I would like to dedicate this post to you, Dr. Arini

The past few years I've been very aware of two things: I am a writer, and I am a mess.

The second I'm completely confident about-- the first, 99.9% I'm confident about it.

Through the years I have filled dozens of diaries, wrote hundreds of poems, dedicated myself to several short stories, and studied writing as a craft for countless hours.

I've always known that Creative Nonfiction was my first love-- but I wasn't confident in my Creative Nonfiction writing. I had studied and practiced Fiction and Poetry through various classes at ASU, but unfortunately they offer a limited amount of Creative Nonfiction classes. To be specific, they offer two: ENG 217, Writing Reflective Essays (Essay about food, a place, a memoir) and a 400-level class titled "Creative Nonfiction" that requires prereqs I'm taking next semester. I took ENG217, and was so ecstatic for the class to begin. My teacher was a published author, a small, elderly, quiet Indian lady. She would have us read horribly boring examples, and then we would review the piece-- word by word, sentence by sentence. The class had under 20 students and we sat in silence while she slowly analyzed each piece. It was the most dreadfully boring class I had ever taken. The assignments didn't challenge me whatsoever, and I left the class doubting my love for Creative Nonfiction. I went back to Poetry and Fiction classes-- but felt like I was still missing out on something. And then I discovered the "CRW" classes offered at community colleges. I found your class and enrolled immediately. I couldn't be happier with that decision. The combination of this class and various assignments we've had, with a psychology course I also took this semester, "PGS394 Media Madness: Mentall Illness in Literature in Film" has refueled that fire burning in my belly. I've rediscovered and confirmed my passion-- writing about the dark sides of life-- mental illness, addiction, death, to enlighten readers of a world they most likely have misunderstood.

Your responses to my assignments and blog posts have been ever-encouraging, and they have pushed me to perform my best. And I discovered Evelyn, my gem. 

It seems as if the minute life settled down-- I'm finally stable and have a routine, a good job, a wonderful boyfriend, a roof over my head-- I was able to focus on what really matters. My writing. It's a scary thing to love. It's intimidating walking into bookstores and seeing the thousands of books around you, knowing there is so much talent out there and only a fraction of them make it. It's intimidating to expose the thing that is most personal to you--your writing--and to know that others could regard it as rubbish. 

I am now confident that I have a chance. If I follow my plans, obtain my degree in Creative Writing, get accepted into a graduate school to pursue Nonfiction, and stay on top of my illness, I will have a chance. I have all of the right elements, I just need to continue.

The only way to become an expert is to practice, and write I will.

Thank you for your encouragement.

The Medicated Life: Part II

The point of my previous post was that I am constantly and consistently medicated.

I'm on stimulants all day and downers during the night.

There is nothing natural about my routine, 

it's all induced.

Then again, we have to remember how wonderful I am doing. I have a healthy, loving, functioning relationship, a great job, I'm doing better in school than  I've ever done, my moods are stable, I've quit drinking... everything is calm.

I still have mood swings. Somedays I'm in a total fog, others I'm wired. But there is no depressive or manic behavior.

Sometimes I wonder if I really am even bipolar. You can never really know. I could just be extremely dramatic (which I am). 

I was first diagnosed when I was fifteen. He was an old Indian man with horrible english. He listened to my parents describe my mischievous behavior. He heard my story through dramatic sobs. He casually informed my parents that I was manic depressive, and likely ADHD. He gave my dad some samples of medication. They were tiny pink capsules and my father promptly decided that I was not bipolar and threw the meds away.

I saw a few more therapists and psychologists, I stuck with none.

When I was nineteen I decided to enroll in a local community college. My second semester there I took PSY 101, which was when I rediscovered bipolar disorder and read the symptoms through tears as I self-diagnosed myself. I went to my professor in tears and told her my discovery, she recommended I went and spoke with a psychologist at the school.

I went a few times, we came to no conclusion. 

Two years later I started seeing a psychologist at ASU. I had done countless hours of research on bipolar, and told her that I had concluded that was what was wrong with me. I used up my five sessions with her and she referred me to ASU's psychologist, who I am still seeing. But what if I was wrong? What if I am not even really bipolar and I'm taking all of these medications? Spending my entire paychecks on medications I may not need?

I've read that this is a common symptom with people who have bipolar disorder. They started taking their meds and get better and think they are cured and go off their meds and go crazy again. But sometimes, rarely, I'll forget to take my meds before I go to sleep. When I do this, I am instructed to skip that dose and wait until the next. I feel a sense of clarity on the mornings I wake up without seroquel in my system. I won't take my adderall, I will feel awake and alert all day long... 

