The evening of 3/26 - Twister
Dear Briar -
This is a real trip isn’t it? Life. We are like game pieces. “King me,” or “I won,” “Sorry,” or “I’ll take Entertainment, please,” or “Oh Balderdash,” I forgot “You sunk my battleship,” and “Park Place for $5000.” “Right hand red, left foot blue,” Briar. What will it be? I wonder who’s playing our pieces, or if we are in complete control like the Caterpillar said. “Survey Says,” I don’t think so. There are just too many coincidences to be chalked up as such. Is “worthwild a word?” “Connect Four.”
I used to think that it was all a game, and that death would be a game, too. I began to compose these letters with the intention that they would be my vain attempt at saying goodbye to those that have touched my life, and given me life, if in the event that I had to fly. It’s really hard feeling this way, and I’ve felt like a burden for so long. I don’t know exactly how I would have done it, but it would have been far away from everyone I loved, so that they didn’t have to deal with funeral preparations, and the unnecessary pain of having to see my lifeless body. I would have just given my letters to everyone ...but then the other day happened.
I had an appointment with Frieda, and I was feeling unusually low, although I pretended to be ok. The entire time I drove there, I tried to plot my suicide, half serious half depressed-think. When my appointment was over, I decided to drive to my sister’s house to visit, in search for some solace. When I walked in, my mom was there working in the office, and my sister was at the doctor with little Jane who was sick. I descended the stairs to the den, and my mom greeted me with a great big smile from the office on the right, and on the left, Ellijah’s 6-year old eyes lit up and he yelled, “Ana ... did you miss me,” he said with his little arms outstretched, “Is that why you are here?”
I melted onto the couch next to him, and he curled up onto my lap and gave me a great big hug, and showed me his missing tooth. I hugged him and kissed his freckled nose and his blonde hair. “How are you El?” I said.
“Good, . . . I missed you! Would you like to go to the movies with me sometime? We could go see ‘Home on the Range,’ just like when we went to see the ‘Cat in the Hat.’”
Then he whispered so my mom, his Gaga couldn’t hear, “Maybe we could get some candy again, and play some video games.” He giggled deviously. It was our secret. He continued to tell me all about the Bugs Bunny cartoon that he loved, wide green eyes smiling, and his voice, dripping with love drifted off, and I knew at that moment, choking on my own selfishness that I couldn’t possibly ever take my life. It would break little Eli’s heart. He just wouldn’t understand, and like Jack has said to me on several occasions, “you would shatter a piece of everyone who loves you, and they’d never be the same.”
I spun and got a “free turn,” Briar.
I am back in the game.
Love, Ana
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Friday, August 20, 2010
Dear Alice... Introspection
3/26 - Introspection
Dear Alice -
I am confident that you are the most profound character in literary history, because you represent the one commonality that every human shares; you are forced to question who you are at the ripe young age of five, when seemingly most people spend their entire lives searching for their true identity, or at least trying to crack the surface.
Usually the “search” begins with a seemingly life altering moment, or with a bright philosophical or religious epiphany. You were lucky; your search was instigated by curiosity, then a long plunge down a rabbit hole into an alter reality. We certainly would be ill-developed, one-dimensional characters without curiosity:
“Alice was beginning to bet very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, ‘and what is the use of a book,’ thought Alice, ‘without pictures or conversations?’ So she was considering, in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a white rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her. There was nothing so very remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so very much out of the way to hear the rabbit say to itself, ‘Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late!’ (when she thought it over afterwards, it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural); but when the rabbit actually took a watch out of its waistcoat-pocket, and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take out of it, and, burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after it, and was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge. In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again. The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down what seemed to be a very deep well. Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her, and to wonder what was going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything: then she looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and bookshelves: here and there she saw maps and pictures hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed: it was labeled ‘ORANGE MARMALADE,’ but to her great disappointment it was empty: she did not like to drop the jar, for fear of killing somebody underneath, so managed to put it into one of the cupboards as she fell past it.”
You kept falling Alice, questioning where you were falling to, what the longitude and latitude of your location was (not that you had a clue what those words meant), and how impressed everyone would be at home with your ability to endure such a fall. Then your curiosity made you lonely, and you began to ponder comforts:
“Down, down, down. There was nothing else to do, so Alice soon began talking again. ‘Dinah’ll miss me very much tonight, I should think!’ (Dinah was the cat.) ‘I hope they’ll remember her saucer of milk at tea-time. Dinah, my dear! I wish you were down here with me! There are no mice in the air, I’m afraid, but you might catch a bat, and that’s very like a mouse, you know. But do cats eat bats, I wonder?’ And here Alice began to get rather sleepy, and went on saying to herself, in a dreamy sort of way, ‘Do cats eat bats? Do cats eat bats?’ And sometimes, ‘Do bats eat cats?’ For, you see, as she couldn’t answer either question, it didn’t much matter which way she put it. She felt that she was dozing off, and had just begun to dream that she was walking hand in hand with Dinah, and was saying to her, very earnestly, ‘Now, Dinah, tell me the truth: did you ever eat a bat?’ When suddenly, thump! Thump! Down she came upon a heap of sticks and dry leaves, and the fall was over.”
You questioned the natural order of things; do cats eat bats, or do bats eat cats? It is one of the great questions; why are things the way they are? Who created the food chain? Why is it a “given” to so many that people are the superior being, and have the divine right to smote the life of a forest creature, simply for sport? I remember being your age and witnessing a bloody deer carcass roped to a trailer being towed behind a pick up truck stuffed with men with orange hats, adorned in tasteless camoflauge jackets. They were laughing, and enjoying the ride. “How?” I thought in disgust. I was horrified! It was the first time that I had encountered such sheer brutality, and I asked my mother who was driving why they killed that beautiful deer? And she said, “Oh honey, don’t look. Some people hunt deer.” I couldn’t fathom that concept. I remember the horror that I felt; I couldn’t wipe that image out of my head. Then I asked my mom, “But why, mommy? Why would those men hurt that deer? Who said that they could do that?” I was infuriated. “Isn’t that murder?” She couldn’t answer me, but she felt for me. It was the first time that I was faced with the image of cruelty, and I wanted to know “why.”
