writing to survive
. . . only the retelling counts
Graduate school

Tangled up in words

I have occupied vast acres of silence this week, huge, rolling tracts of quiet that I felt compelled to fill, bringing in clusters of workers to pour foundations and frame in the houses that rest upon them, digging trenches for pipes, planting thin nursery trees in dusty, fill-dirt laden front yards.

Excuse me for my metaphor, but sometimes phrases tell more truth than facts. Directness is overrated. After several days living in punctuated silence, long lulls spent with one cat or another on my lap, staring into space, thinking and writing and discarding even the polished work, I don’t want to tell you how it is.

But here’s how it
was: I went with the family on an outing. I finished a take-home test. I cooked salmon with a chile glaze and threw together an apple tart for dessert. I co-facilitated a faux process group. I watched the 1980 movie Ordinary People with my family therapy class. I talked with my stressed-out grant-writing/presentation group research methods class teammates. I wrote about the holding space created by therapists for their clients. I waxed philosophical on privacy and the sordid things we can sometimes find when we overturn rocks on the internet, the creepies and crawlies I wish I had never found and the ones comforting in their creepiness, making me grateful to no longer be under the spell of the Svengalis of the past.

I got tangled up in words.

Type, type, type. Delete. Delete. Delete. And in the process of writing this, I almost deleted “huge” in that first line, bothered by its allusion to
Monty Python’s euphemism for large breasts and decided to keep in “Svengali” despite what I just learned about the antisemitic underpinnings of the character. I want to get everything right. I don’t want to offend or tip off or misrepresent. And I am tired of the dominant paradigms about women and those who are discriminated against in one way or another and seeing how language makes a difference, which ties me up in linguistic knots, just like that take-home test with its operationalized variables and sampling methods.

This post is the middle path, the only one I can take at the moment, perhaps obtuse, but less labored over than anything else that’s come out of my mouth or fingers this week. So I end yet another post with a sentence starting with “so” and listen to the Bob Dylan song it brought up, my mind an amalgam of allusions, bouncing from one referential thought to the next.

Image is “Tangled up in Sheltowee,” a painting by John Lackey.

Where's the quick fix?

I go to therapy every other week now. It’s an insurance (or in this case, a no longer covered by insurance) thing. Sometimes life intervenes and a month passes between appointments. Over the lackadaisical summer, with its vacations and breaks, the appointments became episodic catch-up sessions. Between those and my general stability, I considered stopping therapy altogether. As long as I didn’t trip on the loose ends -- and I am a good little dodger -- my life felt functional.

Then school started. The loose ends became more frayed, my ability to dodge them hampered. Graduate counseling programs often force you to deal with your own shit, even if you’ve been dealing with that shit for a very long time. Things come up. Anxiety forms and grows. Most weeks I don’t get out of my family therapy class without swallowing down the tinny taste of suppressed sadness or using a wadded-up tissue to dab away tears at least once. This is hours after my group counseling class, where we spend half our time in an actual process group, anxiety occupying a place in the circle, often dogging me (and others) in anticipation the day before.

Groups bring up stuff. Being asked about one’s family of origin does, too. What do you do when it won’t fit back into the box you packed it up in?

In my case, I carry that overflowing box with me for a couple of days, wandering around in an enervated haze. I feel the reverberations of my mine-laden Monday, attempt to integrate new knowledge, try like hell to accept the messy process of change and recognize what counts for healing. Not that it’s really so conscious. It’s mainly an amorphous, irritating, funky feeling, where it seems like I have no reason for being so slow and preoccupied. And then I remember: I’m carrying this (*^$# box around. How can I repack it so that it never pops open again?

So everything is on the surface right now, accessible with a memory, with an in-class exercise, with a question that inadvertently hits a sore point. I so want a quick fix. Somatic psychotherapy. EMDR. A visit with an intuitive. I want to tape that box shut and store it away. I want to feel everything and then be done with it, have my body reunite with my mind in a shotgun wedding, till death do they part. Failing that, I want to grieve what I can never get back and move forward from there, knowing that my feelings are legitimate, signs of life, lines of connection to myself and other people.

It’s all a process, with long lulls and sudden lumbering lurches forward. I’m strong enough. I’ve got the stamina to handle it. But I wish it were easier.

Image from Intentional Workplace.

Valid complaint

Internal validity. External validity. Construct validity. Content validity. Criterion validity.

Validity. Validity. Validity. The repetition of which leads my mind on a surprisingly direct path to the Brady Bunch and Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!, an internet wormhole that transports me to my 1970s childhood. Suddenly I’m seven years old, in a time that is pre-PC and flat screen, before this world of ours discarded television antennae and cathode ray tubes and became connected via cables and satellites and a different series of tubes, vast collections of fat pipes. The 60-pound me is plopped on a damp couch in a home that isn’t mine, and my friend and I are bored and all there is to watch is the Brady Bunch or Gilligan’s Island. And maybe I would go back for a day, to the simplicity of plastic TV families and snacks prepared by someone else’s mother.

But back to validity. I’m feeling invalid. And perhaps you are wondering where we are going with this. Has Jennifer been focusing too much on her research methods class? What is her research methods class all about, anyway? Is this post both valid
and reliable? One, I’m not sure where this post is headed, but it won’t be far. Two, yes, I have research methods, with its jargon and its stilted texts, on the brain. Three, all anyone needs to know about my research methods class is that it is beautifully structured, though the subject matter is a little dry. That and we took psychologist Robert Sternberg’s Triangular Theory of Love instrument yesterday as a way of demonstrating some of that validity stuff, which had the married folks snickering – trust me, after 10+ years, it’s very hard to find anything particular “magical” about one’s relationship. Our long-term loves are no longer three-pronged in nature. Sigh. And finally, we don’t need to apply the concepts of validity and reliability to a blog post, but if it were valid, it would necessarily be reliable.

It is time to leave validity behind and move on to group counseling theories, maybe start the paper that will go with my genogram for my family therapy class. That process will be a psychological juggling act, an exercise in noting patterns without getting caught in the stories, in not tripping on the jagged family lines of depression and toppled connections. So I gird my psyche, fence it in, in preparation for immersion in the muck. My feelings, the dread and the fascination, the hope and the fear, are contradictory. They are perfectly valid in every way.

Image from Crystal Dimeler, on whose page it is a much more interesting gif.

Going under

I am in a funk. Maybe it’s because I’ve been working on a genogram, a kind of extended family map that reveals patterns and connections, for my family therapy class. Or it’s because of the small group activities in that same Monday evening class, discussions that sometimes bring me back to a bad place, a teary, stupid place that I thought I left behind years ago. It could be the way the course is lightly arranged – “experiential,” the free jazz jam of the counseling curriculum, peppered with these crazy riffs on the therapeutic process, the occasional discordant low tones of theory punctuating the lulls – which makes me feel like I have to build a foundation of knowledge all by my lonesome. Which is reminiscent of the foundation I had to build for myself in childhood. Which is a situation that sometimes indirectly comes up in the exercises we do in the family therapy class. It’s a circular argument, a closed system.

I like structure. I like to know where the next note is coming from. I need to know the basics of the music before I can appreciate the freeness of an improv session. Give me rhythm. Harmony. Swing. Bebop. Hard-bop. Give me at least a taste of the history, a prelude, before you hit me with freedom and fusion.

But apart from an attachment to really learning the theory behind the techniques, I have to keep in mind boundaries and thresholds, know who to let in and what to keep in. I haven’t been able to keep it in. If I don’t withdraw, it comes spilling out of me, pain in liquid form. And that’s the point of
therapy, right? Not the point of a counseling graduate program. So I’ll bring it up in therapy. I’ll talk to the prof about how I feel like I am being ripped by the tides of her teaching approach, with no sea floor to even tap my toes against. It is nothing but endless waves, a liquid, turbulent horizon. My arms and legs are spent, and the piece of driftwood I’m hanging on to is so small and keeps disappearing along with me under the next wall of water.

All I need is a boat big enough to take those waves, the knowledge that somewhere beneath me, earth meets ocean. I need to start in the shallows and work my way to the depths.

I need to know the history of jazz.


The song that was going through my mind when I started this post:

Image by Konen Uehara, from



If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. But silence is not always golden. What if you or someone you care about is getting the short end of the stick? Should you keep mum? Or is it better to spill the beans? While it’s true that life isn’t always peaches and cream, what are friends for, anyway? You tell that person hurting you or your loved one to stick it where the sun don’t shine. In those cases, it’s worth it to speak out of turn.

An editor would run her red pen through all the clichés in this post: do it over, Jennifer. But a friend? The post might merit an eye roll. Maybe she would wonder what I was smoking or think I need a good night’s sleep. It’s less likely she would remark on my lack of originality.

We don’t always say what is on our minds. Maybe we don’t want the person to feel bad. Perhaps the timing is wrong. At this moment, I have something on my mind about which I have nothing nice to say. The situation
feels unfair. But it isn’t prudent to say anything in public. I need to talk to the person in question and straighten things out. But I have a strong hunch there will be no straightening. The state of things will remain kinked and bent, and I’ll end up feeling like someone who is strangely obsessed with order.

It’s driving me crazy! And bringing me down. And almost totally out of my control. So today I sit at home with a cough, a slight fever, and a tummy ache and reflect on how in the hell I am going to get the experience I want – and need – out of a certain Class That Will Not Be Named. Not the class I am missing today, the class I didn’t get myself to because of this malaise, this funk occupying my body and brain. No. The the cause of my existential hangover is a horse of another color.

