Tag: anxiety

Epiphany, January 6th reflection

I spent the morning of January 6th, 2021 drinking tea, chatting about the news, as always. I was actually feeling happy, as today was Three Kings Day, or the Epiphany. It represents an incredible journey of perseverance and wonder, as Melchior, Caspar, and Balthazar traveled the desert following the North Star to see the newborn messiah, Jesus.

I laughed at these people gathering with no cause and passion like these Magi. They are sore losers. I spoke with my therapist that afternoon about how ridiculous they are. But when our session was dismissed, it got worse. The mob breached the Capitol, and everyone had to hide.

Excerpted from my diary entry on January 11th, 2021

The diary entry above is somewhat incomplete, as it was done as part of a timed exercise at a work-based wellness zone. During the time I mentioned, not only was it the Epiphany, but John Osoff and Raphael Warnock had won their senate runoff races in Georgia. I was rooting for them not simply because they are Democrats, but also because the Republican party in America has become a perverted, reactionary heap who views lack of hygienic safety as a “personal liberty,” among multitudes of other problems. Both bring refreshing, faith-informed perspectives to our governmental system. Seeing them win, I thought this contempt for humanity had died, but alas.

In the morning, there were people outside the Capitol building. They were shouting, they had flags, signs, Trump-themed paraphernalia, some Revolutionary and Civil War paraphernalia, mostly those which signified sympathy towards reactionaries, and some megaphones. It was, in its formation, a protest. But protests have a movement, and keeping a tyrant who lost his reelection in office isn’t a movement. It’s just sore losership. I chided them. It was pathetic.

But the pathetic often becomes the disturbing. Seeing them breach the building, knowing lawmakers and their staff had to hide, watching rioters loot, vandalize, and defile is just disgraceful. Knowing a US Armywoman had been deluded by her president to attack fellow law enforcement and defense officers for his sake is disgusting. This veteran held a duty to defend the country and its electoral procedures, not to subterfuge them. While she survived her tours of military duty, she died after being brainwashed into believing fellow defense-men were her enemies. But even after seeing one of their own get killed, many rioters will still defend their perverse actions.

The Attack on the Capitol in 2021 was a journey. Caravans loaded up on buses, trains, cars, taxis, and bikes. Similarly, the first Epiphany approximately 2021 years prior to that day, there was another journey. Magi and shepherds came to visit a new miracle. It was a messiah that Jewish prophecy foretold about. He was a poor infant boy, living in a manger. Mangers tend to be dirty, and magi tend to be neat, but they overlooked the mess because they knew there was something awesome among them. There was a righteous ruler. Naive King Herod presumed this meant the child would usurp him one day. but the child never expressed such an interest, even in his adult life. The magi visited the infant Jesus in a tender, fleeting moment. Soon after, he and his family would have to return to Jerusalem to take the census, then to Nazareth to escape a draconian decree to have every infant boy killed.

I think about how arduous travel is. It takes hours. How could these rioters drive and ride, watching clouds and roads go by and think “yes, this is what I’m meant to do”? “Yes, this is my pilgrimage”? “Yes, this is a cause worth dying for”?

Donald Trump cheats tax collectors instead of befriending them. He denies knowing prostitutes and sex workers instead of outwardly acknowledging them. He snubs the paychecks of tradesmen like carpenters, such as Jesus’ adoptive father, despite the fact they had performed finished and satisfactory work for him. He had violently accused his late first wife Ivana of infidelity (despite his own wayward libido) and pressured her into sexual situations instead of telling adulterers to “sin no more.” In his continuance of presidential power, this is your epiphany? This is your pilgrimage, your hill to die on? Your revolution? Someone who, should he meet a carpenter’s apprentice-turned preacher in present day, would scoff?

This post has been almost a year in the making, so I’ve ruminated on this for a while. Point is, make sure your journey is meaningful and you chose battles that are worthy and have momentum. I am truly no one special. Just a former church youth choir girl and catechist’s pet at CCD. I’m also someone, who, in her adulthood, gained innate sense of justice and passion for persuasive diction. I may not be a clergy, pastoral associate, political aide, investigator, or lawyer, but nonetheless, I encourage you all to do everything with purpose.

Merry Little Christmas, Epiphany, Three Kings Day, Befana, or however you prefer to call it. Additionally bless the lives lost, tarnished, or periled in the events and aftermath of the Insurrection Attempt on the Capitol. Amen.