So I understand why you followed the rabbit; how would we get to the bottom of anything, if we didn’t take the crazy route? It’s humbling, and you can usually find out some pretty interesting things about yourself, and about human nature in general. As Jim Morrison once said, “People are strange, when you’re a stranger...faces look ugly, when you’re alone;” but that’s just our initial response to fear of the unknown. If we take your path, Alice, the things that once seemed foreign to us become “real,” and we begin to question our perception asking, “who am I” and “what is reality?” I think that it leads to clarity.
The Caterpillar changed your entire perception of yourself with one question; “Who are you?” It was the first time that you had to step outside of yourself and question your existence. Were you simply Alice in patent leather shoes, with a bow in her hair, or was there more to you? The caterpillar wasn’t happy with simple answers; he was a thinker and a philosopher, and wasn’t concerned with Alice in the physical sense, but wanted to know who the all-encompassing Alice was ...which is pretty tough for a little girl to articulate, but you attempted it:
“Alice looked all round her at the flowers and the blades of grass, but she could not see anything that looked like the right think to eat or drink under the circumstances. There was a large mushroom growing near her, about the same height as herself: and, when she had looked under it, and on both sides of it, and behind it, it occurred to her that she might as well look and see what was on top of it. She stretched herself up on tiptoe, and peeped over the edge of the mushroom, and her eyes immediately met those of a large blue caterpillar, that was sitting on the top, with its arms folded, quietly smoking a long hookah, and taking not the smallest notice of her or of anything else. The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence: at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice. ‘Who are You?’ said the caterpillar. This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, ‘I – I hardly know, Sir, just at present – at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.’ ‘What do you mean by that?’ said the Caterpillar, sternly. ‘Explain yourself!’ ‘I can’t explain myself, I’m afraid, Sir,’ said Alice, ‘because I’m not myself, you see.’ ‘I don’t see,’ said the Caterpillar. ‘I’m afraid I can’t put it more clearly,’ Alice replied very politely, ‘for I can’t understand it myself, to begin with; and being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing.’ ‘It isn’t,’ said the Caterpillar. ‘Well, perhaps you haven’t found it so yet,’ said Alice; ‘but when you have to turn into a chrysalis – you will some day, you know – and then after that into a butterfly, I should think you’ll feel it a little queer, won’t you?’ ‘Not a bit,’ said the Caterpillar. ‘Well, perhaps your feelings may be different,’ said Alice: ‘all I know is, it would feel very queer to me.’ ‘You!’ said the Caterpillar contemptuously. ‘Who are you?’”
This, of course frustrated you, but the Caterpillar went on to teach you that there is more to life than your preconceived notion of “Alice” and that if you want anything, you have to get it yourself. Between frustrating pauses filled with rips from the hookah, the Caterpillar taught you about that often overlooked space between reality and understanding: patience.
Your story should be required reading.
You are very real to me. Love, Ana
Dear Alice -
I am confident that you are the most profound character in literary history, because you represent the one commonality that every human shares; you are forced to question who you are at the ripe young age of five, when seemingly most people spend their entire lives searching for their true identity, or at least trying to crack the surface.
Usually the “search” begins with a seemingly life altering moment, or with a bright philosophical or religious epiphany. You were lucky; your search was instigated by curiosity, then a long plunge down a rabbit hole into an alter reality. We certainly would be ill-developed, one-dimensional characters without curiosity:
“Alice was beginning to bet very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, ‘and what is the use of a book,’ thought Alice, ‘without pictures or conversations?’ So she was considering, in her own mind (as well as she could, for the hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of making a daisy chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and picking the daisies, when suddenly a white rabbit with pink eyes ran close by her. There was nothing so very remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so very much out of the way to hear the rabbit say to itself, ‘Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late!’ (when she thought it over afterwards, it occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural); but when the rabbit actually took a watch out of its waistcoat-pocket, and looked at it, and then hurried on, Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch to take out of it, and, burning with curiosity, she ran across the field after it, and was just in time to see it pop down a large rabbit-hole under the hedge. In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how in the world she was to get out again. The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down what seemed to be a very deep well. Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her, and to wonder what was going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything: then she looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and bookshelves: here and there she saw maps and pictures hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed: it was labeled ‘ORANGE MARMALADE,’ but to her great disappointment it was empty: she did not like to drop the jar, for fear of killing somebody underneath, so managed to put it into one of the cupboards as she fell past it.”
You kept falling Alice, questioning where you were falling to, what the longitude and latitude of your location was (not that you had a clue what those words meant), and how impressed everyone would be at home with your ability to endure such a fall. Then your curiosity made you lonely, and you began to ponder comforts:
“Down, down, down. There was nothing else to do, so Alice soon began talking again. ‘Dinah’ll miss me very much tonight, I should think!’ (Dinah was the cat.) ‘I hope they’ll remember her saucer of milk at tea-time. Dinah, my dear! I wish you were down here with me! There are no mice in the air, I’m afraid, but you might catch a bat, and that’s very like a mouse, you know. But do cats eat bats, I wonder?’ And here Alice began to get rather sleepy, and went on saying to herself, in a dreamy sort of way, ‘Do cats eat bats? Do cats eat bats?’ And sometimes, ‘Do bats eat cats?’ For, you see, as she couldn’t answer either question, it didn’t much matter which way she put it. She felt that she was dozing off, and had just begun to dream that she was walking hand in hand with Dinah, and was saying to her, very earnestly, ‘Now, Dinah, tell me the truth: did you ever eat a bat?’ When suddenly, thump! Thump! Down she came upon a heap of sticks and dry leaves, and the fall was over.”
You questioned the natural order of things; do cats eat bats, or do bats eat cats? It is one of the great questions; why are things the way they are? Who created the food chain? Why is it a “given” to so many that people are the superior being, and have the divine right to smote the life of a forest creature, simply for sport? I remember being your age and witnessing a bloody deer carcass roped to a trailer being towed behind a pick up truck stuffed with men with orange hats, adorned in tasteless camoflauge jackets. They were laughing, and enjoying the ride. “How?” I thought in disgust. I was horrified! It was the first time that I had encountered such sheer brutality, and I asked my mother who was driving why they killed that beautiful deer? And she said, “Oh honey, don’t look. Some people hunt deer.” I couldn’t fathom that concept. I remember the horror that I felt; I couldn’t wipe that image out of my head. Then I asked my mom, “But why, mommy? Why would those men hurt that deer? Who said that they could do that?” I was infuriated. “Isn’t that murder?” She couldn’t answer me, but she felt for me. It was the first time that I was faced with the image of cruelty, and I wanted to know “why.”