I guess it's a question that will remained unanswered for now.

The Medicated Life

My morning begins with my alarm clock chiming at 8:15--

Although I never remember it going off.

I can't hear it and I instinctively silence it. 

I am in a trance--it is called Seroquel

Around 10 or 11 I come to consciousness.

Sometimes it's one of the many alarms I set,

Most times it's because my dog Kali is taking up the entire bottom portion of the bed.

Still in a trance, I stumble into the bathroom and start the water.

Sometimes a bath, sometimes a shower--it just depends.

I then go and search for a glass of water and my adderall prescription.

I break one of the small orange circles in half, pop it in my mouth, and swallow it with thick morning spit. Sometimes it'll leave a bittersweet aftertaste in my throat.

I zombie walk back to the bathroom, find a towel and lay it in front of the bathtub.

Sometimes, I'll have my dirty old pillow, coverless and endlessly stained, and I'll scrunch it up into a ball and fall fast asleep on the towel, listening to the sound of water.

Sometimes, I'll bunch together some dirty clothes and makeshift a pillow with that.

Sometimes, I'll cover myself with my robe or a clean towel.

Sometimes, I'll sleep for hours--or at least until Waleed wakes up.

Sometimes I'll sit in the steamy bathroom and smoke a cigarette.

I've had this habit for at least the past seven years.

Sometimes I'll actually bath or shower.

Sometimes I'll shut off the water and force myself to wake up, wash my face, brush my teeth, and start my day.

I know it's weird but itt's my most relaxed time. Listening to the rush of the water, 

lying on the cold, hard surface.

I usually don't even realize I'm doing it until I'm already there.

If I have work, I'm out of the shower by 11:15 and in front of my mirror putting on my make-up or blow drying my hair. These past few months have been the first time since fifth grade that I actually wake up and wash my hair and style it in the mornings.

I've found that I feel more confident when I go to work and school in a fashionable outfit with my make-up and hair done. I feel more professional.

Lately, for the first time in my life, I am finding myself to be shy.

When I speak up in class my voice is small and shakes as if I were shivering.

I can't find the right words. I can't remember the end of the quote, or the man's last name.

I stumble and shake some more and smile and slide away.

Maybe this is because I'm becoming more of a writer.

I can perfectly say my words through writing. I can perfect my voice and my structure and my content. I can leave it, and come back to it, and change it a million times.

I'm not put on the spot.

After a few hours of sitting in front of my computer, I go to drop off the mail. I always stop by the local coffee shop, iced black coffee to go. They make coffee ice cubes so your coffee doesn't get watered down. Any coffee drinker in Arizona can appreciate this.

It gets me wired. I start feeling more awake, more talkative. Time flies, and I always seem to leave early (and come in late), 4:30-ish I leave and walk through the back garden to the parking lot where Waleed is waiting for me.

The first thing we do when we get home is take Kali out of her crate. She lovingly greets us and then rolls on her back, and I scratch her belly.

Waleed sits at the table, "Lobitty, what time is it?"

I look up at him, "Joint time!"

Lite a cigg. Pop the other half of the addy.

Chainsmoke. Cigarettes and joints. Stare at your computer screen. Facebook. Gmail. MyASU. Canvas. Spanish. Stumbleupon. Pinterest. Facebook. Chainsmoke.

Finally, get some homework done.

"Baby, can I have a bar?" 

I'm already in the bedroom, popping open the purple bottle.

"Sure baby"

"Love you"

He smiles, "Love you more baby"

And then I write. I love writing on xanax.

Although, I am not on xanax right now and I am writing.

We grab pillows and cuddle up on the couch. We watch American Horror Story or CNN or Game of Thrones or some random movie. We eat, we smoke, we hold hands. 

I wash my face and brush my teeth and plug in my phone and kiss Waleed.

I take my seroquel. I drift off and then wake up and stumble to the kitchen.

I eat everything in sight. Sometimes I try to make something.

Sometimes I get so dizzy that I have to sit on the floor and close my eyes.

I eat more and stumble to bed. 

I put one pillow under my head and I squeeze another pillow between my legs and I fall into a heavy sedation, a trance, for the next twelve hours. Until I take another adderall and do it all over again.

(to be continued...)

Chivalry Isn't Dead, Our Belief In It Is

I read an article today that stated: "It's pretty obvious that chivalry is completely dead"

http://elitedaily.com/dating/sex/why-chivalry-is-dead-from-a-mans-perspective/

Someone had posted it on facebook, and it attracted a slew of comments--some agreed, others didn't, others argued it all came down to money and that women should "approach men first" and "pay for men" before we expect to be treated as an equal in the workplace...