The bloom is long gone from the graduate school rose. Maybe it will never get a chance to open up, to be a wild thing, free and full of beauty, but will remain a bud, full of unrealized potential, slowly disintegrating over time.

Or maybe that’s me I’m writing about.

Image from Mythic Mojo.

Nobody said this would be easy

7:15 a.m. Out of the house and to BART I go.

9:10 a.m. Group Counseling. Weekly quiz. Activity that had us out of our seats (one step forward, two steps back) and then breaking into pairs to discuss how our interpersonal styles might affect group co-facilitation. An exercise in pulling positives out of apparent negatives. (Independent . . . thinker! Not lone wolf.) Brief lecture. Personal, moving, intense story told by a professor. Weekly process group, the slowly loosening circle. Meeting after to discuss next week’s co-facilitation (gulp!).

12:15 p.m. Forty-five minutes of recovery. Lunch with friend (bright spot!). Two hours of reading and note-taking.

4:10 p.m. Family Counseling. Quiz completed in dyads and triads.
Attachment style questionnaire taken, then discussed in small groups broken down by type. (“Secure.” Really?) More discussion in the larger group. Psychodrama, the acting out of a classmate’s memory, recast with a helping friend. (Response to prof asking me if I wanted to psychologize my former drama: I am an introvert, and I am spent. Truth.)

6:55 p.m. Run to catch shuttle to BART.

8:15 p.m. Home. Totally. Fucking. Exhausted.

10:45 a.m. Out of the house and to BART I go.

12:35 p.m. Research Methods class. Lecture. Relevant exercises with partner. Meeting with group to discuss presentation.

3:10 p.m. Out early!

4:30 p.m. Home. Slightly exhausted. School week over!

8:00 a.m. Boy and husband leave for school and work. Entire day alone.

6:00 p.m. Boy and husband return.


It is good to accept who you are, to know your boundaries, your limits, your needs. But it’s hard for me to feel good about being an extremely introverted person when almost all my class activities are group-based. At some point, I cannot absorb a fact, a facial expression, a simple thought.

It’s not that I dislike people. I
like connection. I just prefer to do most things on my own. I prefer to write about them, actually, to think them through using my creative mind as it connects to my fingers, in the quiet of a moment, in the space I create in my head.

A little input is good, of course. Letting people in, thinking out loud with others, can be refreshing, a learning experience. A totally closed system does not allow for growth. And I
am growing, changing in real time. It’s an almost physical feeling, painful and intense, like the American werewolf in London shifting form in the light of the full moon.

This transformation, however, is positive, a blossoming. I have faith in the process. I have faith in myself. It’s a choice to believe that all this discomfort and newness is worth it.

Image from A Wordy Woman.


When all else fails . . .

think of kittens!

School started yesterday with one of those long 13-hour days and it continues today with an early afternoon class. I’ve already dropped a class, which is a relief, and I’ve gotten used to being the only one of my constantly shifting cohort without a placement this year. Tomorrow, the boy begins fourth grade. And so time will compress. I will be three steps closer to the completion of my graduate degree, the boy will get taller, and the kittens will grow into their feet.

In lieu of writing more of the blah blah about my cranky, school-going self, I leave you with this prompt from last week.


I miss art and artfulness, the naivety of youth, the first crisp taste of that first beer, the love of spring and its bounty. I miss the fresh pain of the initial blows, the way I could fall into his arms and believe that he could save me, the nervous thrill of getting away with something which made our relationship even sweeter.

Colors lose their intensity, and cynicism crumbles pure joy. The third beer muddles your mind. Too many asparagus stalks and strawberries bore the palate. Sharp blows leave ugly scars, and people disappoint. Deception creates a chasm deep within.

And I will never see a
Helen Frankenthaler painting the way I first did, standing in the National Gallery in Washington, DC, drunk on cherry blossoms and new knowledge, still feeling the ache of adolescent wounds. On my way to the gallery, I saw homeless men bathing in the fountains by the Capitol building. On the walk back, the fountain water flowed in their absentia. So I opened the door of my dark E Street studio with the parquet floors, disturbing the cockroaches as I reached into the half-sized refrigerator for a beer, 21 years old and alone again because it was safe and contained what felt unbounded.

Top image by me.
Bottom image of Helen Frankenthaler in 1956 from wikipedia.

From a photo prompt.


Make it so

Kevin called them “false positives,” those faux cheery folks backed up by bitterness and anger, the grinners with the joyless eyes. You know the type, the one with the tight, contained smile and the tense jaw. She plumps up your pillows at the hospital or greets you at the front desk. Her voice is saccharine singsong, but underneath all is thin, threadbare, sparse. There is no room for darkness in the glare of all that artificial light. False positives. Another zinger, courtesy of a man now dead for over 12 years.

I’ve given up on hope. It’s nothing personal. Hope represents delusion, a sort of clinging to a possible outcome as though one has control over that particular outcome. I hope he’ll call. I hope the drugs work. I hope this year is better than last. It may sound melodramatic, but when all of our striving and dreams end up in a corpse plumped up with preservatives or reduced to a box of ashes and bone, what’s the point of just hoping? Make it happen. Figure out what you can do and then do it.

Kevin was a doer. He could be a nasty jerk, too, cruel and quick, but he made goals and pursued them single-mindedly. After his death, I made things happen, too. I shed my job and went to culinary school, a dream that morphed into parenthood and a writer’s composed disposition. Somewhere along the way, I stopped wanting to do. Existence became enough for me, being present with my family, sitting quietly in the living room with a clutch of cats and my laptop. Or maybe I have been making things happen – graduate school, a new career, even curtains. It’s just the progress has been so painfully slow and muddy that it feels like I’ve been standing still. There have been moments of transcendence, but mainly it’s been months of stress with some time off to remember the joy of simple existence. Still, I have made it a long way in two years.

I won’t be a false positive, will not use cheer as a thin veneer over anger. Graduate school is a slog. The outcome may not be worth it. Despite myself, I hope that it is. And I will do my best to make it so.

From the prompt “Hope.”

Image from
Machias Community Church (they claim to offer hope for free. So there’s that . . . ).

I *did* survive

I have an office to clean out and files to hand over, and then I will truly be done with my internship. No more six a.m. commutes. No more clients. No more supervision meetings. Tonight we’ll bring on the champagne. Tomorrow I will see where the day takes me. It probably won’t take me very far, maybe just to the couch or back to bed for a nap. That’s fine with me.

Entire seasons have come and gone since I started my at my placement. I will have to accustom myself to Berkeley in June, to bright flowers glowing in fog-filtered sunshine, to the brown and dark green ruffles of the over-populated hills in the distance. I will reintroduce myself to my
family and animals, revel in the fact that we can spend weekend time together again. More home-cooked meals are on the horizon, too. And a cleaner house. And a neater yard.

Yesterday, when it was all over, I was just . . . exhausted. I didn’t have it in me to celebrate or congratulate myself. I’m not sure if I really have it in me now. I still feel a little empty. I said so many goodbyes, permanent ones, this week. I also said I might be back in a year, but I doubt it. Because it’s been a very difficult nine months. The commute sucked, the lack of support had me floundering, and the
anxiety, particularly that first semester, almost pushed me over the edge.

But I got through it, didn’t I? I got better, too, both at counseling and at accepting that becoming a counselor is a process that continues indefinitely. There is no such thing as perfection. Counselors spend their careers working with clients in the semi-darkness, running on theories that will never be fully proven. Over time, the ambiguity becomes easier to deal with and, amazingly, beautifully, somewhere in the process, some clients change. They get better, feel more connected to the world and forgiving of themselves.

It is an intoxicating thought to know I can be a part of that change. It is a feeling worth celebrating. So tonight I will raise a glass to that hope and to the kids who were my clients, without whom I would never have changed myself. And then I get myself prepared for the next two years of school. More change lies ahead.

Image of the interior of the 38L taken by me yesterday on what I assume was my last 6:50 a.m. trip.

The beauty you are

There is peace on his face, a peace that I can no longer imagine having or maybe never had, something from a childhood where needs were met and there was no worry, no panic at midnight about the creatures that lurked just outside the nimbus of the nightlight or worry about whether that man would come back to push your mother around again or what will this new school be like or feeling that your inadequacy was obvious as your eye color, as palpable as your sweat. That kind of peace is a gift. That kind of peace probably doesn’t exist. We are all bathed in worry at some point. It’s part of being alive.

People forget how hard it is to be a child. Children’s experiences are discounted. Last week, my individual supervisor told me how most people in my position (trainees/interns at elementary schools) are not challenged by working with children and so bring in as many parents as they can. This was in the context of me not being a risk taker and as a result not talking to many parents. His theory was that I was afraid of counseling adults. Without getting too much into the context of this year, where
everything felt like a leap off a cliff, there is some merit to what my supervisor said. I am not a risk taker. I haven’t seen many parents, though this is not (I don’t think) because I am afraid of counseling adults. I’m afraid of being put into the role of expert, of telling other parents what to do, when I feel like I know nothing, or at least do not know what I know.

Working with children, however,
does challenge me. Child therapy is its own complex field. I want to work with children. Why not get to someone before their habits are hardened, before they internalize the shame? Why not be an advocate, the adult who gives them an idea of how adults could be, how they could be? Part of my job, as I see it, is to be a mirror, to show the child their own beauty and intrinsic worth. And I am just realizing this is part of my theoretical approach, which is client-centered and relies heavy on attachment theory.* Surrounded by a pack of cognitive behavior theory types, I am the odd person out. But I am at peace with it. Mostly.