So I understand why you followed the rabbit; how would we get to the bottom of anything, if we didn’t take the crazy route? It’s humbling, and you can usually find out some pretty interesting things about yourself, and about human nature in general. As Jim Morrison once said, “People are strange, when you’re a stranger...faces look ugly, when you’re alone;” but that’s just our initial response to fear of the unknown. If we take your path, Alice, the things that once seemed foreign to us become “real,” and we begin to question our perception asking, “who am I” and “what is reality?” I think that it leads to clarity.
The Caterpillar changed your entire perception of yourself with one question; “Who are you?” It was the first time that you had to step outside of yourself and question your existence. Were you simply Alice in patent leather shoes, with a bow in her hair, or was there more to you? The caterpillar wasn’t happy with simple answers; he was a thinker and a philosopher, and wasn’t concerned with Alice in the physical sense, but wanted to know who the all-encompassing Alice was ...which is pretty tough for a little girl to articulate, but you attempted it:
“Alice looked all round her at the flowers and the blades of grass, but she could not see anything that looked like the right think to eat or drink under the circumstances. There was a large mushroom growing near her, about the same height as herself: and, when she had looked under it, and on both sides of it, and behind it, it occurred to her that she might as well look and see what was on top of it. She stretched herself up on tiptoe, and peeped over the edge of the mushroom, and her eyes immediately met those of a large blue caterpillar, that was sitting on the top, with its arms folded, quietly smoking a long hookah, and taking not the smallest notice of her or of anything else. The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence: at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice. ‘Who are You?’ said the caterpillar. This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, ‘I – I hardly know, Sir, just at present – at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.’ ‘What do you mean by that?’ said the Caterpillar, sternly. ‘Explain yourself!’ ‘I can’t explain myself, I’m afraid, Sir,’ said Alice, ‘because I’m not myself, you see.’ ‘I don’t see,’ said the Caterpillar. ‘I’m afraid I can’t put it more clearly,’ Alice replied very politely, ‘for I can’t understand it myself, to begin with; and being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing.’ ‘It isn’t,’ said the Caterpillar. ‘Well, perhaps you haven’t found it so yet,’ said Alice; ‘but when you have to turn into a chrysalis – you will some day, you know – and then after that into a butterfly, I should think you’ll feel it a little queer, won’t you?’ ‘Not a bit,’ said the Caterpillar. ‘Well, perhaps your feelings may be different,’ said Alice: ‘all I know is, it would feel very queer to me.’ ‘You!’ said the Caterpillar contemptuously. ‘Who are you?’”
This, of course frustrated you, but the Caterpillar went on to teach you that there is more to life than your preconceived notion of “Alice” and that if you want anything, you have to get it yourself. Between frustrating pauses filled with rips from the hookah, the Caterpillar taught you about that often overlooked space between reality and understanding: patience.
Your story should be required reading.
You are very real to me. Love, Ana
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Dear Jesse...Disappear
3/26 - Disappear
Dear Jesse-
It’s one of those days, today, one of those days that I would like to fold up neatly, and tuck into a tightly-sealed drawer somewhere. You know the kind of day I mean? Yesterday, I went to see Dr. Freedman and he asked me about Lithium side effects; I told him that I feel like I have an impending urinary tract infection at all times.
“What do you mean,” he said. I told him that I have to pee constantly. He immediately spun around to his desk and scribbled down a lab prescription, spun back around toward me and said, “That isn’t good. We’ve got to have your kidney function tested, today.” “Kidneys,” I scowled. “What next?” I left with my lab report and an incessant urge to pee in my pulsating urethra, and head on down the highway in search of a lab, all the while thinking of a conversation I had with Frieda, my cognitive therapist, earlier in the week.
“Frieda,” I asked, “Since you are the holistic side to psychotherapy, and you teach the tools to overcome behaviors, what is your take on herbal remedies, as opposed to all of the chemicals that I am swallowing daily. Do you think that they work?” Frieda leaned back in her chair, brushed her blonde curls away from her forehead and cautiously said, “Why, are you taking them?” “No,” I said emphatically, but my question is why am I not taking them. The other day I went into the health food store to pick up some vitamins, and an older German man with smiling brown eyes, and a thick accent greeted me at the door, and sort of followed me around. So I asked him a question about the whereabouts of a specific supplement, and he smiled and took both of my hands and said, “let me take a look at you.” Strangely, I wasn’t taken back. He was very kind. He stared into my eyes, and told me that I needed to drink water with lemon, to clean out my kidneys. Then he said, “and your liver is working very hard, are you taking medications?” “Yes,” I confessed, “I’m taking lithium and Prozac, among other things that I am weaning off of. “Ah,” he said knowingly, “for...”
“bipolar disorder,” I said.
“Ah, you cannot tell from your smile,” he winked. ‘He then lead me over to a book, and opened it to a page entitled, “bipolar disorder.” There were several cocktails of herbal remedies listed, one of which was a natural, unprocessed form of the salt, Lithium called Cudweed. He pointed to that and said, “it has the stabilizing effect of processed lithium, but it is in its raw state, so it doesn’t cause the adverse side effects. Take this with you and read it,” he smiled. So I did, happily.
Frieda smiled seriously and said, “there is no doubt in my mind that natural remedies work ...nature is where all of our modern meds were extracted from, but the problem that I have with them is strictly that they are not regulated. If you are taking 20 milligrams of Prozac here in the US, you know that what you are swallowing is really 20 milligrams of the drug, whereas you can’t be sure when it comes to natural medicinal remedies, because there is no government regulation if 20 milligrams of St. John’s Wort is actually 20 Milligrams. It could be 5, mixed with 15 milligrams of filler.” Then Frieda chimed in, noticing a wave of disappointment wash across my eyes, “although, the only country other than ours that does regulate their natural remedies is Germany. Their measurements are international units.” All I could think of was the German man who read my irises (Iridology); maybe he was on to something.