Yet, none stated the obvious. Chivalry isn't dead... our belief in chivalry is dead.

Albert Einstein once said that "perceptions create reality" and they most certainly do. When we convince ourselves that it's okay for a man to invite us to a bar instead of dinner, that it's normal when he pays more attention to other women than to us, that we shouldn't expect him to open the door for us, or give us a hand when walking down steps, but instead we should expect 3 am text messages and infidelity...
Instead of demanding respect we have lowered our standards to the bare minimal.
And we're okay with it.

For the longest time, I would juggle men, trying to prove that women could do it too...
We could sleep around and not have feelings and be as casual as men could.
I would proudly say: "Don't mistake my affection for attachment" yet, I wasn't doing anything to be proud of. I idolized Samantha from Sex in the City, but the reality is that by acting disrespectful towards men, I was making it just that much more okay for men to act disrespectful towards women. That my perceptions--that chivalry was dead--had begun to create my reality. Not only did I fail to meet any men worth dating, but I wasn't worth dating either. The men that I had relations with would lie to me, and I'd lie to them, then they'd sleep with others girls, so I'd sleep with other guys. We never vocalized any of it though.. this was all just "casual."

And then I met Waleed.

To be chivalrous is to "show respect and politeness, especially towards women."

We started as friends-- he was casually hooking up with a friend of mine, and I was casually hooking up with a number of guys. Waleed would pick me up in the mornings, from whomevers house I had slept at, and we would go to lunch and gossip about the men in my life. He'd ask me a million questions about my life and would always insist on paying for my meal. He was genuine and caring towards everyone in his life, not just me. Once he discovered my love of cooking, he didn't take me on dates to nice restaurants, he took me to Walmart to buy groceries to cook us dinner. He found me during a time that I was deeply depressed--death was much more appealing than life, and he made life appealing again. I'd sleep all day, everyday, and he would always come to wake me up. He brought me Christmas dinner on paper plates and forced me to get out of bed and shower. When he discovered my love for wine, he bought a box of it and we sat on my bedroom floor, drinking, playing "never-have-I-ever", and learning each other's secrets. He kissed me that night. I felt confused--what about my friend that was sleeping with him? What about the guys that I was sleeping with? Was he worth losing all of those people in my life? I'd sit quiet for hours, guilt rolling through my mind constantly. 

He told me that he wanted to spend New Years with me. We went to a club with our friends--he didn't take his eyes off of me once. He held my hand, kissed me constantly. And then the countdown-- 5, 4, 3, 2, 1-- "Lauren, will you be my girlfriend?"

I didn't say anything. I kissed him, a million thoughts rushed through my mind, I looked at him and I said yes.

Because of my answer, I have now been in my longest and happiest relationship. I have a boyfriend who doesn't have eyes for anyone but me, and who will hold my hand no matter where we are. He opens doors, tells me he loves me a dozen times a day, and always puts my needs before his. Whenever he goes to Circle K he gets me chocolate pretzels because they are my favorite, and he'll stay in on a Friday night with me to do homework. He still insists on paying for most of my meals, but it's okay because more often I'm cooking his. Don't get me wrong, we have had our fair share of problems-- we've called each other plenty of names, gotten into more than a million fights, and some have gotten pretty nasty--but we have learned from them too. I respect the fact that he hates when I get blackout drunk, so I don't anymore. He respects the fact that I hate certain drugs, and doesn't do them. We've learned what bothers each other and what makes each other happy-- and we have a constant effort to make each other happy. My relationship isn't my relationship, it's ours, it's not about me, it's about us. And it's because Waleed taught me to never expect anything less than the best of treatment from men. He showed me that men can be gentle, caring, and loving. He showed me that chivalry is still very much alive, but you must believe in it, expect it, and be chivalrous in your ways as well to receive it.

And in ten years it'll also be my responsibility to teach chivalry to my son if I have one, as well as to teach my daughter to never accept anything less than a chivalrous man, and in turn, she'll never receive anything less than the respect she deserves.

Chivalry is as alive as it ever was, you just have to believe in it.

I've begun to really look forward to my blog post once a week.

I think it's because I've been a journal keeper for nearly my entire life--until college.

College bombarded me with so much reading and writing, that I rarely am able to do it for personal reasons now. But don't get me wrong-- I love the literature I read and the things I learn about writing, and watching my writing progress-- I absolutely love school (minus Spanish) -- I am just saying that I rarely have the time to sit down and read or write for personal pleasure. 

Also, because I stopped going to my "counselor-in-training" therapist. I don't know why, but I always do this! I even told him that I always do this -- make it past a couple of appointments with therapists. My relationship with my psychiatrist is the longest I've had with a doctor since my pediatrician. And I'm very proud of myself too! 

