated in various protests already, I had shied away from it. I’m not sure why. Though I wanted to be there, I didn’t know what to do, which one to join. I’ve always had my issues with activists, something I deal with a lot now, especially working for a non-profit that has its own advocacy concerns.
It wasn’t long before I reached 34th street and Broadway. When I emerged above ground, I was shocked to see more cops and barricades than I have ever seen in my life. I kept trying to edge my way over to Madison Square Garden, but it was blocked at every single possible street and side road. The cops weren’t stupid. I was sending text messages to Adam that I was there, as I circled the area looking for a good place to put myself.
I was in awe by the mass of people, mostly protestors, of every type and kind. Every group you could think of was there, all angry, all against Bush. There were the Jews in their side curls and black suits and hats. There were black Muslims. There were pro-choice protestors, labor unions, and groups that I couldn’t even figure out. What fascinated me even further was just the dialogue that was going on. I saw these wildly different groups talking to each other. They were having amiable political discussions, they were sharing their views. There wasn’t any shouting or arguing, there was a real unity out there. People were united to get rid of Bush, despite the fact they all came from such diverse backgrounds.
Finally, I called Adam as my phone beeped annoyingly in my ear. He was many blocks away. He couldn’t hear me, and I felt like each word was precious. After I hung up I sent text messages about the state of my dying phone. I would find out much later that his phone doesn’t receive text messages correctly.
More time passed and everytime he called I cringed that this might be the time the phone died. I was rushing around, phone to ear, still trying to find an “in.” Finally, on the third call he said he was just a few blocks away and coming toward me fast. The group that had been at Union Square had decided to come back to the heart of the protest. I started running.
The advance of the cellphone at such a moment is so funny to me. The frantic text messages, the shouting your position to your friend on the other end. It’s a tactical weapon of sorts. People were organizing, and organizing well, by use of their cellphones. And now, in a time when it would have been IMPOSSIBLE to find Adam in this cornucopia of human life, we were zeroing in on each other.
Somewhere about 35th and 8th avenue (really guessing at this point), I saw his waving hand. Boy, was I relieved. Walking up to him, I saw he had a long sticker stretched across his chest declaring, “Fuck the Republican Party!” I thought he looked pretty handsome at that moment.
We spent the next hour or so walking closer and closer to the convention, shouting out slogans like “Tell me what democracy looks like – this is what democracy looks like!” That was my favorite one. I felt pumped. I felt happy. I was glad I was there. I was hoping that somewhere inside his comfortable world, that Bush knew we were here and what we had to say.
After some time, things started to get tense as we strained up against the barricades. There was a band marching with us that banged drums and blew horns in such a way that you felt you were rising right up off the ground. You wanted to show louder louder louder as they pounded away.
Then there were murmurs throughout the crowd as it seemed the “protesters negotiator” was discussing things with the police. At a certain time (I believe it was 11:30pm), the presence of the protesters would be a violation of war, since they were blocking the street, playing music, and making noise. “Anyone inside the barricades when it hits 11:30pm are going to get arrested” it was warned. Adam and I were deep within the barricades but could also easily escape at that moment if we needed to. We pondered our options. It was true that the police seemed to be gathering around the barricades, but arrest us, now? It didn’t seem possible. I certainly didn’t want to get arrested, that was for sure. I couldn’t post bail and I had to go to work too. People began to sit down in the street and were encouraging others to do the same. Oh well. We sat.
As 11:30 came, I looked around anxiously, but it had become clear that there wasn’t going to be any of the mass arrests as there had been before where police had just started grabbing people at random and throwing them into police trucks. Sitting there, finally having a rest, we continued to chant and shout out.
But the numbers had thinned. Many people, frightened by the threat of arrest, had high-tailed it out of there. I had mixed feelings. I could understand wanting to get the hell outta Dodge when the possibility of jail looms, but I also thought that if you had come down to protest, well, this was it. This was what it was about. I guess, how much does it matter to you? As I was to find out soon, I had my own threshold.
Time passed. Even the cops looked bored. It was half past midnight and all that was left were some die-hard hippies. I realized that the protest was over and it was time to go home. Of course, the die-hards weren’t having any part of that. And that’s when I lost my faith (in those who remained) and wanted to get the hell outta Dodge myself. You could tell, the die-hards wanted to get arrested. And the impression that I got was that it wasn’t an arrest for the cause, it was an arrest for themselves. A line had been crossed in my opinion. A line from being true to what you believe to the cause being about you and your image of yourself. The “street cred” you’d gain from being arrested. Your fight “against the man.” I wanted no part of these people who remained. If I had gotten arrested in the throes of the full-out protest, that would be one thing, but hanging out ‘til the wee hours of the morning practically begging a cop to haul me in seemed cheap and undignified.
Adam and I finally got up and walked away. It was late and I was tired, but I was happy that I had showed, if only briefly. And since it was Adam, and our relationship thrives on conflict instead of harmony, we made sure to have a huge, knockdown argument on the street before I descended underground to my subway. *sigh*
During the last night of the RNC, when “W” was going to speak, I had worked late, ran some errands, and got home somewhere in the 9pm hour. Seconds after I was in the door, I got a call from “Adam” who was there at the protest, marching down the street with a giant crowd somewhere near Union Square. I was shocked and impressed. Though Adam is always willing to argue his political view, I never took him for someone actually getting out there and doing something like this. That was more of my territory, though I hadn’t done shit so far except for hang out with some academics studying the protestors in a hotel overlooking the protestors’ path.