Workshopping a story: updated Babysitter urban legend

I’ve been a little reluctant sharing some of my formulating ideas here, partly because I was worried they would be stolen or WP could claim them as their own IP. I recently learned I retain ownership of my content according to WP’s T&Cs, so I won’t worry about that. I’m also making an adaption of a public domain tale, so it’s already “stolen.” I planned on sharing the excerpts I’ve written, but maybe another time.

Anyway, it’s based on “The Babysitter and the Man Upstairs,” “The Babysitter and the Stranger,” “The Babysitter and the Strange Phone Call,” “The Babysitter and the Clown Doll,” etc. You get the idea, there are several iterations of this story. Halloween is an adaption of it, so is When a Stranger Calls, and so are many other pop culture staples. Our heroine is older than the archetype in a lot of versions of her (occasionally him), probably between nineteen to twenty-three years old. Currently, her name is Atula, which is Sanskrit for “limitless,” but I may change it if others don’t feel it’s feminine enough (I believe it could be a feminization of Atul; I do want it to be a feminine name but not overtly, and a strong name). She is watching the Trusky children (for some reason I feel a Baltic/Slavic name suits this family, and my preference is the “-sky/-ski” suffix found especially in Polish names). They are Lorraine, 13, Zinnia, 10, Derek, 8, and Ava, 2.5. Their parents are Michelle, a nurse (unsure if she should require a specialization in the story), and Kevin, an audio engineer for recording artists and venues. They have been picking up overtime shifts and Atula has been working for them for a few months, maybe more. Half their children are preteens or teens, but because they both have had to work overnight a lot both these older children and the parents feel more comfortable having Atula watch them for these periods.

You may have guessed Atula is Indian-American, and she speaks Hindi proficiently, but doesn’t speak Hindi dialects. She first receives a call on the family’s landline, from a man with an accent who laughs maniacally and his intentions are ambiguous. She suspects he may be Indian and possibly a telescammer, so she warns him she also speaks Hindi and will understand him if he gossips about her to his suite-mates. She blocks the number on the landline, but then receives a call again on the landline from a different number but the same voice. She then blocks that number. The caller then eventually calls on her cell phone, then on the eldest daughter’s cell phone, then on one of the parents’ cell phones, then pages on the mother’s beeper (medical staff still use them), then intercepts the father’s walkie-talkie radio, then intercepts the radio signals in the youngest’s baby monitor, then the doorbell security camera. He learns about Atula and the family through his infiltration. Atula turns on a VPN to throw him off, but he still knows.

This will probably end the way a lot of “Babysitter” stories end, calling the police and arresting the guy. But they’ll probably call a few departments because Atula is probably from a different city than her clients, and the caller is likely from abroad. Even though Atula suspects the caller is from and based in India, I’d like to subvert expectations and for him to be based somewhere pretty far off (so not in the subcontinent either; not Pakistan, Nepal, Bangladesh, etc.) It will build on an existing theme I have of Atula feeling disconnected from her roots. The story will be based in a semi-rural suburb of Boston, I’m thinking somewhere in Plymouth County like Hingham, Hanover, Norwell, etc. I’ll probably do a little more research about landlines, mobile phones, pagers, fax machines, communication radios, etc. and maybe read other versions of the “Babysitter” myth, but let me know what you think.

I didn’t get to finish my interview today.

I was almost done, but I foolishly knocked my Webcam and mic out of the USB drive while I was talking with my hands. My interviewers inquired for a little, asking if I was still there. I kept trying to get back, I said “yes, I’m here!” but the mic didn’t reconnect. They agreed to end the meeting.

I get my connection back, and I emailed them saying I’m back and we can resume the meeting. But they are interviewing someone else, one responds, thanks me for my time, and they will be in touch if they have more questions. I am bewildered that we are putting this important meeting to an abrupt halt. I am stunned and step away from my email and vent to my family about what happened.

After regaining my composure, I respond to the email, saying thank you for talking with me, I enjoyed the discussion, and I apologize for the dropped connection. I still want to finish the interview, as I may have answered their questions, but I still had my own questions. I had hoped we could speak again tomorrow or next week to finish. But the response I got was discouraging.

“Unfortunately, we are no longer interested perusing your application.” I’d only interviewed a half hour ago, and didn’t get my conclusion. I’d appreciate it if they at least pretended to consider my candidacy.