I pulled into a small town lab, and found my way in. I was greeted by a five’ nothing, slim-hipped technician named Rosie who should have been home enjoying her later years. She had brilliant dyed red hair, a grandmother’s charm, and a set of knockers on her that defied gravity. She was straight out of a pulp fiction magazine; she would of been Rosie the waitress, who was more wise than everyone that she encountered, and used it to her tip advantage. She spoke to me in a raspy voice, “hi hon,” she smiled, red lipstick on her front tooth. “You need lab work done, dolly?” “Yes,” I smiled, silently wanting to grab an afghan, and curl up onto her lap to be rocked to sleep. “Follow me sweetie. You ever been here before?” “No, I haven’t.” “Well,” she smiled, “ I’m going to put you to work then. Okay?” She handed me a pile of legal documents to sign, etc., and she was eating a chocolate candy, turned to me and said, “You’re fasting, right?” “Not intentionally, but yes. Unfortunately all that I have had today is a cup of coffee.” “Good,” she grinned. Then she leaned over like it was our little secret and whispered, “I’ll give you some chocolate on your way out!” I laughed.
She smelled like baby powder, mothballs and Jean Nate. Remember that after shower splash that you could get at K-Mart, or Ames, or any variety store like that? It came in a plastic bottle labeled cologne, and was advertised as a “splash” of sexy fragrance for women? Man, I didn’t think that they still manufactured it. Who knows, maybe she stock-piled it in the 70's, or maybe every one of her grandchildren had wrapped it up for her for Christmas for every year between 1978 and 1988, and she had filled her linen closet with it. Maybe that was her “scent,” like Shalimar is my mom’s scent, and my Aunt Suz’s Scent, and Samsara is your scent. Who knows.
She tied the rubber band above my elbow, and slid the needle into my vein, seemingly as easily as she poured coffee in my Pulp Fiction fantasy, “Needles don’t bother you,” she smiled. “No. I find them fascinating.” She looked at me strangely, “Not in a weird way or anything,” I reassured her. I didn’t want Rosie to think I was masochistic or something. After all, my lab report did say check Lithium levels. She inserted another tube into the needle, and I watched it fill with my dark red blood. She pulled the needle out and pressed a piece of gauze to the tiny wound and taped it to my arm. I imagined a red blood cell holding up a stop sign and whistling beneath the surface, dressed in a crossing guard’s uniform, to stop traffic from moving outside of my arm.
“Okay dolly,” she said reading my lab request, you’ve gotta pee in a cup for me. He’s got to check your kidney levels.” “Do you know anything about that,” I asked Rosie. “Well,” She said, “I’m not a doctor, but I’ve been doing this a long time, and medicine sometimes messes with your kidneys, so you’ve got to be sure.” She looked at me, handed me the cup, and instructed to wipe front to back with a castille soap towelette and to catch the pee mid stream in the cup, and then she smiled reassuringly. I slipped into a memory of my college nurse instructing me to do that, but not as kindly, when I was placed on disciplinary probation for drugs.
I walked out of the bathroom and handed Rosie the cup. “Good,” she remarked, like I had done a good job. I loved Rosie, like a loved my second grade teacher, Mrs. Coppola. When I was leaving, she handed me a baggy of chocolates. “Bye sweetie,” she said knowingly. “Don’t worry, it will get easier,” she said, then tapped me on the back. I refrained from hugging her, but I wanted to.
So why is today tough? Well, I woke up hung over. It was my own damn fault, I drank five pints of Guinness last night while watching Jack perform at an open mic. He was fantastic, and I was really enjoying myself. But I forgot how detrimental alcohol is to your body when your taking meds. Secretly, I enjoyed the dizzying effect because I felt more human; I almost felt like I was flying high again. It was intoxicating (no pun intended). Wow Jesse, I woke up today with a ten-car pile up in the frontal lobe of my brain, and I’m not supposed to take anything to relieve it. It caused me to sleep until 10:00 am, when I should have been making progress toward my move; I have to be out of that apartment in three days. When I arose, I was a bit discombobulated. I had asked my landlord for some paint to touch up the spackle marks that I had made while filling nail holes, so I decided to make up for lost time and quickly run around the living room and touch everything up. So I did, and before I left to escape that place for a while, I kept looking at the large white blotches on the wall, praying that they would dry to the right shade of white. When I left, the walls were still multi-tonal. I fear my return to pack more up this evening. I go in the evenings because I don’t want to be seen; I’m afraid that someone might attempt to strike up a conversation with me.
In the dark, I feel safe.
Love, Ana
Dear Jesse-
It’s one of those days, today, one of those days that I would like to fold up neatly, and tuck into a tightly-sealed drawer somewhere. You know the kind of day I mean? Yesterday, I went to see Dr. Freedman and he asked me about Lithium side effects; I told him that I feel like I have an impending urinary tract infection at all times.
“What do you mean,” he said. I told him that I have to pee constantly. He immediately spun around to his desk and scribbled down a lab prescription, spun back around toward me and said, “That isn’t good. We’ve got to have your kidney function tested, today.” “Kidneys,” I scowled. “What next?” I left with my lab report and an incessant urge to pee in my pulsating urethra, and head on down the highway in search of a lab, all the while thinking of a conversation I had with Frieda, my cognitive therapist, earlier in the week.
“Frieda,” I asked, “Since you are the holistic side to psychotherapy, and you teach the tools to overcome behaviors, what is your take on herbal remedies, as opposed to all of the chemicals that I am swallowing daily. Do you think that they work?” Frieda leaned back in her chair, brushed her blonde curls away from her forehead and cautiously said, “Why, are you taking them?” “No,” I said emphatically, but my question is why am I not taking them. The other day I went into the health food store to pick up some vitamins, and an older German man with smiling brown eyes, and a thick accent greeted me at the door, and sort of followed me around. So I asked him a question about the whereabouts of a specific supplement, and he smiled and took both of my hands and said, “let me take a look at you.” Strangely, I wasn’t taken back. He was very kind. He stared into my eyes, and told me that I needed to drink water with lemon, to clean out my kidneys. Then he said, “and your liver is working very hard, are you taking medications?” “Yes,” I confessed, “I’m taking lithium and Prozac, among other things that I am weaning off of. “Ah,” he said knowingly, “for...”
“bipolar disorder,” I said.