I didn't stop going to him for any particular reason. He was young, African American, had a great personality, when I told him I was a stoner he didn't judge me, and I liked him. I felt like he was a bit young, unexperienced, but then again of course that's all true, and I was aware of it when I entered the program. Truthfully, I didn't have the $20 to pay for my appointment. He kept calling and calling and leaving voicemails and I kept ignoring and ignoring. I don't know why. Bill collectors call me a billion times a day, so I am used to ignoring every unknown number. But, something scares me about telling someone everything. No one knows everything. Except me, my memories, and my shit ton of journals.

More than anything, I want to tell someone everything. But I want to make them understand why I did it all first-- and I feel like I've begun to understand. I'm obsessed with learning about psychology--especially rated to mental illness. I've begun to understand....

And I don't know if I'm ready to share it with anyone else. 

Sex. Money. Death. Drugs. More drugs. Alcohol. Pot. More drugs. Sex. Sex. Sex. Parties. Manic.

Mixed in with a million people, a million complex relationships.

Don't worry, I've never hurt anyone. But death was all around me-- my mom, 25+ friends over the past eight years. Heroine. Russian roulette. Suicide. Murdered by his cellmate. Shot. 

So much fucking shit has happened. And I've grown so far away from it... 

Do I want to peel open that scab?

I'd rather just study it, understand it, heal it... on my own. Through my writing.

Or maybe I should see a therapist. Who knows, but I'm bound to find out sooner or later. 

I learned a couple of new, yet suspected, traits about myself this weekend.

After months of (almost always) blissfulness with my boyfriend,

of him doing absolutely everything he could for me,

of him never saying no, of him putting me

in the absolute center of his

world-- I betrayed 

him.

I think.

I haven't seen my friends in weeks, I've been so busy with school and work and homelife, that I haven't wanted to go out. I've kept in touch over text, but vaguely. I am happy with my writing and my boyfriend and my coworkers and my dog. I realized while I was in New York, that besides the champagne at my cousin's wedding, I hadn't drank in three weeks. Up until yesterday, I hadn't been drunk for almost five weeks. That is by far the longest I have ever gone without getting drunk since before my fifteenth birthday. I love alcohol. And I hate alcohol. I've had this vicious, toxic relationship with alcohol for so many years it has become the norm for me. It's ruined so much for me. I've made so many mistakes, burned so many bridges. I've had probably between 15-20 jobs in my life, I can't use any of them (except for my current one) for a recommendation. And 99.9% of the reasons are alcohol related. I received a DUI when I was 17. It was the day after I had received an MIC. And seven more of those before I turned 18. I still don't have my license, because when I had an interlock I failed it too often.  June 2008: As of recently, I had begun to earn back my father's trust. I had a smart boyfriend who was a good influence, I had worked as a hostess at hooters for almost a year, I had started going to the gym, and limited my partying to only on the weekends (every weekend...) I remember that my boyfriend at the time, Matt, once said "you're the perfect girlfriend Mon-Thurs, it's just when the weekends come you change." He was right. I remember the first time I cheated on him, I was at his next door neighbor's house, Claire, and I was with this asshole that I've known since I was a kid, Brent. I vaguely remember it happening, but before intercourse happened my conscious caught up with me, and I pushed him away. I felt so guilty. He was just next door, loving me for all I was. I was blacked out, and I never even told him the truth. He suspected it for years, and we would grow close again in college, frequently the library together. He even took care of me when I was sick, and provided me with junk food and killer weed and movies we both loved. He knew not to lay a hand on me when I slept by his side that night. He wanted to though, he never got over me. I was the bitch who used up and threw away innocent Matt McQueary. I was the one who made him by a new car, embarrassed by his Saturn, before I would date him. I got drunk and met Mitch, a tattooed party-er and told him how Matt was so mean to me and bought me diet pills. I had asked him to buy the diet pills for my birthday present. He had teased my about my weight, but it was harmless, he was infatuated with me. I met Mitch and we drank every night and I blacked out every night and my dad had no idea. hI received my MIC the night my dad was leaving for a trip. It was the first time he had ever trusted me when the house, and the car, while he was away. It was the first time he didn't lock the extra bolts, placed there to keep me from sneaking out at night. He told me, that night I received my MIC, "Lauren, don't fuck this up. I'm giving you a chance."  And then I bought lingerie and drove to Mitch's with a girl who is now a pornstar, and we got fabulously drunk just like every other night. And then the cops came. I freaked out, I went to my car. I sat there for a while, nervous and drunk and chainsmoking. And then I decided to get a fucking ice cream from jack in the box and drove without my lights and got pulled over immediately and refused to blow so then they took blood and I pretended I was phobic of needles and I cried and cried. My BAC was 1.64, double the legal limit. I wasn't my first time in jail. My dad was called and turned around while on his way to California and I never drove that car again.

