Cyclothymia

Of Mothers And Daughters

My time away from civilization last weekend was so critical for my mental health. It was a great chance to take a step back from the mindless cycles I go through in my everyday life and get some perspective.

As my good friends know, my relationship with my mother has been a source of endless pain for me. I'm an only child and she's a single mother, which would breed an intense relationship anyway, but ours is probably at the extreme. I tend to think about it every day, even though she lives on the opposite side of the country and I have only seen her once in the last five years - and spoken to her only a handful of times.

Last year I finally went so far as to set up an email filter to forward her emails to a friend (in case there was something that actually needed addressing), and delete them from my box so that I wouldn't see them and get sucked in. Unfortunately she sent one to an email address not set up that way, so I saw it, and despite my best efforts couldn't stop myself from responding; the urge to defend myself from her manipulation is reflexive. Her answer came on the way back from Katahdin, and I'm so thankful it came then because I not only had the clarity from the trip, but was with one of my best friends who seems to have a high-tolerance for me sobbing and/or displaying some other crappy emotion. (He somehow walks that fine line between giving you room to feel what you need to feel and helping you to move past it. The ability to just be quietly present with someone who is crying is very underrated, especially amongst guys.)

I've always resisted the idea that she was an abusive person - that she had abused me. Even if I nodded when other people suggested it, or mused about it myself, there was always doubt.

In this one email she simultaneously described herself as a noble protector, blamed me for bringing physical abuse upon myself as a child, and played semantic games to avoid addressing the truth. When I was 9 she beat me with a hairbrush all over my body badly enough that I was taken away the next day, but according to her: "you got spanked, and you fought that - as most any child would." According to her I wasn't in foster care when I was 13, I was in "a temporary 'holding' facility that was a communal house for several kids and one counselor." She says she has nothing but love for me with one hand, and slaps me with the other.

I work with women in relationships with domestic violence, physical or verbal; I help them to try to see that they do not deserve what is happening to them, that they are strong, they can choose to leave, and now I have a true understanding of the leap I am asking them to make. I am angry, and I feel sadness for my younger self and my current self for the pain I still struggle with, and all the lost years. I am the closest I have ever been to being able to say THIS IS WRONG AND IT'S NOT MY FAULT. I'm not sure exactly what was different about this communication, as she has certainly said similar things all along, but maybe it was just a textbook case of what an abusive person does to maintain control in the aftermath that I was able to recognize.

I don't claim to be completely done with this, but I'm hopeful these flashes of confidence will get more frequent and last longer. I'm realizing that if she were anyone other than my mother I would not hesitate to say that she is a bad person, and that the reason for my pain is that I crave validation from someone who will never give it. I hope that someday that little voice that says "maybe she's right" will go away for good, and I can safely let it go. In the meantime I'll be setting up that filter again, and working to really believe that there are people out there that I can trust to truly love me.

I know this is a downer post, but it is cathartic for me to put it out there. Also, on another topic, Sarah Palin is the devil.

Katahdin '08 Trip Report

This weekend was so yummy it was sinful. The absolute only thing I would change is maybe add a little more downtime because I'm exhausted today. But what the hell, you can sleep when you're dead, right?

It started off with a 4 day trip to Mt. Katahdin in Maine. Mt. Katahdin is the highest peak in Maine, 2^nd highest in New England...but of course, as a girl from the Rockies, I do tend to say "psht, you call that a hike?" to anything New England has to offer. Well, consider me corrected. Katahdin definitely has a Rockies feel. It's stark, grand, and hard as hell. You don't struggle with the altitude since it's only 5300 ft at the top, but the ascent from where we started (Roaring Brook Campground) was 4000, rather steep, feet. Which, uh, turned out to be hard. I'd almost say as hard as you can get for a day hike in terms of distance and terrain without getting into actual rock climbing.

The campground itself is pristine, with absolutely no overcrowding. No showers, but well maintained outhouses kept things somewhat civilized. I would highly, highly recommend staying there if you do want to camp/hike Baxter State Park, but the catch is that you have to make reservations in early January.

So, we arrived on Thursday, set up camp (which had the precision of a military operation thanks to A. having done the trip fro 7 years running. I was like, "ooooh that's clever!" every 30 seconds. He was like "haven't you camped before?" I was like, "mmm yes, but ah, you do it so very well." And then I batted my eyes. It never hurts to suck up to the man with the good equipment and a big, mmm, pack.