Standing there, still with keys and bag in hand, I suddenly thought to myself, “WHY am I not there? I really do care about this election. I’m terrified that “W” will be re-elected. Why am I at home?” It wasn’t too late. My phone was beeping warnings at me that it didn’t have much juice left before it died, but I knew it would be crucial in order to meet up with Adam since he was obviously on the move somewhere between downtown and midtown. I plugged the phone into its charger while screaming into the phone, “I’m coming, I’m coming! I’m coming down now!” He kept telling me not to bother, but by then, the conversation was over to me and I hung up. As I quickly shed my work clothes and put on something more appropriate for running around the streets, I hoped that my phone would charge just enough to be able to call and find Adam once I got there.
In a few minutes I was out the door, and I turned off my phone to save energy. As the subway was chugging along, I felt a thrill. It felt right to be there, and although the majority of people at my work (a non-profit with politically-minded individuals with very strong feelings) had participated in various protests already, I had shied away from it. I’m not sure why. Though I wanted to be there, I didn’t know what to do, which one to join. I’ve always had my issues with activists, something I deal with a lot now, especially working for a non-profit that has its own advocacy concerns.
It wasn’t long before I reached 34th street and Broadway. When I emerged above ground, I was shocked to see more cops and barricades than I have ever seen in my life. I kept trying to edge my way over to Madison Square Garden, but it was blocked at every single possible street and side road. The cops weren’t stupid. I was sending text messages to Adam that I was there, as I circled the area looking for a good place to put myself.
I was in awe by the mass of people, mostly protestors, of every type and kind. Every group you could think of was there, all angry, all against Bush. There were the Jews in their side curls and black suits and hats. There were black Muslims. There were pro-choice protestors, labor unions, and groups that I couldn’t even figure out. What fascinated me even further was just the dialogue that was going on. I saw these wildly different groups talking to each other. They were having amiable political discussions, they were sharing their views. There wasn’t any shouting or arguing, there was a real unity out there. People were united to get rid of Bush, despite the fact they all came from such diverse backgrounds.
Finally, I called Adam as my phone beeped annoyingly in my ear. He was many blocks away. He couldn’t hear me, and I felt like each word was precious. After I hung up I sent text messages about the state of my dying phone. I would find out much later that his phone doesn’t receive text messages correctly.
More time passed and everytime he called I cringed that this might be the time the phone died. I was rushing around, phone to ear, still trying to find an “in.” Finally, on the third call he said he was just a few blocks away and coming toward me fast. The group that had been at Union Square had decided to come back to the heart of the protest. I started running.
The advance of the cellphone at such a moment is so funny to me. The frantic text messages, the shouting your position to your friend on the other end. It’s a tactical weapon of sorts. People were organizing, and organizing well, by use of their cellphones. And now, in a time when it would have been IMPOSSIBLE to find Adam in this cornucopia of human life, we were zeroing in on each other.
Somewhere about 35th and 8th avenue (really guessing at this point), I saw his waving hand. Boy, was I relieved. Walking up to him, I saw he had a long sticker stretched across his chest declaring, “Fuck the Republican Party!” I thought he looked pretty handsome at that moment.
We spent the next hour or so walking closer and closer to the convention, shouting out slogans like “Tell me what democracy looks like – this is what democracy looks like!” That was my favorite one. I felt pumped. I felt happy. I was glad I was there. I was hoping that somewhere inside his comfortable world, that Bush knew we were here and what we had to say.
After some time, things started to get tense as we strained up against the barricades. There was a band marching with us that banged drums and blew horns in such a way that you felt you were rising right up off the ground. You wanted to show louder louder louder as they pounded away.
Then there were murmurs throughout the crowd as it seemed the “protesters negotiator” was discussing things with the police. At a certain time (I believe it was 11:30pm), the presence of the protesters would be a violation of war, since they were blocking the street, playing music, and making noise. “Anyone inside the barricades when it hits 11:30pm are going to get arrested” it was warned. Adam and I were deep within the barricades but could also easily escape at that moment if we needed to. We pondered our options. It was true that the police seemed to be gathering around the barricades, but arrest us, now? It didn’t seem possible. I certainly didn’t want to get arrested, that was for sure. I couldn’t post bail and I had to go to work too. People began to sit down in the street and were encouraging others to do the same. Oh well. We sat.
As 11:30 came, I looked around anxiously, but it had become clear that there wasn’t going to be any of the mass arrests as there had been before where police had just started grabbing people at random and throwing them into police trucks. Sitting there, finally having a rest, we continued to chant and shout out.
But the numbers had thinned. Many people, frightened by the threat of arrest, had high-tailed it out of there. I had mixed feelings. I could understand wanting to get the hell outta Dodge when the possibility of jail looms, but I also thought that if you had come down to protest, well, this was it. This was what it was about. I guess, how much does it matter to you? As I was to find out soon, I had my own threshold.
Time passed. Even the cops looked bored. It was half past midnight and all that was left were some die-hard hippies. I realized that the protest was over and it was time to go home. Of course, the die-hards weren’t having any part of that. And that’s when I lost my faith (in those who remained) and wanted to get the hell outta Dodge myself. You could tell, the die-hards wanted to get arrested. And the impression that I got was that it wasn’t an arrest for the cause, it was an arrest for themselves. A line had been crossed in my opinion. A line from being true to what you believe to the cause being about you and your image of yourself. The “street cred” you’d gain from being arrested. Your fight “against the man.” I wanted no part of these people who remained. If I had gotten arrested in the throes of the full-out protest, that would be one thing, but hanging out ‘til the wee hours of the morning practically begging a cop to haul me in seemed cheap and undignified.
Adam and I finally got up and walked away. It was late and I was tired, but I was happy that I had showed, if only briefly. And since it was Adam, and our relationship thrives on conflict instead of harmony, we made sure to have a huge, knockdown argument on the street before I descended underground to my subway. *sigh*
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