All of the incompletes I've received in school, all of the ruined friendships, ruined relationships, lost jobs, my $1000 warrant because of an MIC two years ago, the lost shoes and clothes, my virginity, my dignity, my very little money, I can't imagine how many brain cells...

Gone all because of alcohol.

And then I was going to talk about my second newly learned trait: my preoccupation with death. But then I realized, that it too is a result of alcohol. Nothing seems more lovely than death after a night of drinking and hurting people you love, your stomach heavy with guilt and your eyes heavy with tears. Death seems blissful. And it's this attitude toward death, this attitude I've had for years, that I am simply not afraid of death, that has been reinforcing my habits with alcohol. I'll sit on a plane, and imagine it burning up in flames, and I'll think--"I'm not scared. How easy death seems-- all of my problems will go away." And then  I'll order a bloody-mary and chug. 

My grandma and papa were alcoholics, and so were three of five of my mother's siblings. One is dead from it--literally drank himself to death, his body was found days after he actually died, I remember the phone call-- my mother and I were at Micheal's and all the sudden she stopped and left the cart and walked to the car and she cried. The other is nearly dead from it --60+ and never lived on his own, missing a foot with skin cancer and over 10 DUIs-- my cousins and I would blow in his interlock for him as children, hehas lived in my papa's trailer for 25+ years, and the other drinks every Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday, the days he isn't working at the local shop. He'll buy his beer and sit in his double wide and listen to The Beatles and Elton John and talk about how Elton's the only faggot he'll ever love and he grab my face and tell me I look like my mother and that I'm so beautiful and I'll feel uncomfortable. 

It my genes. Just like this wonderful illness that my mother's crazy southern family gave me, I am bipolar comorbid with alcoholism. It's all because of alcohol. I can't call it self medicating anymore because I am medicated. I hate it and don't want it and I'm going to do everything I can to get rid of it. The worst part is-- I can't even remember what I actually did. I have one glimpse retained in my memory, looking at Lacey's face. I don't remember anything else and we fought about it, about alcohol, and he never even doubted me. He trusted me. He was only mad about the alcohol, about me not sleeping at home. And it keeps replaying in my mind over and over again and it's not telling me anything and it's driving me crazy. But I can't tell him my suspicions, he'll never forgive me. I guess I will I never know and he will never know and I hope that ignorance is somehow bliss.

And I'm going to stop fucking drinking. 

We write to taste life twice.

This past week, Piper held one of it's largest events this year. As part of our Distinguished Visiting Writer's Series, Amy Tan visited the house on October 17th. We had been preparing for this since I was hired in May. Before I left for New York, on October 8th, I had to gather all of the different materials that we were going to need for the event. The day I returned back to work, October 16th, it was chaos. I had dozens upon dozens of emails, from the general email, from my work account, from my personal/work/school account. I had a handful of new Piper Friends, that needed to be added to the database and sent a care package. I had RSVP's and questions about the event. I had upset Piper Friends, who wanted to bring their husbands but didn't want to pay for a Piper Friend membership for them. I had new Your Novel Year Applicants, workshop registrees, and cancelations. 

I was instructed not to answer any of them. Unless it was absolutely urgent, I was to focus on nothing but Amy Tan. 

In her contract, she makes it clear that she brings her dog Bobo with her everywhere. In the car, on stage, on the airplane in first class. It also says that portobello mushrooms are not allowed to be served, or in sight, while she is visiting. I had picked up Joy Luck Club a few months ago, intrigued but with a bad taste in my mouth (I don't know why though...), and read the first couple of chapters before throwing it aside. With how much I have to read for school, it is very rare that I actually find time to read for pleasure -- although much of my reading for school is pleasurable. Amy Tan didn't make the cut.

I was intimidated to say the least. My co-worker Mollie was interviewing her, and as they finished up I introduced myself. Her hands were fragile, and she only briefly looked up at me. I then had to escort her to an MFA workshop she was hosting, a Q&A, and I was instructed to ask questions whenever there was an awkward moment of silence. As I walked with her, and our event coordinator Gwen, to our neighboring building, Old Main, neither of them made eye contact with me once and continued their conversation without inviting me.

Okay, well this is awkward.

And then finally, as we are on the last steps of the grandiose, late 1800's staircase, she makes eye contact. It's like the popular girls told me I can sit with them. She is speaking of her editor, calling her "miraculous" and referring to her own work as horrendous. She says that she needs her editor, that otherwise she feels naked.