The next morning we dragged our butts out of bed at 5am so that we could get started at 6am. The hike we were planning is 10.5 miles long, and usually takes people 10-12 hours to complete. We had a couple of complete newbs in the group though, so we wanted to err on the safe side.  As you will see shortly, coming back in the dark would not be good possible without a headlamp, and even then very unsafe. You aren't allowed on the mountain without a headlamp/flashlight anyway.

So, onto the good stuff. As I said, the route we took is 10.5 miles. It can be broken into 4 sections:

1. The hike from the campground to Chimney Pond, a glacial pond at  the bottom of the basin that the Katadin range forms.  3.3 miles each way.
2. The hike from the pond to Pamona peak, which is east of the real peak, Baxter. The trail is called Dudley, or, in my words, "Yet another fucking boulder? Enough with the boulders." Only 1.2 miles, but it felt like it was 1.2 miles straight up.
3. The hike from Pamona, through the Chimney Notch, which requires a bit of real rock climbing and scared the shit out of people who are afraid of heights, to the Chimney Peak, and then on across the Knife's Edge to Baxter Peak. ~1 mile
4. The final section was on a "trail" called Saddle. I use trail in the loosest sense of the term. Whoever came to the top of this and was like, "that looks like a great place to descend!" was not thinking clearly. 0.5 mile scree, then 1.75 endless miles of bouldering. Saddle brings you back to the pond and then it's the last 3.3 back home.

This next part is going to be picture intensive, so I'll split it...

A Glimpse of the Madness

The site I mentioned before, SDN, is, as Adrian Monk would say, both a blessing and a curse. It's that hottie that gives you herpes, the baby with diarrhea, the hangover after a legendary night out. The med school application information there is unbelievably helpful, especially for someone who is somewhat removed from the process like I am. On the other hand, in order to sift through it you have to expose yourself to the craziness that is the pre-med state of mind. And just like the hottie, the baby, and the legendary night out, there is no way to get the full benefit of the information without getting at least a little bit of the disease, shit, or vomit on your (relatively) sane self.

As an academic slacker from way back I can't truly relate, even as I'm slowly infected. For those of you in the real world there is no way you can fully grasp exactly how neurotic these kids are. I thought I'd share my summary of what the forums look like, however, so that you, my (again, relatively) normal friends, can see what I'm surrounded by - and then pity me. Trust me when I say my exaggerations are fairly limited. The topics (repeated over and over and over and over and over with minor variations) can be broken down into three general categories.

A tip for all you aspiring medical school applicants out there.

When it comes time to choose where you will apply, there is only one factor you need to consider: forget about location, cost, strength of the program, hotness of the student body, and just go for the schools that give the earliest interviews and admissions decisions. Because otherwise? Otherwise you will find yourself like me, surrounded by people who are getting interviews and rejections, while your schools can neither shit nor get off the pot. Theoretically no decision is better than a rejection, but this? This is a special kind of torture.

I am bordering on an abusive relationship with my email - obsessed with it and afraid of it at the same time. In the morning I sort of glance at it sideways, to soften the potential blows; when there is nothing there I get pissed and go to all the schools' sites to check the status pages. I almost came home at lunch today because someone told me Vanderbilt will be sending invites by snail mail AND I couldn't access the Wake Forest status page from work. Mayo doesn't have a status page, and they tend to send out the rejection emails in the middle of the night - a friend and I were joking about staying up, and I suggested we set an alarm for three am instead. I MIGHT DO IT. I want to be knocked unconscious for the next two weeks, STAT.* I just want one - let's get it over with. Interview, rejection, WHATEVER, just acknowledge my existence, PLEASE.

*That's medicalese for "right away." As you can see, I'm practically a doctor already.

Write Your Own Rejection Letter

I realize I haven't posted in, oh, FOREVER. But I'm going to remedy that right now. By posting something someone else wrote. Because I'm LAZY.

Dear Dr. AdmissionsDean,

Thank you for your letter of 4/06/08. After careful consideration, I regret to inform you that I am unable to accept your denial of my application to your medical school.

This year I have received an extremely large number of such cease and desist requests. While I try to give every school an opportunity to reject me, I am unable to properly consider all the highly qualified schools that I applied to.

Despite your low average board scores, I am unable to accept your rejection at this time. I wish you the best of luck rejecting the other candidates in this application cycle.

Sincerely,
Maxprime
(insert photocopied signature)

On my own end of things I seem to be holding strong in the admissions cycle. I've made it through a couple of hoops at some top schools, which is neat. They like me! They really like me! Well, maybe not really like me. But then again we haven't even slept together interviewed yet; it's only a matter of time until I have some psycho admissions officer pounding on my door at 3am. Good times ahead, people, good times ahead.