I don’t know if it had something to do with my screw-up in that moment or a poor reputation I may have with my former coworkers and managers. This was an educational nonprofit I worked at for three years while in college. I withdrew from my duties somewhat during my final year, but this was due to a physical change in my appearance that the children I tutored noticed, and I did not want it to attract more attention. My boss noticed my performance issues, but I did not have a confiding enough relationship with him to explain my insecurity that caused them. I went through the academic year without much worry about the job, only to be shocked the following fall that my boss replied to my email that he was not rehiring me that year due to my “repeated issues,” which, though I don’t defend my distance, it was never indicated to me at all that these would cost me the position. Later the student employment specialist had emailed me saying she had been trying to get in touch with my boss several times throughout the summer about the paperwork needed to hire me for the coming academic year and he had not returned any of her messages.

I wonder if this incomplete interview was connected at all to my former job at this place. Does my reputation stink that much? I had been trusted in my job there for most of my college experience. I had thought I was well-liked. Was I just interviewed today for quota purposes? Because I doubt much time had been given envisioning me in the role. Why would an employer not allow a candidate to finish an interview?

I just want people to give me the chance I deserve.

Civic duty

This week, I had my first jury duty summons. It was…underwhelming. I kept thinking there was something amiss. You see, after arriving at 8:30am our first day, the judge dismissed us around 10:30am. There were two cases on the docket that day. The first had reached a settlement, and the second had a defendant who waived his jury trial. With a docket of two cases, and a pool of around thirty potential jurors, I was almost certain most of us would be picked. But I guess jurisprudence can change at the last moment.

It feels like when I’d complete a test within a fraction of the allotted time in school. Was the test duplex-printed and I didn’t look at the other side? Did I skip something? Was there some other component I hadn’t heard about? It was just astonishing. I’d been told two months in advance of my summons. I’d pushed off appointments and plans until this week’s conclusion because I was unsure of the duration of my service. I was prepared to be interviewed and analyze things. Truth be told, I thought it would be good practice for job interviews and maybe a chance to network, but I digress.

Anyway, the way my state law is, I won’t have to do this for another three years, if that. I was nervous, but those nerves were in vain. I hope I can make a judicial difference…one day.

Sometimes I do better than I think I do.

I had an interview a few weeks ago, which I felt went okay until it was time for me to ask questions. They were all about certain privileges of the job, and I got pretty much the same answer for all of them: the privilege would not be available due to the nature of the role being temporary. I felt my questions left a bad impression. I felt one may presume I am haughty or entitled in my concerns over telework, union units, or benefits packages. Of course, I never meant to imply those things are paramount to my employment. I’d worked for this company as a temporary contractor through a staffing firm, and I’d just wondered if there would be any difference between that and working as a temporary employee directly through the company, as this role was.

Anyway, I got an email back today. While I didn’t get the job, I did get feedback that I gave the most detailed responses and answered everything in full. I am so glad I still left a positive impression despite my embarrassment. As someone with NVLD it’s hard for me sometimes to meta-cognitively read how people read me, and I’m so happy when folks directly tell me their thoughts in a gentle way.

News media: please stop telling people to start Christmas shopping now.

We don’t need the reminder. Who cares about the supply chain backlog? We can make do with what *does* arrive, as faithful, moral people ought to do.

During the final quarter of the year last year, the narrative was support local businesses. While I recognize even local businesses are having supply chain issues, maybe consider finding retailers that are even more local. Wood, metals, plastics, foods, and all materials made within a 100-mile radius of your residence. Sold from a warehouse or storefront around the same.

The big brands are not necessarily the best brands. Nor are big brands who pretend to be small to fake authenticity. Big box stores and department stores, I curse you for issuing Black Friday previews now. Market demand is good, but not when your workforce is a skeleton crew of the mealiest variety. Especially when you represent a brand that used to stand for the common people. People who stand for practicality and quality. You’ve inherited an intense brand loyalty that cannot be sated because you’ve put your own storefronts up for sale and will make bank whether the retailer lives or dies. You are both the jury and executioner.

Circulating new goods just forebodes more climate disaster. Just thrift or hand-me-down.

In all, please stop harnessing a sense of urgency in something so small as materials. Climate, disease, and labor ethics…That’s what’s urgent.

You are never too fortunate to ask for emotional help.

I dedicate this to anyone who thinks their wealth, health, or success negates them from seeking counsel or psychotherapy.

Maybe you live or originate in developing land. Many areas are stricken with poverty or conflict. You, however, are wealthy. You come from wealthy elders, and are able to travel, maybe even outside your origins. You are educated, and see beyond dated tradition. You may still be faithful, but added nuances like procreation, diets, lifestyle, or appearance aren’t imperative to being such. Likewise, you are still aware of the strife that surrounds you, and while you haven’t experienced it, your friends and neighbors may have had to deal with it. You are sorry for them, and do sometimes worry about this. Maybe you even had a brush of misfortune. The family business almost had to be sold, you almost had to go into foster care, you were nearly hit by an explosive, you had a pregnancy scare, you were betrothed to a wealthy, untoward acquaintance, but you were lucky and got out of it.