I know exactly how she feels.

I feel so naked when I write. I feel like it's another part of me--one that few people know. Even my dad always comments, "you write so well. It is nothing how you talk." I talk too fast, and usually before I have the chance to think about what I am saying. Many have said that I have "no filter." I come across ditsy and bubbly and not quite sure what she's talking about. I hide things, I lie. I exaggerate and make up facts.

When I write, I know what I am talking about. I'll edit and re-edit, add in and then take out words, obsess over how each word rolls off your tongue, and rearrange my sentences no short of a million times. Everything I say, I mean with the uttermost of meaning. I can perfect the truth and make it worthy and reliable. I can submerse myself in the facts of a story or person or time or place until I have seen it from all angles, and am confident in my interpretation of the event. It is a me as me gets.

And that's why I get nervous. I think it is too me, that I am narcissistic, that I think I'm better than I really am. I think back to earlier pieces I wrote, how I thought they were so perfect at the time, and how childish they would grow to be. I think, Of course my dad gives me all of those compliments-- he doesn't know anything about the literary world. He will say: "Lauren, your talent is so special. You are going places." And it will be the nicest thing he's ever said, and I will be unsure of how much truth it holds. 

I've wanted to show the writer me for quite sometime now. I'm bursting at the seams, and she's intent on coming out. I'll leak a few poems on a food blog, I'll submit a story to a writing contest, letting bits of her drip out onto the me that everyone sees, tweaking the image that everyone knows so well. I'll post on facebook and ask for editors for a story, and I'll always get good replies. I'm known well, simply as Lauren Rice. I have too many friends than I know what to do with, and quite the list of enemies too. I am known as beautiful, as a drunk, as nice, as funny, sometimes as a slut, sometimes as a prude, as the girl who can write A papers for $20 a page, as a smoker, as a student, as an old friend. I am known for a million and one reasons, yet very few know me as a writer. And I tell myself that it will come with time-- that I'll get into my capstone classes with ease, and find a good graduate program. I tell myself that with all the studying that I do, and plan to continue doing, on writing, will have a benefit. I will be a good writer, I'll have to be. 

But it could all get fucked up so easily too. What if I don't get into my capstone? Just switch my major? Switch my dream? And I'm afraid that if I label myself as a writer, and then my plans don't follow through, that I'll be labeled as a failed writer. Simply, I'm afraid to expose this side of me in fear of rejection, just like most writers. And I want that editor, to blanket my words and soften the edges, to make it good and tell me it's beautiful and it's going to be published.

But in this era, social media is everything. All I would really have to do is give my stories some exposure and I would be sure to find lovers and haters. I have those who love me, and those who hate me. I assume it would go the same for my stories. But it means that I don't have that in-between person, and that I'm posting them naked to the real mean world. And I'm scared they won't be as good as I think they are.

And then I sat with Amy Tan through the Q&A workshop. I took notes and below are some of them:

• Who cares what people think--"I have to write what I need to write"
• The images in the story can be the most powerful pieces
• Images begin in childhood-- -nightmares, hallucinations
• You see things different as a child
• The world is mine, and everything in this world is a creation of my mind. Once I die, the entire world in my head dies too. That's why I have to write.
• An author is public, a writer is private
• "Pain is not a feeling, it's a place, a very lonely place"

She got to me. She tugged at the strings of my heart, and made me feel something inside. Everything she said confirmed my dreams are plausible. She spoke my thoughts, and made me feel that special thing that you can only feel when admiring other writers. It like how they say to "read like a writer." I had been doing that my entire life-- making notes of passages, scrambling to find a highlighter to highlight a piece of dialogue. I've been acting like a writer for nearly my entire life too. I had kept a journal until my late teens, which are all neatly tucked into my bookshelf. I have at least a hundred unnamed, random documents that I typed through ferocious tears or in the middle of the night while manic. I have notebooks upon notebooks with scrambled messages on most of the pages. I write on everything I can find. And I understood everything she said about writing, I kept nodding my head and trying to keep myself from asking (or commenting) a million things.

I guess you could say my fire was running on low fuel, and she just ignited the fire a bit more. And this was before, her hilarious, heartfelt, and interesting talk at The Tempe Center for the Arts. Which made me one of her biggest fans from this day forward.

Thank you Amy Tan. I'll definitely be picking up a copy of The Valley of Amazement this November.

Below is the quote I told her after the Q&A.

This past week I have been in New York with my father and brother, visiting my father's brother's family. His name is Uncle Alan, he is married to Barbara, and he has two daughters, Mandie and Steph. Mandie is getting married tomorrow, and we came for the wedding. 