“Ah, you cannot tell from your smile,” he winked. ‘He then lead me over to a book, and opened it to a page entitled, “bipolar disorder.” There were several cocktails of herbal remedies listed, one of which was a natural, unprocessed form of the salt, Lithium called Cudweed. He pointed to that and said, “it has the stabilizing effect of processed lithium, but it is in its raw state, so it doesn’t cause the adverse side effects. Take this with you and read it,” he smiled. So I did, happily.
Frieda smiled seriously and said, “there is no doubt in my mind that natural remedies work ...nature is where all of our modern meds were extracted from, but the problem that I have with them is strictly that they are not regulated. If you are taking 20 milligrams of Prozac here in the US, you know that what you are swallowing is really 20 milligrams of the drug, whereas you can’t be sure when it comes to natural medicinal remedies, because there is no government regulation if 20 milligrams of St. John’s Wort is actually 20 Milligrams. It could be 5, mixed with 15 milligrams of filler.” Then Frieda chimed in, noticing a wave of disappointment wash across my eyes, “although, the only country other than ours that does regulate their natural remedies is Germany. Their measurements are international units.” All I could think of was the German man who read my irises (Iridology); maybe he was on to something.
I pulled into a small town lab, and found my way in. I was greeted by a five’ nothing, slim-hipped technician named Rosie who should have been home enjoying her later years. She had brilliant dyed red hair, a grandmother’s charm, and a set of knockers on her that defied gravity. She was straight out of a pulp fiction magazine; she would of been Rosie the waitress, who was more wise than everyone that she encountered, and used it to her tip advantage. She spoke to me in a raspy voice, “hi hon,” she smiled, red lipstick on her front tooth. “You need lab work done, dolly?” “Yes,” I smiled, silently wanting to grab an afghan, and curl up onto her lap to be rocked to sleep. “Follow me sweetie. You ever been here before?” “No, I haven’t.” “Well,” she smiled, “ I’m going to put you to work then. Okay?” She handed me a pile of legal documents to sign, etc., and she was eating a chocolate candy, turned to me and said, “You’re fasting, right?” “Not intentionally, but yes. Unfortunately all that I have had today is a cup of coffee.” “Good,” she grinned. Then she leaned over like it was our little secret and whispered, “I’ll give you some chocolate on your way out!” I laughed.
She smelled like baby powder, mothballs and Jean Nate. Remember that after shower splash that you could get at K-Mart, or Ames, or any variety store like that? It came in a plastic bottle labeled cologne, and was advertised as a “splash” of sexy fragrance for women? Man, I didn’t think that they still manufactured it. Who knows, maybe she stock-piled it in the 70's, or maybe every one of her grandchildren had wrapped it up for her for Christmas for every year between 1978 and 1988, and she had filled her linen closet with it. Maybe that was her “scent,” like Shalimar is my mom’s scent, and my Aunt Suz’s Scent, and Samsara is your scent. Who knows.
She tied the rubber band above my elbow, and slid the needle into my vein, seemingly as easily as she poured coffee in my Pulp Fiction fantasy, “Needles don’t bother you,” she smiled. “No. I find them fascinating.” She looked at me strangely, “Not in a weird way or anything,” I reassured her. I didn’t want Rosie to think I was masochistic or something. After all, my lab report did say check Lithium levels. She inserted another tube into the needle, and I watched it fill with my dark red blood. She pulled the needle out and pressed a piece of gauze to the tiny wound and taped it to my arm. I imagined a red blood cell holding up a stop sign and whistling beneath the surface, dressed in a crossing guard’s uniform, to stop traffic from moving outside of my arm.
“Okay dolly,” she said reading my lab request, you’ve gotta pee in a cup for me. He’s got to check your kidney levels.” “Do you know anything about that,” I asked Rosie. “Well,” She said, “I’m not a doctor, but I’ve been doing this a long time, and medicine sometimes messes with your kidneys, so you’ve got to be sure.” She looked at me, handed me the cup, and instructed to wipe front to back with a castille soap towelette and to catch the pee mid stream in the cup, and then she smiled reassuringly. I slipped into a memory of my college nurse instructing me to do that, but not as kindly, when I was placed on disciplinary probation for drugs.
I walked out of the bathroom and handed Rosie the cup. “Good,” she remarked, like I had done a good job. I loved Rosie, like a loved my second grade teacher, Mrs. Coppola. When I was leaving, she handed me a baggy of chocolates. “Bye sweetie,” she said knowingly. “Don’t worry, it will get easier,” she said, then tapped me on the back. I refrained from hugging her, but I wanted to.
So why is today tough? Well, I woke up hung over. It was my own damn fault, I drank five pints of Guinness last night while watching Jack perform at an open mic. He was fantastic, and I was really enjoying myself. But I forgot how detrimental alcohol is to your body when your taking meds. Secretly, I enjoyed the dizzying effect because I felt more human; I almost felt like I was flying high again. It was intoxicating (no pun intended). Wow Jesse, I woke up today with a ten-car pile up in the frontal lobe of my brain, and I’m not supposed to take anything to relieve it. It caused me to sleep until 10:00 am, when I should have been making progress toward my move; I have to be out of that apartment in three days. When I arose, I was a bit discombobulated. I had asked my landlord for some paint to touch up the spackle marks that I had made while filling nail holes, so I decided to make up for lost time and quickly run around the living room and touch everything up. So I did, and before I left to escape that place for a while, I kept looking at the large white blotches on the wall, praying that they would dry to the right shade of white. When I left, the walls were still multi-tonal. I fear my return to pack more up this evening. I go in the evenings because I don’t want to be seen; I’m afraid that someone might attempt to strike up a conversation with me.
In the dark, I feel safe.
Love, Ana
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Dear Jesse...Puzzles
The Eve of 3/21 - Puzzles
Dear Jesse -
I just listened to a message from you; you told me that you happened upon a diary of yours from your teenage years. “I was one fucked up kid,” you laughed. It’s rare that you use the F-Bomb, so I am assuming that reading your history really rattled your hidden skeletons. Ironically, I too perused some old journals of mine today, while packing up books in my apartment. The entries that I read were so disturbing. Not particularly in content, but the inconsistent thoughts, language and handwriting were indicative of my problems, not yet diagnosed by a psychiatrist, but medicated by me.