Bring It On

After three years, a few thousand dollars, and countless hours of missed sleep, I have just two days before it is time to hit the submit button and see if any med schools are stupid enough to take me.* It's been so hard juggling this with work. At times I've wondered if I was making a mistake, but now...I am, as they say, all aquiver.

*Lest anyone feel the need to congratulate me on reaching some sort of milestone, this is only the beginning of a long and painful application process. Yes, a long and painful application process that follows the long and painful preparation process. And precedes the long and painful schooling process. Who has two thumbs and no common sense? THIS GIRL!

Muffy Sank to the Bottom of the Stairs

This picture does not do the damage I've done to myself any justice. The swelling was spectacular and you can't really see it from this angle. It was the sort of swelling that inspires actual gasps of horror from strangers on ferries and offers of transport from chivalrous men. I had other softballs lower on my leg and my other knee, so basically my whole lower body was one big, puffy, horror show. Rawr. BTW - I don't recommend googling 'elephantitis fetish'. I don't know why I do these things, but I do, so you don't have to.

I was going to write this whole super clever post about how this tragedy came to pass, but it turns out it can be summed up pretty quickly:

Nantucket causes the munchies. We ate every hour on the hour, with snacks to keep our energy up in between. If you eat a bagel, an egg and cheese sammich, a pb&j, fish tacos, cheese nips, kielbasa, and three beers before 6pm, your ass will erupt from your jeans when you squat to stretch them out, you will be forced to wear 3in fuck-me-heels to match your only other pair of going out jeans, and you will publicly mangle yourself as a result. In 3 days I got so fat that I BROKE MY PANTS. And then myself.

Luckily I was picked up and dusted off by a FINE radiologist*, going on to party for another 3 hours. It wasn't until I woke up the next morning that I had any idea it was so bad.

Speaking of waking up...I opened my eyes in the morning to see my roommate crawling into bed. I had earplugs in and hadn't heard anything, so I assumed she was just getting back from the bathroom, and went back to sleep. It turns out that she'd brought a guy home and screwed him about 10 feet from me ON THE FLOOR. It's the thought of the varnish chaffing that horrifies me. Then he curled up in the fetal position, and stayed the night, naked, under a throw blanket. She had just shown him out. Somebody needs a WWMD bracelet. I will never sleep without earplugs again. Never.

The funny thing is that I also have an eye mask, which I wasn't wearing, but that she apparently tried to put on me as I slept. Because, you know, then if I'd heard the squishy sounds of sex and woken up, I would have been all, "Oh, I can't see anything. I guess there isn't penetration going on within arm's reach. Phew."

So, anyway, I've picked out my outfit for the next Figawi:

 

* I was fricking catnip to the doctors - a radiologist, an otolaryngologist, an ER doc...do I smell like a nurse?

No Blowjob For Tad

My momma always said don't marry for money, but go where the rich boys are and fall in love. With that in mind, I'm packed and ready to go spend memorial day weekend at Figawi, half-heartedly fending off the advances of drunken sailors. My motto for the weekend is WWMD: What Would Muffy Do? I've got my party pearls on and will let you know the depths to which Muffy sank when I get back.

A Bit Much Before 9am

Groggy, barely processing, I'm standing in a long line at Starbucks behind a woman wearing a gold lamé sweater, stirrup pants, and ankle-high patent leather stilettos. She is waggling. Her butt. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back. And. Fucking. Forth. A few minutes later she starts moving her feet, and I realize she's practicing salsa. In line. At Starbucks. At 8:30am.

Dear Jeebus,

Like everyone else, I have a few requests:

1. Please strike me blind.
2. Please immediately immolate any individual who cannot resist the (oh so tempting) allure of wearing lamé before 9pm. I hear lamé is very flammable. Go Old Testament on their ass, you know you want to. With all the cyclones and earthquakes lately you must be missing the personal touch.
3. Get me my coffee ASAP.

Sincerely,
Your Thoroughly Creeped Out Friend.

Officially Done With This Behavior

6 Shots
1 Party Hat
2 Cover Charges
1 Great Band
1 Broken Plant
4 Random Bruises
6 Mardi Gras Necklaces
1 Case of Semi-Public Urination (not me)
1 Angry Note From Neighbor (re: urination)
1 Case of Public Snogging
1 Request to Get A Room
2 Piggy Back Rides
2 Oddly Placed Scratches
1 Spice Girls T-Shirt
3 Cigarettes
1 Disgusting Bathtub
+2 Days Hungover
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1 End of Term Celebration & 1 Permanently Partied Out Girl

Seriously.