* Link goes far beyond my knowledge, skills, and abilities, but a budding counselor can always set a high bar.

From a photo prompt of a peaceful-looking sculpture of a sleeping person.

Image from Peace for the Missing, a “voice platform and support network for families of missing and victims of crime.”


Enjoying being a girl

It’s only Wednesday, the halfway point of the week, but I’m feeling good. I’ve gotten a lot of work done, have one successful (and fun!) girls’ group under my belt, and feel OK enough about the case consultation I have prepared for tomorrow’s supervision group. I started some paperwork. I finished some paperwork. I made an appointment with my advisor to discuss the fall semester and I made reservations at a B&B on the Eastern Shore for early July.

And I submitted two “stories” to Glimmer Train’s
very short fiction contest. The pieces, The thin line and The voyeurs, are well under the 3000-word limit. As blog posts, they do not necessarily have a traditional story feel. My expectations of either being selected are low, with a golden thread of hope glimmering on the edge of my peripheral vision. Submitting my work, even the unrevised, un-revisited stuff is a start, a small step toward getting more concrete about my writing, though I probably need to put more effort into it to be successful.

Back in the pre-MFT days, when I thought seriously about becoming a writer, I always focused on the things I could not do, like come up with viable, non-autobiographical story ideas, extend a narrative beyond a few pages, or slow the pace of my stories down. I am an amateur who has much to learn about craft. I also have a distinctive voice, though I often move too quickly in my haste to express it.

My stories are like rushing creeks fed by off-season downpours. As the rain falls, silver water obscures and then tumbles the rocks. One of those creeks could sweep me in with it and hurl my frail form from bank to bank along with the leaves and dead branches and bits of trash. When the sky clears, the water recedes. The rocks dull as they dry. Over time, the earthen creek bed breaks into a thousand desiccated pieces. It feels like the water will never rush again. But the clouds return eventually, heavily laden and ready to pour.

I might as well accept it. I might as well accept myself.

So, at 5:01 p.m. on Wednesday, April 9, 2014, all is well. I fully occupy my contentment, knowing things could go downhill tomorrow with six clients, another girls’ group, and my case consultation. And there are things I am avoiding that will haunt me more intently over the coming weeks. But for now, I will sit back, contemplate the beer I will soon be opening, and let
Phranc’s 1989 campy, ironic version of I Enjoy Being a Girl continue to spin through my head. If only I could play it for my girls’ groups . . . .

Instead, I offer it to you.

I Enjoy Being a Girl by Phranc on Grooveshark

Image of Doris Day from Color My Bliss.

Ella Fitzgerald sings this song real crazy

Stress. It drives me to write. It robs me of creativity and the time in which to craft something meaningful and transcendent. I only write about what is in front of me or disappear into escapist fantasy gone amok. And haven’t we had enough of escapism, of aimless desire?

So. This morning. The whine of the shower. The rush of forced air heat. My cold feet on the color block Ikea rug I bought after my divorce 15 years ago. The caffeinated rush. That continued underwater feeling, which at this point is more low-grade illness than mere tiredness. The panic in having a group presentation on a complicated topic looming next Tuesday evening when no one in the group can meet in person and everyone is too busy to even think about how to divide up the work. My eleven regular clients that range in age from five to twelve. The task of developing a social skills group for a select group of kindergarten boys. Final case and process notes for the last mock session. The necessity of waking the boy from his well-deserved slumber. The icy mysteries of the unheated upstairs bathroom and the chilled bedroom of the boy.

And when I listen to Ella Fitzgerald sing “How High the Moon,” I start to cry and cannot stop.

Title comes from a Sarah Vaughan version of “How High the Moon” on the “Live from Mr. Kelly’s” album, though technically the line is “Ella Fitzgerald sings this song real real real crazy.”

View from the sausage factory

Becoming a counselor is not a pretty process. There is a lot of stumbling in the dark. Feeling incompetent is pretty much a given. The only way to learn is by doing and then analyzing what you have done from as many angles as possible until you are sick to death of yourself and other people. To paraphrase Otto Bismarck, [counselors] are like sausages. It’s better not to see them being made. (Yes, it’s a bit of stretch. Please don’t take the comparison too far.) But I am going to let you in on one step of the process anyway. Today’s topic: examining one’s idiocy in minute detail and then writing thousands of words about it. Welcome to the sausage factory!

The first word of this post was the 3852nd word I typed yesterday. Over 3000 of those words were part of a transcript (plus analysis) of a ten-minute excerpt of my most recent mock counseling session. The mock sessions are part of my practicum class, in which we are paired with a classmate for five pretend sessions. All of these sessions are filmed. Each one requires case and process notes (add another 2000 words). And two of them also require these dagnabbity transcripts. All of the work must be done within five days of the actual session.

As a counselor compiling my transcript, I write down verbatim what both I and my “client” said, in addition to classifying what I said (aka my “responses”) into three different categories: type, focus, and intent. For example, if my response is Why do you think you date men that remind you of your father?, my response (R ) is a question, focusing (F) on the client’s experience and thought, with the intent (I) to challenge and perhaps explore.

Sounds tedious, no? Even reading about it is tedious, right? But, wait, there’s more! From there, I discuss what I think was going on with the client, the rationale behind my response, and whether that response was effective. I often add what I think I should have said. Each client and counselor exchange is numbered, classified, and analyzed across four columns. It is a thing of analytic beauty, if you are into that kind of thing. It can quite useful. And three weeks ago, it was almost my downfall.

Because my third session as a counselor was terrible and I (deliberately) chose the most problematic section of it to transcribe. I spent two days on the project, between the transcript, its analysis, and the six pages that make up the case and process notes. Two days spent marinating in my obvious incompetence convinced me I would be an utter failure as a counselor. I would never improve and would never, ever be able to think about my counselor/client exchanges in so structured a format. So the
mini-breakdown went down.

But something has happened in the last week or two. Yes, I am tired and stressed (and have another day of working on the rest of my assignment waiting for me). I know that from here until the end of the semester will be an endurance race. Those last few weeks are going to be unpleasant. I am going to feel like an incompetent nincompoop. Repeatedly. I will never totally “get” the structured format that our counseling responses are supposed to fit into. I will not have the time to cook or clean, so the
Spoonrocket takeout containers will pile up and dust and fur will pad the floors and surfaces of my house. Hopefully the boy will not forget what I look like or no longer recognize my voice. Being cut off from my family is the worst of this.

But I am pretty sure I can do this counseling thing, or I will be able to do it eventually. And I will do it well. Someday. However, the process isn’t pretty or painless. Who said change was easy?

Image (cropped and color-enhanced) some rights reserved by Kevin Marks.

Because of everything

Wednesday morning, I spent 15 minutes in an empty hallway, sitting on off-white tile, leaning against a beige wall, staring at a bank of closed doors. 7:40. Campus. Waiting.

Tuesday night, I spent 11 minutes at the bus stop in the fog chill, my backpack and gravity colluding in an attempt to pull me down to earth. The students around me dressed in black and army green. They flirted or cut in line or stared across the street, and their laughter condensed in the air and formed haloes above them. My thoughts about them were not always kind.

Tuesday morning, I spent 18 minutes waiting for BART. They were single-tracking it because of a “major medical emergency” at the El Cerrito del Norte stop. A person was trapped underneath a train. The El Cerrito stop was closed, the system thrown off. I found out later that the person underneath the train was a 16-year-old boy. It was a suicide.

Some days I get home and I want to cry. Sometimes I do cry. It is because of everything – lack of sleep, the continued challenge of classes plus traineeship, sad events, the never-ending wait for the 28 or the 38L, the ugly backpack mob scene once the bus arrives, the overheard depressingly misogynistic and unimaginative bus conversations of high school kids spiked with
ugly bitch and the bitches at school.

Today, there was a bit of relief in the feeling, too, because I met with my advisor this afternoon and declared my plan: practicum only next semester, plus an itty-bitty one-credit class that meets for five weeks. There will be no abandoned clients, no broken contract, no half-year left in the dust.

But I still have so much to do.

Image icon_all_rights All rights reserved by SOTC creations.

(Pre)-teenage wasteland

The card my mother made for my thirteenth birthday had “Yon Teen” written in sugar against shiny silver card stock. It was a quote courtesy of the Geator with the Heater, aka the Boss with the Hot Sauce, aka Jerry Blavat, a Philadelphia area DJ and TV dance show host in the 1950s and 1960s. The card brings me back to our house at the time of that birthday, to the cold dining room with an exposed brick wall and the table that was pushed against it, to the silence at that table that was a reaction to my presence. It returns me to the hours I spent staring at the rust red wall in my shadowy bedroom, a color I always want to compare to that of clotted blood, the color of past violence. It returns me to my stepfather’s weightlifting room, where my mother and I eventually drew our outlines against cracked plaster, light and free with his absence, like the outlines of victims at a crime scene.

As part of my search for clarity about grad school, I went to an intuitive today. I left feeling grounded and more sure of myself. I have a better idea of what I want to do, though I am not writing about it until I talk to my family, who are out of town for the weekend. One of the surprising things that came up, totally unprompted, were my preteen and early teen years and how they connect to my current doubts about my abilities. We did not delve into particular events, just pushed deep enough for me to recognize that the formative tween years get short shrift in my narrative, get pushed aside by the overlap of life, death, and loss that came before and after. That in between time has its stings and insecurities, its layered silences, its insults that I learned to accept as matters of fact.