In reading your diary, did you find that history has repeated itself? Can you see a pattern in your behavior? Can you see a pattern in your fears; perhaps you see a pattern in how you prioritize things?
I found this entry from 10 years ago, when you and I were juniors in college, and I was dating Dave. Do you remember Dave? He was a fine art major at University of the Arts in Philadelphia? He was a talented guy, and I adored him ...but it bordered unhealthy. He was a temperamental artist himself, but my digression from bad to worse in our two year relationship, he couldn’t even deal with.
I became delusional; I remember. I would concoct bizarre scenarios in my head about Dave and his art school affairs, and they would become so real to me that when I would venture to Philadelphia on the weekend, I would obsess over my mental concoctions, and when I would arrive at the bus station, I would sometimes walk around the city for two hours before I would go to see him. It was the only way that I could calm my racing mind. Usually my smiling facade would fade eventually over the weekend, (appropriately after countless bong hits) and my deluded thoughts would manifest themselves as vicious anger, or tears, or jealousy.
It wasn’t uncommon for me to clean with a vengeance, then take an unusually long shower in an attempt to cleanse the bad thoughts. A third-person perspective of my behavior must of been laughable … either that or unnerving. One entry that I wrote eleven years ago says it all:
9/17/93 - 2:53 am
I wrote, “I’m so sad. I think that I make him sad. I don’t want to. I hate faking things. If our distance comes between us, I will die. How come love has to feel like a root canal? How come my car doesn’t run? Why were we split? I’m sick of crying – I just wish I had him right here. I just want to hold his head in my hands. I hate hurting; why can’t we be together all the time? Why am I so stubborn? Why am I so unattractive? I wish, so much to be curled up like a puzzle in front of a fan, with a cat sleeping at our feet. Please make it stop.”
I’ve blocked out a lot of those feelings, and I think that’s why that journal entry repeats itself for every relationship that I had for the past decade. I wonder if that is the case for most people. I thought that we are supposed to learn from our mistakes, right? I guess that it is contingent on whether or not we open ourselves up to suggestion. We have to be pliable in order to transcend our bouts with darkness; rigidity will only keep us floating in an anchored boat, with just a distant glimpse of the white, sandy beach. This is what I have learned.
Love, Ana
(Download Joanna Newsom... she is a remarkable... upper right...plays the harp)
Dear Jesse -
I just listened to a message from you; you told me that you happened upon a diary of yours from your teenage years. “I was one fucked up kid,” you laughed. It’s rare that you use the F-Bomb, so I am assuming that reading your history really rattled your hidden skeletons. Ironically, I too perused some old journals of mine today, while packing up books in my apartment. The entries that I read were so disturbing. Not particularly in content, but the inconsistent thoughts, language and handwriting were indicative of my problems, not yet diagnosed by a psychiatrist, but medicated by me.
In reading your diary, did you find that history has repeated itself? Can you see a pattern in your behavior? Can you see a pattern in your fears; perhaps you see a pattern in how you prioritize things?
I found this entry from 10 years ago, when you and I were juniors in college, and I was dating Dave. Do you remember Dave? He was a fine art major at University of the Arts in Philadelphia? He was a talented guy, and I adored him ...but it bordered unhealthy. He was a temperamental artist himself, but my digression from bad to worse in our two year relationship, he couldn’t even deal with.
I became delusional; I remember. I would concoct bizarre scenarios in my head about Dave and his art school affairs, and they would become so real to me that when I would venture to Philadelphia on the weekend, I would obsess over my mental concoctions, and when I would arrive at the bus station, I would sometimes walk around the city for two hours before I would go to see him. It was the only way that I could calm my racing mind. Usually my smiling facade would fade eventually over the weekend, (appropriately after countless bong hits) and my deluded thoughts would manifest themselves as vicious anger, or tears, or jealousy.
It wasn’t uncommon for me to clean with a vengeance, then take an unusually long shower in an attempt to cleanse the bad thoughts. A third-person perspective of my behavior must of been laughable … either that or unnerving. One entry that I wrote eleven years ago says it all:
9/17/93 - 2:53 am
I wrote, “I’m so sad. I think that I make him sad. I don’t want to. I hate faking things. If our distance comes between us, I will die. How come love has to feel like a root canal? How come my car doesn’t run? Why were we split? I’m sick of crying – I just wish I had him right here. I just want to hold his head in my hands. I hate hurting; why can’t we be together all the time? Why am I so stubborn? Why am I so unattractive? I wish, so much to be curled up like a puzzle in front of a fan, with a cat sleeping at our feet. Please make it stop.”
I’ve blocked out a lot of those feelings, and I think that’s why that journal entry repeats itself for every relationship that I had for the past decade. I wonder if that is the case for most people. I thought that we are supposed to learn from our mistakes, right? I guess that it is contingent on whether or not we open ourselves up to suggestion. We have to be pliable in order to transcend our bouts with darkness; rigidity will only keep us floating in an anchored boat, with just a distant glimpse of the white, sandy beach. This is what I have learned.
Love, Ana
(Download Joanna Newsom... she is a remarkable... upper right...plays the harp)
Monday, August 16, 2010
Dear Sweet Jane...Medication
The Eve of 3/19 - Medication
Dear Sweet Jane -
I’m sipping on a glass of wine and thinking of you. You know, the more I ponder it, you were just like me. You hid behind the most contagious laugh I have ever known, you would drink to get drunk, you were dreadfully moody, had a terrible self-image when everyone saw you as beautiful and full of life, you were addicted to drugs and the wrong guys, you were deeply affected by film, and books, and sadness, and you hurt for everyone, but hid that inside an angry, joking facade. Perhaps this was known between us; we had a quiet understanding. I could just look at your posture from across a room, and I knew what you were feeling. Did you feel that way, too?
I remember sitting down on the ledge of the bathtub with you in that apartment you lived in that was so inexpensive because it was next to the firehouse, and the alarm would scream into your window at 5:00am without fail. The two of us had been up for something like 22 hours, partying. We wanted to be eye level with the bathroom counter, so we could see if there was any trace of cocaine left, even if it was mixed with tile cleaner, toothpaste, or cigarette ashes. Anything.
We scraped up a line to share, and although we laughed, I think that we had a mutual understanding of that moment being the most pathetic that either of us had ever lived. I know that when I finally ventured home, suffering from a car crash in my brain, I vowed never to touch the stuff again, and I didn’t ...