The last time I visited this side of my family was when I was fifteen. I had a few very troubled years from the time I was fifteen until, well to be honest, this past year.

My mom was dying, my dad was a jerk, and I was a rebelling teen. My dad had sent me to New York the December before my mother died, when I was fifteen. He had sent me there for three weeks as a form of punishment. My family in New York are orthodox Jews and they live in a kosher home. It was a miserable time, and all I wanted was to be back home with my friends and my mom.

In the time since I had last visited, I have kept in contact with my family, but only vaguely over facebook. They are all teachers and therapists. My dad does not believe that I am actually bipolar. He disagrees with the fact that I take medicine to manage it, and nearly every time I mention my meds he says something along the lines of "I'd really like to have a discussion with your doctor", in a negative and doubtful tone. He has also hidden my diagnosis from my family. 

When I spoke of my bipolar today in the car, and explained to them the horrible depression I went through, the mood swings, the fights with family and friends, and the lack of a bright future, it clearly adds up to a correct diagnosis. 

I am still in shock that I got through it all. I really, truly believed that I was never going to be able to live a normal life. Nearly everyday I would write down in my journal that I felt like I was losing my mind. That I knew I was never going to stop having all of these problems. Mainly, that I wanted to die. I didn't want to kill myself, but I wanted to die. I would take the bus to school, praying and hoping for a car accident. I just wanted something to happen so that I wouldn't feel that way anymore.

Ten months later, something happened. I got on medication, I regularly saw my doctor, I got a job that I love, a boyfriend that I love (and that loves me), and I couldn't be happier with my life now. It seems so clear--- I am better, and I was sick.

Ironically, my dad thinks that my bipolar diagnosis is "all in my head", which, it is. But it's not something I gave myself... it's just there. 

Saying my story out loud to my family just confirms how well I am doing... and I'm so happy.

And they are happy for me too.

I have such a bright future, and it's because of the meds and the doctors and my boyfriend (who my dad also hates, once when Waleed left for Texas my dad asked me if I was sure he wasn't a terrorist-- like really Dad?)

and it's working!

Oh, and on an even brighter note-- I just found out that my work is sending me to AWP in Seattle, in February, to represent Piper!

Obamacare

I would like to dedicate this post to our current situation, the government shutdown.

This is for two reasons:

1) I really haven't had any problems with my bipolar lately. I haven't had any symptoms, and I truly believe it is because I am on the right medicine for me. I started seeing a psychologist-in-training. It's this great program through ASU, and I get to see a student earning their graduate or doctorate in psychology, once a week for an hour, for $20 a semester. The session is recorded on a camera in the room and they are graded by our sessions at the end of the semester. When I had my first appointment this past Monday, he asked me why I had signed up for counseling. I told him I was bipolar, that I had done a lot of research and know psychiatry plus talk therapy usually leads to the best results. I told him that I had felt good lately though, and that there were no pressing issues. He applauded me for coming in, and I told him I was sure issues would arise. I can't believe things are so... normal :)

2) The whole reason that I have been restrained to using only mental health resources through ASU, is because my father's insurance doesn't cover mental health, and over the past year I've found a lot of loopholes enabling me to find the least expensive services. I didn't have health care for a while after I had turned 18. My dad had taken me off his and it was at a time I had really needed it. I was in an abusive, toxic relationship. I wound up pregnant, 18, broke, and being evicted from my apartment. I applied for access, Arizona's health insurance. They didn't cover abortion. I had done ecstasy twice before I had found out I was pregnant. The day I had taken the test, my friend Kasey drove me to his house. He started screaming and told her to leave. I can't remember exactly what happened after, just one of the typical physical fights we'd always have. He wouldn't let me abort it, he wanted me to have it. I frantically looked for another option... I found funding through a few different companies. I was eligible for the funding, I made the appointment. I didn't tell my dad, but instead my best friend's mom. She begged me to let her drive me, she begged me to stay away from him. For whatever reason, I agreed to let him drive me. Of course we got in a huge fight, and he dropped me off and left me there alone. I went through the appointment and had to convince the nurses through snot and tears that I wanted to do this, that someone wasn't forcing me. I was given the pills (I was still only a few weeks pregnant so I was able to just take the pills) and my best friend sat by my side as I sobbed through the bloodcurdling pains, for six hours, until the cramps finally stopped.