The intuitive told me I need to separate who I am from how people treated me. I was not – I am not – what happened to me. It is a simple, profound thought that bears repeating. I am not what happened to me. You are not what happened to you. We are separate from our experiences. Yes, we can use those experiences to inform our lives and, yes, the experiences shape us, but what happened to us, particularly in childhood, does not define the essence of who we are or were. What happened was not about us. It was not our fault. It was about the people around us, the ones obsessed with destruction, or the ones who pretended nothing was going on, or the ones who knew, but felt powerless to help.

I feel sorry for those people from my past, trapped in the stickiness of their unhappiness, unable to do anything but try to trap others. Still, those years inform me, are a part of who I am, and who I am is good, damn it. But I am not yet at the point where I can totally forgive. I have a lot of righteous anger to feel first.

In the dark night of the soul, anger, sadness, and mourning come before the dawn. Perhaps all will be clear when day breaks, but the light on the horizon is still a few hours out. In the meantime, I invite in the child I once was. I make her a cup of tea and a comfortable bed and tell her she is fine just as she is. In the morning, we will let go of what came before as best we can.


Image from Citizens Voice.

When the truth lies

The boy and I were breaking into houses in New York City. Or was it Washington, DC? And it wasn’t technically breaking in: the houses were unlocked, the occupants elsewhere. We snuck through grand garages that had large Rorschachian bloodstains on oil-pocked concrete, slipped through doors that went to back stairs, grabbed leather jackets and forgotten journals, retraced our steps through the scene of the crimes (the owner suddenly coughing in the living room, the dog whining in the kitchen) to go to our house on R Street or S Street, somewhere late in the alphabet, someplace big and brick and right up against the sidewalk, the ginkgoes outside forming a canopy from curbside to rooftop, their fallen leaves cluttering the bricks with gold.

I woke up before we made it home. Though it was 4 a.m., I got out of bed, a bit distracted with my week. I feel much better
than I did Wednesday, though still not sure what my next move will be

On my first Tuesday crying jag, the one in the dark from BART to home, I felt . . . homesick for a different time. Or I was in mourning for what went before and will never be again. I missed the apparent simplicity of youth and fresh pain, the optimism that comes from having little life experience. I even missed the youthful lack of perspective that told me I was marked, that gave me my self-definition of bruised, battered intelligence. I was slightly misshapen, but not yet formed. Possibilities abounded.

Today, I am not sure who I am, what talents I can claim. My possibilities are shrinking. Or my focus is narrowing. In the last ten years, I have become smaller, more compact, with hidden, specialized strengths. I have learned my limits, become realistic about what I am capable of doing successfully. But that realism is clouded by a lack of self confidence, one that has me questioning everything I do. Where does the truth lie?

There is no truth, only interpretation. But I am muddled by the “facts,” confused by internal pulls in various directions. I do not want to make decisions based on fear. I want to make them based on a sense of connection and of
my needs. I do not want to simply escape painful situations. If possible, I want to learn from them and endure the pain, as long as I know there is a useful end. There are no absolutely right answers. All I know is that I am tired, teary, scared, overwhelmed, feel clueless and useless, and miss my family. Maybe I need to take grad school more slowly, to build up my foundation and allow time for the rest of my life. Maybe I need to just power through and ignore the angst.

I do not know the answer yet. The one thing I do know is that the way I am feeling is reminiscent of when I dropped out of college second semester sophomore year. I had gotten in over my head. I was barreling towards depression. And then I quit and it was too much booze and a star-crossed romance and a transfer to a school that was much better for me, even if I was still struggling emotionally. That chapter in my life led me to DC and brought me new experiences and friends, though the adjustment was not pretty.

It is not so simple this time around. But many things seem simple in retrospect. It is a lot easier when you know the ending.


Image by Bill Baker from Fossils in the Architecture of DC.


Every little thing

Last night, I cried.

I cried on the way home from BART. I cried when I got home. I cried and kept on crying and this morning I cried some more. More tears are on their way, I know it. My husband convinced me to stay home today, helped me realize that I needed some time to just be. So here I am, sitting in front of a fire that refuses to die, the third fire I have lit in almost as many days. And I reached out for help on the email and the Facebook. At some point, I realized the question was not
can I do this. It was what do I need to do this.

Almost every day for the last two weeks, I have thought about dropping out of my graduate program. Nothing feels like it is working right. I neglect my family. I cannot devote enough time to school. My commute, with its walks and trains and buses, makes me surly. I am almost silent in my group supervision and, while I love my clients, am having a difficult time feeling comfortable in my placement. I feel incompetent in every aspect of my life, and the thing that everyone thinks is the perfect career for me – being a counselor – well, I feel like I absolutely suck at it. And right now, judging from my mock counseling sessions, I probably do suck at it, though at least I provide a listening ear and a safe space for my clients.

I have wondered whether it was me or the program or a series of mismatches that led me to this low place. It probably is a combination of several factors. Feeling cut off from my family, my main support system, does not help. Taking 9 credits and spending an average of 16 hours a week, not including travel time, on my traineeship does not help. Leaving the house at 6:00 or 6:30 in the morning three days a week does not help. Neither does having two 13 to 14+ hour days.

What do I need to do this? I need time and space. I need onsite support – i.e., colleagues and a supervisor – built in to my placement. I need to learn to ask for help before I start to sink. I need more confidence, the kind of confidence that comes from slowly learning and mastering skills. I need to be kind to myself. I do not need to spend the next year in a sinkhole of misery and self-loathing. So I am considering taking a leave of absence, using next semester to think about what works best for me and my family. I need time to figure out my needs and how to meet those needs.

It is all part of my journey, one on which I would rather see the view instead of perceiving it through an anxiety-ridden haze. But I will wait a few days, maybe even a week, to decide. I will gather myself and take all the support I can. Everything is going to be all right.

Or all right enough.


Image of today’s fire taken by me.

Title from a Bob Marley and The Wailers song, “Three Little Birds” (“Don’t worry bout a thing, cause every little thing gonna be all right.”) which I now associate with Elizabeth Mitchell. It’s a bit on the cheerily optimistic side, but I need all the optimism I can muster.

Another three-day bender

On Thursday nights, exhausted, I can easily find myself pulled into the flattened allure of the Internet. I look up people I no longer know or even care to know, find out about their new-to-me lives. I save coats or shoes or pants I would never wear to wish lists no one will ever consult. Or I start writing and get stuck in the mire of me coming off another three-day bender, the memory of my fellow bus passengers following me around hours after my stop (the metallic smell of sweat mixed with the fake freshness of deodorant, the musty aura of pants that have clung too tightly to puckered flesh in the warmth of a San Francisco October day, the implied smoke and booze coming off hands so shaky they can barely grasp the silver bar above).

This was my Thursday: A girl with a deep cough wielding a marker. Trains of children in plaid skirts, clutching hula hoops. My exhausted quiet in a oval of talk. The mysterious police action at Embarcadero. The man who sat his bag on my feet without a thought. The miniature schnauzer, ears and expression alert, next to his person outside the BART station, the two of them waiting on a woman. Twenty-five minutes added to my day and at home the boy with his homework and the dog happy to see me despite my neglect, the walks she’s lost over the last month.

And my Wednesday: A smaller circle of people, each of us clutching a transcript of a long-ago mock counseling session, everyone thinking how they would respond and what they would ask of the phantom client. My partner and I in two mock sessions of our own.
Filmed mock sessions now downloaded to flash drives. This weekend, each of us will go over the session in which we were the counselor. It will be painful and useful and everything will be marked down, written into a narrative, and next Wednesday the professor will tell us what we did right and what we did wrong, in a half-hour meeting one on one. The good news is that my second time as an ersatz counselor went much better than my first. I think. But I haven’t seen the video yet.

And then there’s Tuesday, too long ago now to completely bring to mind, too long a day to hold on to. Four thirty a.m. wakeup, long commute, 4.5 clients in a row, bang bang bang, no time in between, a trip to campus, a class, another commute, a collapse.

Today? I have just two things on the list before I go pick up the boy from school at 2:25. We miss each other. He reaches for my hand on our walks more often these days. I know this time is fleeting, that everything changes. But I am so grateful for what I have now, challenges and all, and how it makes me more aware of my own foibles and faults. I don’t want to wish it away. I don’t want to yell in frustration. I just
am, being in this time and place, thankful for the opportunity to question everything and for the time away from home that allows me to be present while I am here.


Crosstown traffic

Two days a week in the a.m., I take a bus from downtown San Francisco to my placement. My bus cruises through the Tenderloin, the Western Addition, and the Inner Richmond, where I lived briefly during my Greens stint in 2004. On a well-advertised corner near the end of my journey is Tata Massage, named after the co-owner, a Thai violence artist/masseuse. Tata specializes in what she calls “Massage Boxing.” She slaps customers in the face with her well-practiced hand. Yes, people pay Tata to thwack their cheeks, eyebrows, foreheads, etc, all in the name of lessening wrinkles and firming skin.

I will not judge Tata Massage or its patrons – what do I know about the therapeutic benefits of being slapped in the face repeatedly? Surely in San Francisco especially, land of
Kink.com, there must be a market for such a service, even at $350 a cheek. I am mainly relieved that she doesn’t actually hit people in the tatas, which is what the store’s signs led me to believe initially. That just seems abusive.

By the time we pass Tata’s place, it’s about 7:20 and I have been up for three hours or so. I leave the house at 6:00 a.m. to get to my placement school by 7:30. As the sun comes out (or the fog stays put), my sense of self prepares itself to whittled to something small and sharp, to be worn down and thinned out by living almost permanently out of my comfort zone. This is no redemption story, just one of me continually feeling like an idiot and trying not to let my apparent idiocy trap me in the role.