I hope you’re doing fine.
Love, Ana
Dear Sweet Jane -
I’m sipping on a glass of wine and thinking of you. You know, the more I ponder it, you were just like me. You hid behind the most contagious laugh I have ever known, you would drink to get drunk, you were dreadfully moody, had a terrible self-image when everyone saw you as beautiful and full of life, you were addicted to drugs and the wrong guys, you were deeply affected by film, and books, and sadness, and you hurt for everyone, but hid that inside an angry, joking facade. Perhaps this was known between us; we had a quiet understanding. I could just look at your posture from across a room, and I knew what you were feeling. Did you feel that way, too?
I remember sitting down on the ledge of the bathtub with you in that apartment you lived in that was so inexpensive because it was next to the firehouse, and the alarm would scream into your window at 5:00am without fail. The two of us had been up for something like 22 hours, partying. We wanted to be eye level with the bathroom counter, so we could see if there was any trace of cocaine left, even if it was mixed with tile cleaner, toothpaste, or cigarette ashes. Anything.
We scraped up a line to share, and although we laughed, I think that we had a mutual understanding of that moment being the most pathetic that either of us had ever lived. I know that when I finally ventured home, suffering from a car crash in my brain, I vowed never to touch the stuff again, and I didn’t ...
I hope you’re doing fine.
Love, Ana
Friday, August 13, 2010
Paging Doctor Freedman...Voices
3/23 - Voices
Paging Dr. Freedman -
Granted, I know that you are a psychiatrist, and that your job is to medicate the mentally-ill, with every good intention of regulating their mood to a stable state of functionality, and in some cases, rationality, but I am curious about something. Does the old cliche also apply to your profession, “it takes one to know one?” As a seasoned musician, you must feel that this is the case. I know that it is sometimes difficult for a person who doesn’t understand music to fully appreciate it as multifaceted, rather than just a sensory stimulus that is either pleasing or not. I also know that although I love fine art, I can never entirely feel a piece of work, because I haven’t been trained in the technical aspect of how to create a great work of art. I can find it aesthetically pleasing, but I cannot fully understand the time and muscle that went into it. Do you know where I am going with this? Can you empathize with those of us who have mental and/or chemical afflictions, or do you feel that your medical expertise will suffice? I’m just curious.
Personally, I feel that regardless of whether or not you are certifiable, you are a tremendous doctor, and are current and well-versed in your profession. I also think that your passion for music is what makes you that way. When a person knows music in his/her soul, the senses are no longer separate entities; they meld, and the result is color that drips from a person’s presence, like that of children, before they become adulterated by life stuff. It is a clean intellectual energy, and you have it. There is nothing clinical about you except your keen understanding of your profession. You are lucky.
Yesterday, I experienced what it feels like to not take any meds again, and it felt new, or maybe just different. I ran out of lithium, and I didn’t take it for a day and ½. Dr. Freedman, the fog lifted for a while, and I felt again. My senses were alive, and I could breathe again. Even a headache felt good, because I was aware of its pounding. Do you know what I mean? It was really hard for me to swallow that pill today; it was like saying goodbye to my old self, even if she was unstable. I’m writing from beneath that lonely fog.
I leave you with an interesting excerpt that I read in the April 2004 issue of Prevention magazine, entitled “Get Inside Van Gogh’s Brain” by Susan Hayes:
“Creativity’s personal cost: If you paint like Van Gogh or write poetry like Sylvia Plath, you’re also at higher risk for madness. Could faulty brain wiring be the link between insanity and artistry? The evidence: Both schizophrenics and highly creative people possess leaky “sensory filters” – low latent inhibition, say researchers from Harvard and the University of Toronto. Their brains let in more sights, sounds, and sensations than normal. With a high IQ and a good memory, the input may be thrilling. Yet it can also be overwhelming – even deadly. To momentarily glimpse life as Plath, Van Gogh, or Mozart did (without the risk), pay close attention to a work they created. ‘I think that great artists decrease the levels of latent inhibition in those who see or hear their works,’ says researcher Jordan Peterson, PhD.”
Regards, Ana
Paging Dr. Freedman -
Granted, I know that you are a psychiatrist, and that your job is to medicate the mentally-ill, with every good intention of regulating their mood to a stable state of functionality, and in some cases, rationality, but I am curious about something. Does the old cliche also apply to your profession, “it takes one to know one?” As a seasoned musician, you must feel that this is the case. I know that it is sometimes difficult for a person who doesn’t understand music to fully appreciate it as multifaceted, rather than just a sensory stimulus that is either pleasing or not. I also know that although I love fine art, I can never entirely feel a piece of work, because I haven’t been trained in the technical aspect of how to create a great work of art. I can find it aesthetically pleasing, but I cannot fully understand the time and muscle that went into it. Do you know where I am going with this? Can you empathize with those of us who have mental and/or chemical afflictions, or do you feel that your medical expertise will suffice? I’m just curious.
Personally, I feel that regardless of whether or not you are certifiable, you are a tremendous doctor, and are current and well-versed in your profession. I also think that your passion for music is what makes you that way. When a person knows music in his/her soul, the senses are no longer separate entities; they meld, and the result is color that drips from a person’s presence, like that of children, before they become adulterated by life stuff. It is a clean intellectual energy, and you have it. There is nothing clinical about you except your keen understanding of your profession. You are lucky.
Yesterday, I experienced what it feels like to not take any meds again, and it felt new, or maybe just different. I ran out of lithium, and I didn’t take it for a day and ½. Dr. Freedman, the fog lifted for a while, and I felt again. My senses were alive, and I could breathe again. Even a headache felt good, because I was aware of its pounding. Do you know what I mean? It was really hard for me to swallow that pill today; it was like saying goodbye to my old self, even if she was unstable. I’m writing from beneath that lonely fog.