Still, even though it didn’t happen to you, or even though it happened to someone else near you, it still hurts. You still deserve counselling, empathy, and solace. Please don’t think you’re too rich, too wealthy, too successful, too able, or too non-marginalized for therapy. You still deserve contentedness and love.

Clouded perspectives

Prompt 106 of the Isolation Journals.

This analogy of a cloud that surrounds you during a volatile time reminds me of The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. The semi-autobiographical novel recounts Plath’s time being treated for a psychiatric mental collapse after an attempted overdose. Towards the end of the novel, the protagonist Esther is released from the hospital after a consultation with her psychiatrist. She likens her negative emotions to a bell jar trapped around her, a decorative accent for a mantle clock or other centerpieces. The jar traps her anxiety and depression, swirling it around her enclosure. Without the assistance of treatment and support of family and friends, she would remain imprisoned in the bell jar and lose her luster and function. The same can be said for the metaphorical clouds that prohibit us. Plath’s novel remains true today and is still insightful despite Plath’s own mental shortcomings at the end of her life.

But lord, the clouds have shifted since then. At the start of The Bell Jar, Esther is participating in a summer program in New York City as part of a fellowship for a young women’s magazine, where her poem was accepted. Esther is from Massachusetts, stays in Northampton at school and Winthrop with family, then admitted to Belmont during her hospital stay (note that some of these details are not given in the novel but inferred based on details and parallels to Plath’s own life). While much of the book is during the summer, and a typical summer would involve a lot of travel like this, this lifestyle is unachievable now. So many artist and writer residencies in elite locations like Manhattan have been cancelled, delayed, or attempted to be held remotely.

Unfortunately, the literary magazine where Plath interned, Mademoiselle, became defunct in 2001, so it’s impossible to know how they would have continued this fellowship program had they lived to see the peak of the novel coronavirus. Many Mademoiselle staff transferred to another Conde Nast imprint, Glamour, after the shutdown, but it is not as focused in literary arts like Mademoiselle was. Conde Nast hosts a few college programs, but none quite the same as Esther’s. I imagine some of their internships and fellowships are being done remotely, and it’s a good thing that a pandemic has happened at a time when remote work is more achievable. The Bell Jar is set in the 1950s, when computers, if they existed, were massive, unaffordable, and had to be shared between several business or intelligence agencies. What would the world have been like if a pandemic hit in the 1950s? I guess we could have conducted work through television, radio, newspapers, letters, phone conference calls, or fax messages (if they were around at the time). Today we have much more options.

Then there’s a buffet. Esther relishes these crabmeat stuffed avocado halves. Buffets are a great way to spread coronavirus, but I do miss them so. On vacation my family and I would eat at a few, often breakfast buffets but sometimes dinner. I can’t wait until we can attend a buffet again.

Then there is the romance. Esther goes to a bar and drinks vodka in New York, and assumes an alias of Betty Higginbotham from Chicago to annoying boys. The bars can’t operate the same way, nor can attempted flirtation.

Finally, maybe the most important aspect of the book, is the hospital stay. Plath stayed at McLean Hospital after her suicide attempt at twenty years old, but yet again, residential opportunities outside of the permanent house is risky for disease. The hospital however, does have several remote programs and research studies, but the question remains… Would they be suitable for patients in a severe collapse such as Esther’s? I guess provided clinicians check in frequently, but how would they monitor patients who may attempt to harm themselves? Esther watches an acquaintance relapse into poor psyche, and I worry for someone like that. I guess they could operate at reduced capacity since we are in Phase 3 in Massachusetts, but how can we be certain patients of the highest need are staying? Mental illness fluctuates intensely.

Evidently, the Covid-19 pandemic and the recession that has preceded it is the cloud that shrouds not just me, but the world. I pray and wish that we can have some sort of semblance of coming-of-age and reconciliation that happens in The Bell Jar. Lately, even the most mundane of vignettes in the book and others in the theme and genre of it seem like fantasies. It is very concerning that we are uncertain when they can become attainable again. How will we ever love romantically again? How will we ever progress our professional accomplishments again, and how will we celebrate them? How will we protect ourselves from our id? We can’t answer these right away. We must wait, and this is agonizing, or at least can be. We are fatigued, but we still must protect ourselves.