So my trip on the 38L is the beginning of the onslaught of something or nothing, the continual challenge, and later the 28 takes me across town for class and group supervision. It was only within the last week or so that I realized that the 28, which I also ride back and forth from my university to the Daly City BART station, is the same bus I took from my Inner Richmond apartment to Greens restaurant almost nine years ago. To get from my placement to classes or supervision, I pick up the 28 about a block from my old bus stop. I have come full circle. It seems like there should be some message in this, some sense of synchronicity, but I am grasping for connections here, something to tell me that my story makes sense, that the plot hangs together.

You see, I have been here before, in another time and place. I tried to start a new life then, too. I was scared and alone. All was new, and by the time I left San Francisco, I knew nothing of my talents, though I was well-acquainted with my fears. Life eventually took turns I never would have predicted. New strengths emerged.

Where will the adventure lead next? It is an adventure, isn’t it? It helps to see it that way. Because by Friday I am fried. This week, with sleep deprivation, training scheduled for tomorrow morning, and injured toes (it was the shoes, the shoes, specifically these shoes, so cute and deadly), well, I’m just meh. Or meh minus 50. I want sleep. I want a bouquet of flowers. I want a decadent day of nothing. I want a weekend with my family in the woods, at our house, on the road. I want my firm sense of self back and I want to leave self-doubt behind before it transforms into self-doubt of the crippling variety.

Ultimately, though, a little more sleep will help. And moments of silence and stillness with nothing but emptiness and the hum of the world to soothe my static-addled mind. Welcome to the adventure, the world purrs. You are up to the challenge.

It’s a whole lot better than a slap in the face.


Image of the 38 Geary line cc_icon_attribution_smallcc_icon_noncomm_smallcc_icon_noderivs_small Some rights reserved by juicyrai.

Dancing in my phantom Mary Janes


When I am not sitting in a classroom or on a bus or BART, when I am not gathered with small groups of classmates or my fellow school-based family counselors in training, or hanging out in my school office reading up on policies, typing out my classroom and faculty meeting remarks, I obsess about shoes. Wedges, pumps, Mary Janes of all sorts, ballet flats. Shoes the color of cognac, heels crafted to look like layers of wood or maybe left to be the rubber that they are, suede shoes, shoes with velvet ribbons, jazzy spectators that I might have worn fifteen years ago.

There is a joke in my family based on a long ago overheard conversation. Picture a woman in a gym talking to a group of guys.
What is the first thing a man notices about a woman? she asks them. It is an awkward question to pose to a gaggle of menfolk. Seems like a trick question in fact. Eventually, she answers it for them. The first thing a man notices about a woman? The shoes, the shoes! So what is most important for me right now? The shoes, of course!

I am a bit of a shoe hound, though not as much since I left the working world. Now I have a semi-dress up “job,” with dress up clothes that I have purchased over the years but mainly never worn (very few of us want to be that mom in the skirt and heels while the rest of the crowd is sporting jeans and t-shirts). The world of online shoe buying allows for hundreds of possibilities, all to be mulled over as I sit in my robe or my yoga pants, the only thing on my overfilled mind being what I will match to those khakis or to that skirt with blue accents. The process allows me to be purposefully mindless, to occupy a place where I don’t think about my many inadequacies or feel that sinking feeling of
I can’t do this. My shoe browsing – I have done very little actual buying – keeps me from sinking into the mire of self-doubt, that sticky place I can’t afford to occupy.

So that’s where I am right now, hoofing it in my imaginary flats, dancing in my snazzy phantom Mary Janes, not thinking about my fears. I move forward without looking back, one foot in front of the other, my only worries being about heel height and whether a particular shade of brown will match that fantastic patchwork blazer I have never worn. It is a type of fake it ‘till you make it, a way of living
as if, the shine of shoes distracting me from the potential pitfalls all around.


All shoe photos from the John Fluevog web site. I love Fluevogs, though most of them are out of my price range.


Bright side

First day at my placement site.

Paperwork? Check.

Lunch and snack for the boy, made the night before? Check.

Cookie offering “baked” that evening, though somewhat frustratingly with an oven that would not light or heat up properly? Check.

Lunch, snack, water? In my backpack? Check.

Keys to my office at home? Wallet in pocketbook, pocketbook by the dining room table? Hard-earned small batch of cookies, wan but tasty, on the counter? Check. Check. Check. All left behind, along with, perhaps, my mind? Check!

Right bus, going in wrong direction? Check. Exact same bus at different stop, even though driver told me to take the Limited (and kindly reminded me again when she saw me again)? Check.

Arrive 20 minutes later than planned (but still before school starts!)? Check.

Things could only get better from there. And they did. For the most part. The good news is that I think I know the bus route now and I doubt I will forget to grab my keys again. The even better news is that I took all this in stride, without losing it. So there’s that. Progress. Baby steps. Bright side!



Let's think small

Last night, overwhelmed:
It’s simultaneously raining and bright here in Berkeley, California at a quarter to 8 p.m. on Monday, June 24th. I’m writing this from bed after having a strangely exhausting day, where I BARTed and bused my way to my traineeship site to meet the principal and learn more about what was ahead of me. As I type, the rain has picked up. Downstairs, the boy is being boisterous and the man is holding down the fort. The rain (promised all day, but arriving in dribs and drabs) comes down harder.

The fall semester, still two months away, looms large. The traineeship is like a part-time job; between it and its supporting classes and supervision, I will be devoting over twenty hours a week to the cause. This is necessary, a good thing, though adding in two other classes plus family time may put me over the edge. Then there’s my commute. No matter where I am headed, the commute is about 1.5 hours one way. If I am able to pull it off, one of my longest days will begin with me leaving the house at 6:20 a.m., going to the traineeship, going to class, and getting home by 8:30 p.m. (only to head out by 7:30 the next morning). Occasionally, my husband will be on business travel, with two trips already on the books, not counting the one he is taking this week. I’ll just have to give up on leaving at 6:20 a.m. on those days. In the midst of all of this, I will be learning, absorbing, taking on emotional topics, trying to
help people.

At the moment, I feel like I can barely help myself. I’m keeping the anxiety to semi-normal levels. The guilt – which is so easy to give in to – not so much. The self-acceptance? I’m having a really hard time there, too, though I can certainly talk myself into a sort of acceptance. I can attempt to ignore the little voices, though maybe they are trying to get me to pay attention to myself. What roles do the guilt, do the self-doubt play? Where do they come from? What messages do they bring?

These questions are beyond me right now. I have to keep walking forward. But I also have to think small, task by task, so that I don’t get overwhelmed by the larger picture. Part of my mind wants to be elsewhere this summer: in the garden, painting the living room, reading something besides books about putting peoples’ psyches back together or the pervasive effects of poverty on children’s minds and potential. Another part of me knows I need to prepare for what is to come. The trick is how to do so and not have my summer taken over by worry and over-planning. The trick is not getting caught up in thinking about the tricks, about the things I
should be doing. The trick is to keep my thoughts tidy, to keep them from forming into knots.

The rain has stopped. The sky is dark. I’ll sleep on it and hope all will be calm come morning, that sleep will wash this away. If sleep doesn’t do it, Tuesday’s rain, the constant patter of drops, might.


Image cc_icon_attribution_smallcc_icon_noncomm_small Some rights reserved by linh.ngan.

Constantly in motion

fidget, squirm, talk non-stop, constantly in motion
fidget, squirm, talk non-stop, constantly in motion
fidget, squirm, talk non-stop, constantly in motion

I would like to fidget, squirm, talk non-stop, be constantly in motion. Instead I’m typing, still, silent as night, and I’m firmly planted. It’s yet another café post, me
at PIQ again, this time downstairs, in between the kitchen and the street, and the doors are open to the songs of Shattuck (cars, a tootling saxophone, whiny brakes, the omnipresent rumble of road construction). “Fidget, squirm, talk non-stop, constantly in motion” are some of the behaviors listed under the hyperactive symptoms of ADHD. I like the rhythm of the words, the way they fit my slightly crazed (but still firmly planted in reality) mood.

This is a half-assed life, my full ass on a hard chair, my mind swimming with disorders and various psychological assessments and their rules and structure, their hocus pocus interpretation (yeah, yeah, with science behind it). I feel like I am cramming. I am cramming. But my 43-year-old mind has been filled with years and years of experience and facts – another thing I didn’t take into account when going back to school. My mind has about 50% more stuff jammed in it than it did in my last grad school go-round. And the brain, she is rebelling. But back to the half-assed life. I write as my husband and son are out and about (because Berkeley celebrates Malcolm X’s birthday and the boy is out of school), I was studying, but am necessarily done for the next few hours at least. I’ve had all I can stands ‘cuz I can’t stands no more, but here I am, head buried in my computer so that I can post something, so that I can toss my tension from Berkeley to wherever you might be. And I know that the tension fills the space between my letters, the gaps between my words. But, damn, the words are coming fast.

I got to school early this morning, for no particular reason. I was done with facts, so I ended up wasting a lot of time staring at my computer in the library. On the BART ride out, I saw a young women who reminded me of someone. She never turned to face me directly, so I didn’t get a good head-on view. Caught up in her texts, the woman leaped out of the train once she confirmed we were at Montgomery Street station. Did I know her? From where? Was she a character from a dream? A shadow? My projections made solid and real? It’s a big city and the odds are not good that one of my dream figures would roam my commute, hopping from train to train until she found me. I’ll probably never see her again. But if she’s out there reading – well, I hope she understands how those moments of confluence are heavy with meaning, the meaning obscured by emotion. It’s about flow. There are
no coincidences.