I leave you with an interesting excerpt that I read in the April 2004 issue of Prevention magazine, entitled “Get Inside Van Gogh’s Brain” by Susan Hayes:
“Creativity’s personal cost: If you paint like Van Gogh or write poetry like Sylvia Plath, you’re also at higher risk for madness. Could faulty brain wiring be the link between insanity and artistry? The evidence: Both schizophrenics and highly creative people possess leaky “sensory filters” – low latent inhibition, say researchers from Harvard and the University of Toronto. Their brains let in more sights, sounds, and sensations than normal. With a high IQ and a good memory, the input may be thrilling. Yet it can also be overwhelming – even deadly. To momentarily glimpse life as Plath, Van Gogh, or Mozart did (without the risk), pay close attention to a work they created. ‘I think that great artists decrease the levels of latent inhibition in those who see or hear their works,’ says researcher Jordan Peterson, PhD.”
Regards, Ana
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Dear Mr. J. Lennon ... IMAGINE
3/17 - Imagine
Dear Mr. J. Lennon -
I hope that you aren’t opposed to my formality, but I honestly don’t know how to refer to you. I remember sitting at my dining room table, eating a peanut butter, honey, and raisin sandwich after a day in the 2nd grade, and hearing announced over New York talk radio, WOR that you had been shot. My mom gasped, and I dropped my sandwich and turned to look at her, framed by the gray December light coming in through the kitchen window. She rushed to the alarm clock radio, and turned up the buzzing, crackling WOR to hear the story. She stared in complete dismay, as it unfolded; you were shot and killed by an obsessive man while Yoko Ono had to stand by and watch the life drip out of you. “That Bastard,” my mom gasped. I watched the horror creep onto her young face.
“Did he die mommy,” I asked sadly singing “Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds” in my head, trying to decipher what “tangerine trees and marmalade skies” felt like; I wanted to taste them.
“He did,” she said sadly. I would imagine that my memory of your death is similar to the experience that countless people had when they heard of the assassination of JFK. I’ll never forget it, and I was just a little girl in braids. “Maybe he’s with Lucy now,” I said, “she has kaleidoscope eyes, mom.” “Maybe.” My mom smiled at me.
I am writing with hopes that you can help me clarify something. If “All You Need is Love” as you so beautifully put it, and love is the answer to all problems, then how can I use it to cure this mental affliction? For instance, in How to Be Happy, Dammit: A Cynics Guide to Spiritual Happiness by Karen Salmansohn, she states that “life lesson # 41 is Prozac Schmozac. Love is the Drug.” I bet you would agree, as do I, but I am conflicted.
Salmansohn says:
“Love is what you’re always looking for in all the things you’re looking for. Even your yearning for sex is really a dyslexic search for love. You know it. Ad agencies know it. Love is the #1 marketing strategy, used as a promise in ad campaigns for products from cars to toothpaste to floorwax. And all this lovemania reminds you of a Zen saying: 'Basically the Archer aims at himself.' If you are not a happy person inside you, then nothing outside you will ever make you happy and able to feel love. This makes sense because you know already from lesson # 27 how the world is your mirror. It thereby makes sense that if you can increase how happy and loving you feel about yourself on the inside, the more happiness and love you will see and attract from the world around you to you.”
Love radiates; It’s an energy that not only can you feel but you can see. I think that a person who truly loves herself/himself exudes light that attracts others. Do you think that to knock down the self-loathing that is the scaffolding in mental illness, it isn’t necessary to alter the chemistry of the brain with psychiatric medicine? Do you think there is a universal love energy that can be tapped into that is much stronger than any superficial medication? Is it the same mind-over-matter collective energy that you and Yoko were talking about when you protested, “WAR IS OVER! If you want it.” “If you want it” is such a profound statement; if you want something bad enough, and direct your energy into it, it will happen. Right?
Love and Peace,
Ana
Dear Mr. J. Lennon -
I hope that you aren’t opposed to my formality, but I honestly don’t know how to refer to you. I remember sitting at my dining room table, eating a peanut butter, honey, and raisin sandwich after a day in the 2nd grade, and hearing announced over New York talk radio, WOR that you had been shot. My mom gasped, and I dropped my sandwich and turned to look at her, framed by the gray December light coming in through the kitchen window. She rushed to the alarm clock radio, and turned up the buzzing, crackling WOR to hear the story. She stared in complete dismay, as it unfolded; you were shot and killed by an obsessive man while Yoko Ono had to stand by and watch the life drip out of you. “That Bastard,” my mom gasped. I watched the horror creep onto her young face.
“Did he die mommy,” I asked sadly singing “Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds” in my head, trying to decipher what “tangerine trees and marmalade skies” felt like; I wanted to taste them.
“He did,” she said sadly. I would imagine that my memory of your death is similar to the experience that countless people had when they heard of the assassination of JFK. I’ll never forget it, and I was just a little girl in braids. “Maybe he’s with Lucy now,” I said, “she has kaleidoscope eyes, mom.” “Maybe.” My mom smiled at me.
I am writing with hopes that you can help me clarify something. If “All You Need is Love” as you so beautifully put it, and love is the answer to all problems, then how can I use it to cure this mental affliction? For instance, in How to Be Happy, Dammit: A Cynics Guide to Spiritual Happiness by Karen Salmansohn, she states that “life lesson # 41 is Prozac Schmozac. Love is the Drug.” I bet you would agree, as do I, but I am conflicted.
Salmansohn says:
“Love is what you’re always looking for in all the things you’re looking for. Even your yearning for sex is really a dyslexic search for love. You know it. Ad agencies know it. Love is the #1 marketing strategy, used as a promise in ad campaigns for products from cars to toothpaste to floorwax. And all this lovemania reminds you of a Zen saying: 'Basically the Archer aims at himself.' If you are not a happy person inside you, then nothing outside you will ever make you happy and able to feel love. This makes sense because you know already from lesson # 27 how the world is your mirror. It thereby makes sense that if you can increase how happy and loving you feel about yourself on the inside, the more happiness and love you will see and attract from the world around you to you.”
Love radiates; It’s an energy that not only can you feel but you can see. I think that a person who truly loves herself/himself exudes light that attracts others. Do you think that to knock down the self-loathing that is the scaffolding in mental illness, it isn’t necessary to alter the chemistry of the brain with psychiatric medicine? Do you think there is a universal love energy that can be tapped into that is much stronger than any superficial medication? Is it the same mind-over-matter collective energy that you and Yoko were talking about when you protested, “WAR IS OVER! If you want it.” “If you want it” is such a profound statement; if you want something bad enough, and direct your energy into it, it will happen. Right?
Love and Peace,
Ana
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)