We must keep our minds busy and seek to find opportunities wherever and however they may appear. We must use whatever resources possible to stay connected. We must keep the faith.

With perseverance, we can fight and overcome. We will not stay clouded and jarred.

Please see me.

I want someone to reach out and stop this hiatus. I’ve been too emotional to do anything about it. I’ve really wanted to stay in touch, across multiple media, even the postal service. I bought three beautiful books of international forever stamps. I gave you some of my address stickers. I’m never awake at the right time to apologize in real time, for I know that’s the best way to reconcile. And not just in real time, but in real time at normal, daytime hours. I think part of the reason we argued last time is because it was an odd hour, maybe 3 or 4am where you were, and I just kept chatting idly.

I recently got back in touch with someone. Someone who I cared about more than I should have, and someone whose actions made me very emotional, confused, and upset. But that’s subsided now, and I think we are back to the better chemistry we used to have. But this happened after two and half long years without talking. While when we’ve written one another, it doesn’t seem like time passed much, and in the grand scheme of things, I guess it hasn’t, I still want us to patch up things much sooner than that connection. While this connection is a mentor/older sibling relationship, I feel our relationship is even more important.

We are supportive. We help one another professionally, academically, and emotionally. You make me laugh, and you know to treat servicers with respect and acknowledge the talents that go into even the most menial labor. I regret treating you as less than a friend. I regret cussing and yelling at you about my problems and stress. I regret always trying to speak and be as verbose as possible to get myself out of trouble.

I hope one day we can pick up where we left off. I think of you often, and despite your pleas and my own curiosity, I haven’t found any replacement. Truth be told, befriending, networking and dating are exhausting. I’m often unfriendly and give off the wrong impression. Sometimes though, I am friendly or honest, and this is met with disrespect. You are one of the few who hadn’t shifted into wantonness at the expense of my niceties, and that’s something I love about you. That’s something that I know will take a long time to replicate in anyone else I meet.

Please see me, and please forgive me.

Talking in circles

Part of the Isolation Journals, Day 91.

Around and around. I think we’re in good graces again. I explain my rationale, you accept it and realize that we reason differently. Neither of us meant harm. We apologize to one another. We go on again as normal for a while, then it creeps up again. My mistake enters your conscience once more and you lash at me for it. I say sorry again, but I’m unsure if you’ve absorbed it. You still scold me. I explain again why I sinned, but you can’t grasp it. You give up, or you press me to forget you. I don’t want to. I didn’t think you did either. But this time, you blocked me.

Is this on two different social media? You viewed one profile recently, but I’m unsure if I would even know you did if I were blocked. I am too nervous to make amends. I’m too nervous to visit any of your profiles. Why would you do this when we are so far apart? You told me we would stay in touch while you moved away, but for the past month, we haven’t. You told me we’d still be in frequent contact. You told me you weren’t done with me and never would be. Why does that always change? Why do you give up so easily? Friendships are about growing, arguing and changing. But you are scared every time that happens. Debate and strife is bound to happen. Stop disowning everyone at any small vignette. Take it in stride.

I was supportive, attentive, charming, thoughtful, funny…a superstar. Now I’m terrible. I’m rude, selfish, and I let you down. I’m so tired of being one or the other and your attitude being so hot-and-cold. It’s so polar and there are too many extremes and too many mood swings. I was so relieved when I heard this criticism from a mutual friend, but really…should I have been? If you were married, you’d just get divorced. If you were an identity thief, you’d become an informant. If you were in a cult, you could quit. In so many of my other fantastical anxieties I have of new people, there was a simpler path to improvement. But your actual dark side fluctuates, and isn’t as simple as being divorced, testified, or shunned.

But I empathize. I’m no emotional extremist, but I am depressed and anxious, clinically, but not all-encompassingly so. My dark side fluctuates as well. Marilyn Monroe supposedly philosophized “If you can’t handle me at my worst, you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best.” I don’t believe you’ve seen my worst, and maybe that’s because I’m such a centrist, unlike the bipolar Marilyn. My nuanced take is, “If you can’t handle me at my worse times, you don’t deserve me at my better times.” And it’s fine if you want to retreat away from me after my worse times until you can regain the energy to see my better times. I’d love to see you again, and I know I can get even better, and you can, too. We can’t completely rid our worse selves, but we can work to weaken them. “For better or worse” is not applied to marriage vows because it’s an exclusive concept towards matrimony, but because this is often a new chapter of life for people and it must be reiterated in all we do. Please don’t give up. I dearly hope you see this.