I started this at PIQ and I am finishing it at home, beer by my side, cat at my feet, mind somewhere between here and the outer reaches of the atmosphere. I walked home and I saw no one I knew. And I can’t bring my mind back, but I know it will return to me, sometime on Thursday afternoon when everything is over.


Image of me, by me.

The accumulation of doubt

I’m making it my weekly tradition to do a long post, let it stand for a day or two, and then delete it. I pin the blame on end-of-the-semester stress, on deadlines and confusion, on the emotional weight of the graduate counseling program accumulating in my heart and psyche. I pin it on husband travel and boy upheaval.

Never post on a full mind. Never post on an empty mind. Never post when in doubt. As I type, I don’t know where I stand on any of those conditions. Too full? Too empty? And what about the doubt? Does just asking prove my point?

I left early this morning and
let distraction throw me off course. I handed in a paper that may or may not be what the professor expected. I sat with that unsettled feeling. I ate a waffle that tasted of caramelized sugar. I sat in a classroom with closed windows. I sat in a windowless classroom. I summed up my developing theory of counseling in 30 seconds. I stood on the 29 to Balboa Park and listened to the hollow bravado of young white dudes who took up too much space and didn’t move to the back of the bus. I got on the wrong train. I got off the wrong train. I rode the train to Richmond as far as North Berkeley.

I stared at my phone. I stared into space. I stared out the window. Between then and now, between the time I walked out of my house and walked back in, the skies had a little cry, the fog clung to the city and then abandoned it, the saturated air formed a protective layer over campus and the sun took it away. Blue reclaimed the sky. The wind picked up. And through it all, I wore my sweater and kept on my shoes.

I came home and I wanted to cry. Cry for self-acceptance. Cry for the sins I no longer let define me. Cry for the knowledge that I have caused damage that I cannot change. Cry because my only option is to make amends. Cry because it’s a tricky business. Cry in relief. Cry in forgiveness. Cry because what else does one do at the end of a long week with so much ahead?


Image by me, taken at the Daly City BART station. In what sort of emergency does one break the glass? And what does pressing the button do? I have no idea.

Good like me

The gecko is fed and watered. The litter boxes are clean. The coffee set up. The dishes drying. The boy asleep. The dog fed and walked. The cats’ food supply replenished. Our dinner eaten. The room cleaned. The laundry put away. The boy’s reading done. The laundry folded. The homework finished. The boy picked up. My chapters read. The laundry washed. The presentation rehearsed. The boy dropped off. The breakfast eaten. The day started.

And after it all, the glass of wine poured, my mind emptied, comforted with stillness and the gentle company of resting cats. I need to go to sleep soon (it’s after 10:00 on Tuesday night). I need quiet. I need a blanketed mind, a cozy, murmuring mind that will whisper me to sleep. While lying next to the boy tonight, feeling frazzled, knowing I had an agenda after his bedtime, my various appointments with chores, I closed my eyes and slowed my breath. I felt my heart beat. Clearly, I have not been paying attention. I know the fact of “heart.” I know the cause of fast beats, the effect of panicked thumps. I’ve watched from the outside as someone else’s heart slowed until it stopped. But I have never experienced my own heart as the powerful muscle it is, all business, no flutter, until tonight, when I made myself pay attention.

I can’t quite do it now. I am tired, there’s the wine, the slurp of Nick the cat’s evening ablutions, the singe of the laptop on my denimed thighs. I’ll have to wait until I am just about asleep to re-experience the engine, the vital center, doing its work.

I’ve been thinking a lot about mindfulness and boundaries, wondering how I structure my life
now so that I can remain sane during graduate school and beyond. My “self-care” is the first thing to go, which means my sense of self is the first thing to go, too, along with my equilibrium. Some self-care tasks seem simple. Drink enough water. Take my vitamins. Get enough to eat (though that’s not as easy as it sounds for me right now). But being able to center myself is also vital. The triggers aren’t going to go away and I won’t always have a space for the emotions they bring up. What if I take a few moments each day to concentrate on my heartbeat? To remind myself of my boundaries? To maintain those boundaries and my sense of who I am?

I am Jennifer and I am sleepy. You, however, may read this in the morning, fresh out of bed and ready for the day. You may read it in a low mood days after I’ve posted. You could be looking at it during a bout of anxious insomnia, or right before you drop off to sleep, up too late for a weeknight and still not tired at all. As I drift away and occupy the moment, as I am here and gone simultaneously, I know you are good as you are, right now.

Just like me.


Image of a heart tattoo by Mez Love, slightly doctored by me.


It’s a grey afternoon on campus. The clouds are walking a fine line between rain and fog, saturating the air one way or another, and the asphalt paths gleam and make blurry reflections of the people transversing them. There are umbrellas, downturned blossoms in red, in black, in springy flashes of yellow, in the optimistic orange of a California poppy, but most of the students are bare-headed, dark-coated, blue-jeaned and rain-booted. I have about half an hour to kill before going to a midterm, so I am slowing down the moment, slowing down time in the library, observing the world through my fourth-floor perch.

The floor to ceiling windows are covered with small grey dots. Is this to refract the sunlight when it does come? Do the dots tip off the birds, show them the solidity of the air they were about to penetrate? It gives the outside world a comic book look, like a dulled Roy Lichtenstein painting, the trees made abstract by patterned glass.

What to do with myself. I’ve read and summarized the chapter. I’ve studied all I can for today. I’ve finished my paper. I want you to come out of the woodwork, to track me down, and I’m just superstitious enough to believe that writing it will make it so, that my thoughts are strong enough, and so I allow myself a little old-fashioned longing, a fit of silly fantasy. It scares me how easy it is to tap into, this river I sometimes deny. All this for a figment of my imagination. Truly.

There are vehicles on campus, little trucks and carts that travel on the same paths the students do. One just passed in front of the library, brake lights flashing like two red eyes. Slow down. Slow down.

And I’m off. By the time you read this – if you read this – the ordeal will be over.


Spring break starts officially next week, but for me after my classes today. Perhaps I will see you here tomorrow . . .

Image by

Trigger happy

Lately, it takes nothing for me to feel shaky, with lack of food or water or an excess of nerves. If I walk too fast with too little – too little to digest, too little to support me – next thing I know, I’m breaking out in a sweat, the sweat of the presyncopic, the feeling that hits before the faint to the floor happens. My stomach does tumbles, my heart feebles its beat. And hopefully the faint won’t happen. Hopefully I will stop before I fall over.

In Abnormal Psychology last week, we watched the movie
Black Swan for a paper assignment. Or most of the class watched it. I had a vague idea of the plot line, settled into my front row desk seat next to a friend. I was a little hungry, maybe a little dehydrated, but what of it?

Have you seen Black Swan? It’s tense from the first frame and there are hallucinatory scenes with blood and by the time our ballerina is (apparently) ripping a strip of skin from her finger, I was woozy. Sweaty. Overwhelmed. Although I was about ten feet away from the classroom door, I knew I wouldn’t make it without collapsing. Eventually, I put my head between my legs, my friend noticed what was going on, and she, another woman, and the prof leapt into action. They got me in the hall, fed me sugary items, got me cool wet paper towels for my neck and forehead. They gave me water to drink. They were so kind. I sat on the cool tiles and then sequestered myself in an empty study space, finally sneaking out before class was over.

It’s ok, you were triggered, one of them said. It happens. Triggered? No. Not really. It was the blood mixed with the tension mixed with not enough to eat and drink. Triggered . . . I thought about my underlying reaction to Nina’s aloneness, to the horrible, manipulative ballet director, to the dancer’s isolation in her craziness. Triggered. Fair enough. I was squeamish and I was triggered and ever since then, a week ago, it takes nothing for me to become lightheaded. So I have to make sure I eat. And if I don’t drink enough water, the world starts to slip away. So there’s that.

(Pause while I chug a glass of fizzy water.)


I’ve decided to write here when I have the mental and emotional space to do so, to not worry about an audience, to not push myself to write when I have nothing to say. There will be very little crafting as well -- I’ll post it as it comes, editing with a light touch.

This feels like a sensible, healthy solution. I’ve got enough going on in my life at the moment to keep my brain humming from one thing to the next. No need to toss writing anxiety and phantom flirtations into the mix. My search for a counseling placement for next year has pushed my stress level over the edge (well, that plus the two presentations I have next week), but I think that search is about over. I’ll know more by the 15th. I hope.

Be seeing you very soon


Image from Black Swan.


Postcards from paradise

I shouldn’t be writing, at least not here. I have eight chapters (down from eleven), a big chunk of the DSM-IV-TR,* background on the development of the soon-to-be-published DSM 5, and two scholarly articles to read as well as a practice exercise on statistics and a set of notes to write on psychoanalytic theory. We’re talking hundreds of pages of material, though I can already tell it will be impossible for me to read every single word. I just have to figure out the gist of things, learn the criteria for diagnosis, the tenets of theory, introduce myself to psychometrics and statistics. But a girl cannot live on counseling and psychology texts alone. She needs a bit of poetry, a bit of the emotional flash, an outlet for what gets pent up, the release of excess. So here we are, alone together again.

I want to be poetic, to illustrate the fleeting, transcendent thoughts I have, the ones I sometimes tap into the notes app on my iPhone as I speed walk to the BART station or rush to pick up the boy. But this is the somewhat nonsensical stuff I’m left with:
feed visuals photo writing capture natural world in metaphor veil between and houses on hill like vein on rock, quartz in granite (?). The first is about the urge we have – I have, at least – to try and reveal the greater truth about reality by writing about it, capturing it in metaphor, or about the way I want to take what is in front of me, with its physicality and energy, its itness, and transmit it to others in a photograph. I am constantly taking pictures of the surreal and surprising, of heady nature with its outstretched limbs and tangles of branches, of disembodied concrete hands resting in the leaf-laden grass of someone else’s front yard. This ability to transmit what I experience to you, to make the real more real, emotionally laden, to tug on the gossamer lines to memories you thought were forgotten, is heady stuff. And the houses-on-hill run-on thought? It is an example of my attempt to implement that metaphorical metamorphosis, to convey how the chains of houses in the highly populated Berkeley hills, visible from my bedroom window, the constant backdrop to every walk, form white lines in the dark trees, pale serpentine paths through the brown earth, like veins running through rock.

Sometimes, the thoughts emerge more fully formed, though often mysterious and occasionally over the top. They come in waves, five in a month and then a half year of silence:
You will wake up and see the shimmer in the distance that is me. Regret always comes two steps too late. (4/11)
Every window you pass is a way to enter a new life. (5/11)
I hate my body for its weakness. (5/11)
the places of secret memory (6/11)
Several latex gloves by handicapped seats, at least one turned inside out. (10/12, an observation that became a part of a post)
Tuesday is the day when I am gin-soaked in bitterness.
My affection is a pathological thing, clingy. (1/13)

Sadly, at the moment I have very little poetry in me. I’ve just finished reading an overview of addiction and I’m distracted by thoughts about which beloved activity/substance I will forgo for two weeks for a paper assignment. I’m not going to go all Lenten sorority girl and give up chocolate. I could give up caffeine. I could let go of blogging and its associated compulsions for one painful fortnight. I’ve semi-given up alcohol, though now that my habit has been broken I’m enjoying a glass of wine with dinner on occasion. There’s no fucking way I’m giving up Facebook. Should I do what is hardest (give up blogging) or what will have the most physical effect (forgoing that morning cup and a half of coffee or the occasional latte)? We’ll see.

Look at the time! It’s late. I have to go. I have to run. I have psychopathologies to read about and the afternoon is slipping away. Wish me luck!


*The American Psychiatric Association’s Diagnostic Statistical Manual IV-R is the go-to place for mental illness classifications. The DSM 5 comes out in May.

Image: Yard art just off of University Avenue.


I spent most of yesterday writing about myself. For a class. This is the kind of thing I probably have to expect from a counseling program – lots of self-examination, maybe some application of theory to a narrative that just seemed like a story, my story, sure, but mainly a list of causes and effects and the weakness of me for being affected by the causes.

Let me tell you, writing about this stuff for far-flung friends and virtual strangers? It’s a piece of cake. Writing it for a professor? It feels very, very weird. Part of this is because I am not used to exposing myself in an academic setting and I’m also not sure how far to go, how much is appropriate. I’m also afraid of revealing my weakness, whether it be past (what happened to me) or present (the nagging effects of what happened to me). And I feel like I “pass,” like I don’t seem like someone who got knocked up at fifteen or grew up in a fair amount of intermittent tumult. I pass and I both want to pass and want to show that I’ve been places, sister. I know from instability. Not that I’m clinging to it. It’s not that. It’s just that I

In this case, I have to apply three of
Erikson’s psychosocial stages to my life and write about how I got through each one, whether I came out shining with the primary adaptive ego quality (yay!) or limped on to the next stage carrying the core pathology like a heavy stone upon my back (booooooo!). This isn’t an either/or process, however. It’s possible to come out with a little of both, and it’s possible to struggle with and conquer parts of the stages later in life.

I didn’t pick the boring stuff for my paper, of course, though anyone who writes about her or his life is going to have obstacles at each stage, some struggle combined with triumph. There is no such thing as a boring life story. I’ve tried to keep it to just the facts, with as little melodrama or breast-beating as possible. But still – damn. Some shit has gone down in my life. And here I am, intact for the most part. Though I can see parts of each stage where I barely limped through or didn’t quite make it, I also see how I

One of the surprises for me was how much I’ve relied on my ability to think, on the flexibility and strength of my brain, to get through. It’s been good to me, my brain. I’d go so far as to say
it’s a good brain and it’s the one part of me that has been affirmed in every stage of my life, from the beginning. Sometimes it tangles my emotions up in knots, or tries to box them up nice and neatly, not noticing the overflow, the way they seep through a corner and slowly obscure the floor. But it also protected me when I needed protecting, it got me attention and praise, and it still keeps me going, though it’s trying to balance thought with emotion now, letting things out into the open.

This has provided me another way to look at my experiences, through my strengths, what kept me intact. I recommend it as a way to turn a difficult life story around, in addition to looking at the environment you grew up in, the people and outside forces that helped to shape you, and how you dealt with it. What kept you safe? Connected? Intact? For me it was my grandmother, the best parts of my mother, my close friends, my sense of humor, my sensitivity, and my ability to think. I'm grateful for them all.


The long haul

This is what I want to tell you about.

The No. 29 bus, standing room only at 10:00 p.m. on a Monday night. A nice young man gives me his seat. He and his buddies travel in a cloud of sweet spice, the scent of pot rich and thick, their conversation appropriately mellow and slightly confused. Beside them, a harsh contrast of cool pale Russian speakers. Across from me sits a heavily bearded man, neat and tidy, with solid admirable legs. He has earbuds plugging his ears, a cord plugged into his phone; he is as plugged in as the rest of us, except maybe for me. I have enough of a soundtrack, an internal monologue. I don’t need music pumped straight into my head. When my thoughts quiet, I listen to the rest of you.

Balboa Park station, 10:20 p.m. Two pairs of pigeons in love, the males strutting and cooing. Two girls, three guys, one infant, one toddler, and again that sweet spicy smell that I’m beginning to think permeates the air in San Francisco and Berkeley, available any time of day if you have the nose for it. We file into the empty car. The teenagers pair up. The odd man out sits with the children. He does not engage.

19th Street station, 10:50 p.m. The platform is crowded. We're tired. We're cranky. We want to go home. I read about a child who died from cancer, one of those Facebook links, big sadness made tiny on my iPhone screen. It’s stupid, it’s stupid to read things like this in public because the tears start and I have to hold them back and all I have is a crumpled tissue with a wad of gum in it to wipe them away. I use it, blot, blot. It smells of mint. The woman next to me has pink, sensible flats studded with half inch metal spikes.
Those are the perfect BART shoes I think. No one's going to step on her feet. The train flies in on a huge gust of air.

A BART train car, 11:00 p.m.. Crowded before we even got on the train. Eighty percent of the passengers wear green and yellow jerseys and baseball caps. They smile. Stranger shouts to stranger. The air has the post-athletic event scent of beer and the wholesome afterglow of baseball. At each stop, Oakland A’s fans exit the train, clapping and chanting as they flow onto the platform. I remain standing. Across the aisle, on the floor between seats, are four used latex gloves, the peelings left over from some ritual, some emergency, the shed husks of someone else’s day.

11:15 p.m. My stop. I take the steps two by two and am the first one out in the cool night air. The tiles are slick, not a sign of rain, but of the nightly spraydown. I make a diagonal across the parking lot. I plunge into two blocks of darkness, watching my step on the tree-buckled sidewalks. Then home on low-lit night cat streets to home and family.

11:30 p.m. Home.

Yes, the commute can be grueling. It’s long. By the end of it, I’m worn. But I love it. I love the variety of people, the overheard conversations, the way we’re all mixed together. I love the feeling of self-sufficiency.

Sometimes after these long days, I want to cry. I need to cry. For the continued novelty of it. For the pressure of performing. For growth. I need to cry out of compassion for myself, cut off from the world and still struggling for self-acceptance. I keep moving forward even in the dark, even when fear and loneliness threaten to take over.


Image of a bizarrely empty Muni bus by Telstar Logistics.

Avoiding the nattering nabobs

Wednesdays are my long day. Out of the house by 7:30 a.m., home by (hopefully) 8:30 p.m., my day is bookended by a class in the morning and a class in the late afternoon. It can be a test of my ability to stay in the moment. I have about four hours between classes, time I spend nibbling on my lunch surreptitiously in the library (when did it become acceptable to eat and drink in a university library? but it is very convenient), studying, and, if I am lucky, having some form of conversation with another human being, something on the deeper end of the pool, out of the shallows of lite talk. So far it’s working out pretty well.

Sometimes old habits emerge, and they are strange enough now that I recognize them as habits, well-trodden trails, wide and comfortable ruts, my old go-tos to keep me from entering the world. For me, it’s anxious thoughts that focus on what went wrong, what I’m doing wrong, worries about how I am perceived that keep me from really perceiving others and being present with them. When I recognize that my mind is leaning toward the dark, familiar path, I turn it back toward the light. Part of this is because of I am truly healing and in the process reentering life as an active participant. Part of my new perspective comes from seeing what my fellow classmates have battled and struggled with and recognizing that I am pretty damn privileged and have been from the beginning.

We never went without food or shelter. My grandmother was there for me, my grandfather, too, in his own way. I always knew it was expected of me to get a college education. We had books. My mother told me I was smart. The deficiencies were there, but there was so much good, too. And here I am, in school again, coping, participating even when . . . I was going to write something negative. There they are, the well-trodden paths of negativism, with their well-worn metaphorical clichés. I can't afford to go there anymore. It's a false picture of reality, an image of a shadow on the surface of a deep, rich pool. My go-to place is gone, replaced by an old growth forest, every layer humming with glorious, complicated life.

Sometimes I wonder how much to take credit for in this. Do I stand on a dais and spread my thank yous around? Well, they're important of course. I didn't emerge fully formed and complete. I didn’t do this all by my lonesome. I thank my mother for believing in me and nurturing my mind, my father for being there in the best way he could, my grandmother for giving me the most solid foundation of stability and love I could have, enough so that when it died with her, I still had something inside, the internalization of it, to stand on; my grandfather for letting me live with him, even when it wasn't good for him financially; one aunt for providing a place to go in childhood, another for her clear and solid love; my first husband for being so kind and generous; my second for loving me, supporting me, forgiving me, and believing in me; the boy for being the boy, prodding me to get beyond my childhood pain without even knowing he was doing it; my friends for their presence and support. I thank my therapists, the ones who have gently nudged me along the way and helped me find the seeds of change in all my rambling. Let's not forget me, too, the one who went through the difficult transition, who squelched through the muck of my own pain and finally started stepping out of it (not without the help of many of the aforementioned, of course).

I knew someone once who considered himself a catalyst for other peoples' personal change, the first domino to fall, forgotten by the end of the line, but important nonetheless. I am not sure I believe that one person can be a catalyst for another’s internal shift. You can’t encourage change in someone who does not already feel capable of it. But you can support them in their human frailty, help create an environment in which change can happen. It’s a group effort. The idea that other people are essential, play a positive, supportive role in my life, is one I would have rejected even a month ago. Sure, other people are nice, they might even like me, I'd think, but this is something I have to do by myself -- I created this distrustful, bruised, ugly self and it's up to me to change it back, make it all nice, neat, and tidy (ignoring the fact that I developed this self in part because of other people). A lot of these thoughts were based on fear, fear of exposing my ugliness, revealing my inner Gollum, and being rejected because of it. Ah, but there I go again, one foot about to sink into the soft, warm, familiar mud. No more.

As I start to integrate my childhood self into my adult self, as I (slowly) drop the constant vigilance, as I build the structure in which I heal and rejoin the world, my perspective becomes clearer. We all have a bit of darkness inside. We are all lovable, despite the darkness. We can define ourselves by the light while acknowledging the shadows within. And I feel so grateful. I feel a warm, radiating heat that my heart sends out to yours. Thank you for being here.


Images of trees along a trail at Joaquin Miller Park, a path mottled with light and shadow, taken by me a few weeks ago.

More on the "
nattering nabobs of negativism," for those who are unfamiliar with the quote or who want to learn more.

Joy, sadness, fear and all

The last time I did this, I lived alone. I went to school to home to work to home. Sometimes I parked myself at a reading room in the Library of Congress or I sat by myself in the student lounge at CUA eating a homemade lunch and reading philosophy or Shakespeare. On weekends, I went to Chestertown to see Martha or took a Greyhound bus to a dotpoint town on the Eastern Shore to meet J for a weekend of touch and go.

I didn’t have much of a life then, though I was busy with work and school and preparing for comps that last year at Catholic. Once I got to Illinois, where the library science classes felt basic, the coursework easy, and my time ample, I had even less of a life, and so I started to crumble before I regrouped and tiptoed out into the world.

Last night, after the elementary school open house, when my husband came home from a different, work-related meeting, we each deconstructed our night to the other. My role at home is changing, life is expanding, and his new job offers him so much more, and in the middle is this beautiful, growing boy opening up to the world as I return to it.

Wednesday night, my head spinning with thoughts on racism, prejudice, and privilege, on Bay Area women of color in the fetish lifestyle (the openness, the potential for emotional healing, the tricky power differentials, the sheer variety of identity and preference) on bilingual elementary school education and the perils of standardized testing, I got home and could not stop talking about my day. Wednesdays are long for me. I leave the house at 7:30 and get home about 13 hours later after a commute that includes being packed into the humid heat of a San Francisco city bus with the young men saying hella this, hella that, their dragon boat paddles tucked into backpacks, and elderly Buddhist nuns electing to stand when offered a seat, and little girls who are separated from their mothers but keep calm even when the crowd between mother and daughter is five deep. Last Wednesday night, the sunset over Oakland was incredible, this expanse of pink-tinged clouds spread above the cargo cranes of the harbor like a beautiful explosion, the pastel remains of an
airborne toxic event. Like the sunset, my day was intense. I had to unpack it when I got home.

Life is rich and complicated. I crack myself open on a daily basis, feeling things that I’ve kept hidden for a long time. Even after the dreadful awkwardness of parental chitchat under the fluorescent lights of the boy's elementary school classroom at night, a time and place when I am often at my worst (classrooms seem to do it for me – it’s still hard for me to feel comfortable in my own classes), I was able to see the whole situation, the social set-up, as a way to stretch myself, to allow myself to be uncomfortable knowing that some day I would be comfortable again, or close enough.

Within this life, this complicated life, I have so much now, so much more than I did 20 years ago. Part of it is luck in being partnered with someone who totally supports me, part of it is the result of hard, emotional work. I am so very grateful for this life, for my husband and son, who are a huge part of the reason that I have a chance to try things over, to bring the dormant and suppressed back to the surface, joy, sadness, fear and all.


Image by chrissam42 taken in 2006 from BART in West Oakland, just about the spot from which I was watching the sky on Wednesday night. The sunset I saw was similar but more spectacular.

I'm going to try updating the blog about once a week during the semester. My apologies for not answering emails or visiting blogs. Even writing this feels like an unauthorized use of time, but so necessary.

Do you really want to know? Really?

I knew it was bad when I wanted to fling my textbook across the room, stomp on it, and rip it into little pieces before setting it aflame in a quasi-ritualistic conflagration ceremony on the sidewalk. This was right after I had taken a quiz in that same class, a quiz on something I knew quite well (as one might after reading a chapter, taking extensive notes on it, and acing the practice quizzes), only to be stymied by what appeared to me to be vague multiple choice questions, some with two possible answers to a question. I still didn’t do badly – I am maintaining an A (so far) in the class – but it’s the sloppiness and imprecision, the lack of focus on actual learning about the topic, that drives me up a wall, in addition to the fact that I will never know what I got wrong because it is the instructor’s policy to never provide the questions one got wrong or the answers, either, even long after the quiz is over. (And no, this is not about my abnormal psychology class.)

I knew it was bad when, after reading several questionable, rather opinionated things in my textbook, I felt vindicated at the author's revelation – in the text – that she was a Republican. Now, I am not Republican. I know many Republicans, most of whom are kind and intelligent and thorough, even if we aren’t on the same political page. I don’t want to turn this into something partisan or simplistic. But I read that, though back to some of the author’s presentations of certain topics, thought
Aha! and called my mother to complain some more. We had a good laugh at my discontent with its intensity and uselessness.

I knew it was bad when I realized that I had just watched the entire
Mad Men season five in one week, tucking it in between chapter readings and note-taking and quiz-taking and multiple-paragraph, multi-sentence discussion question answer-writing (with any reference to another work to be written in APA style, lest my answer be dinged for being plagiarized). No wonder I am in such a crummy mood. All work, no play, and hitting herself with a cable-show drama hammer makes Jennifer a cranky girl. Even as I write, I steal away time from studying – I have three quizzes, a final, and a midterm next week, most of which I have to complete by Thursday night. Such are the perils of taking two classes that compress an entire semester into 4 – 6 weeks.

Still – there is something about having opinions, strong ones, and enough life experience to know that they are rooted in reality, that I find comforting. This is one of the benefits of aging, of spending a long-enough time on the planet. I know things and I didn't even know that I knew them! At the same time, I am learning so much and see how hungry I’ve been for knowledge and challenge. I also see how I will need better ways to deal with stress in the coming graduate school years.

Because, of course, the rest of life doesn't stop for schoolwork. The last couple of weeks haven't been all about tests, Don Draper, and kvetching. Eleven days ago, the boy cut into his thumb at camp while making a magic wand, which necessitated a drive with my husband to pick him up and take him to the emergency room (they glued the cut; more than ten days later, it’s looking pretty good). He had a short PFAPA bout last weekend that oozed into this week, meaning my husband, who just started a new job, had to stay home for much of Monday, his first official day, while I was at my (wonderful!) abnormal psych class, taking a test and learning more stuff. My husband’s new job is perfect for him, but the kind of thing that requires more work after hours and more brain time, enjoyable and challenging, yes, but a new endeavor that adds a layer of intensity to our family life along with my studies. Last week I had one of the worst nights of abdominal pain I’ve had in a long time. Since high school I’ve had occasional issues with this intense pain that has no obvious cause. It is often, but not always, stress-related and can usually be dealt with by taking a big dose of ibuprofen when I feel the first twinges. That didn’t work last week and I was up for most of that Thursday night, wondering if I should track down the Vicodin my husband had for his last surgery, if we even still had it. (I didn’t, by the way.)

If you’ve made it this far through my litany of petty complaints, thank you. I’m writing, I’m writing, and I miss writing, the thing that I must do in between the rest or else I dry up, I crack, I feel the fissures in my emotional wellbeing. But now I’ve got other things to do. Off to read that terrible textbook, to try and absorb the useful, factual information while not letting the bad stuff get to me, jamming in as much information I can until the family wakes up and the day officially begins.


Image: "Multiple Choice" by gilhooly studio.
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