The nurse told me that the fetus was about the size of a grain of rice. This may be bold (or horrible) of me to say, but having my abortion was one of the best decisions I've ever made. Who knows what could have happened to that child-- I was an alcoholic, druggie, self-medicating untreated bipolar teenager. Once I had the abortion, I realized that I needed to get away from my asshole boyfriend. I enrolled in a local community college, changed up my group of friends, and look where I am today. Four years later and worlds apart from that girl I once was. I have a future now, a bright one. I had a best friend who found out she was pregnant at the same time, Hannah. She hasn't had custody of her daughter for over a year, is currently addicted to crystal meth, and is homeless. I know that's a bold comparison too, but we were going down the same path for a very long time, and I'm so glad I strayed from that path.

Personally, I think that this entire government shutdown is absolutely fucking ridiculous. I don't want to get too political (this is a very controversial post...) so I'll let Jon Steward and Jimmy Kimmel say it for me....

http://democracyforamerica.com/blog/765-jon-stewart-says-exactly-what-we-are-all-thinking

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0mo-VlRAKns

Maybe part of the reason I feel so passionate about this is because I am a young, mentally ill, previously-uninsured, currently-underinsured, hardworking, poor, student. Maybe it's because I grew up in a family that still very much believes in racism, as well as currently believes that Obama is a Muslim, trying to destroy America with Obamacare. I don't think any of them even know exactly what Obamacare is.

Obamacare is something that will help insure that all of our futures are bright. It gives us options, it gives us the ability to be our healthiest selves, and it gives people like me, that are uninsured, options. My mental health is just as important as my physical health, if not more important. As are the decisions I make as a woman. Although I was able to find help through both situations (my mental health and abortion) I am sure that a lot of people out there aren't as lucky. There are so many mentally ill people that can't afford the ridiculously priced services of psychiatrists and psychologists. There are so many mentally ill people, self medicating with street drugs, and having children throughout it all as well. Homelessness and prison tie in so often with mental illness that it's absurd something hasn't been done yet. Not to mention the countless other medical conditions that require insurance.

All I am saying is that if people were to actually learn about Obamacare maybe they would have a different opinion. Maybe if they were to think of someone they loved... that was sick in some way and couldn't afford (or receive because of a pre-existing condition) insurance. And maybe if they were to learn something about our government, they would understand that The Affordable Care Act is THE LAW. And that a SMALL portion of the house, the tea party conservatives, are literally holding our government hostage because they aren't getting their way. And in the end, is it really because they think it's bad for our country? Or is it because they've been holding out for so long on this issue, and even though nearly every news network has called this "suicidal", and the ratings back it up, they are too fucking stubborn to let down now. They'd embarrass themselves, they can't back down. 

Maybe I'm just venting because I come from a group of conservative, uneducated, raciest, obama-hating people.

Maybe the illuminati will take over in the end and none of this will matter.

But in the meantime, let the people have options. 

Speak

This past week I had an assignment due for my english humanities class. I was to read a young adult novel that had been banned or censored. I decided to read Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson, she is my boss's favorite author.

I knew I had picked the right book when I finished reading the back cover, because goosebumps covered my entire body. I finished it in 2 1/2 days. She wrote in such an honest and authentic way; I couldn't help by highlight passage after passage--I do this incase I ever need some inspiration while writing. In a way, reading this book once again confirmed my hopefully bright future. I too hope to write young adult in such a way that it has an impact over the young adult community. I want to provide a voice for readers who can't find theirs, similarly as Anderson has done. Although, I hope to help young girls that find themselves in a trouble, to those who have lost a parent, and those struggling with a mental illness. Of course, I don't aim to only provide literature for one genre of people. I hope to help young girls all over and with all sorts of problems, Anderson successfully does this. She makes girls feel like everything is going to be okay, whether they were a rape victim or not.

She has this line in the novel that I especially connected with. Melinda (the main character) is arguing in her head with herself. Melinda #1 wants to go to her lab partner's house, she likes him and he invited her over after a game. Melinda #2 hates being anywhere but home, never wants to go to a party again, and fears being alone with a boy. Melinda then asks herself:

"If I kick them both out of my head, who will be left?"

Wow, talk about perfect right? Especially pertaining to my last blog post, "Disappearing on Seoquel" and good news about that as well! My doctor finally listened to me. We decided that I am going to stay on the seroquel, but she also gave me a prescription to adderall.  AND IT'S WORKING! I am not manic, I am not depressed. I go to sleep at night, wake up for work everyday, do my homework everyday, and the house has even been clean! 

So to answer my previous question, "who will be left?"

Well, very similarly to when I first began Seroquel, my doctor's words were: "The first five days you won't be able to get out of bed, but within a week, you will feel normal."

My reply through tears, "What does normal feel like?"

She laughed and said that hopefully I will find out soon.

I think this might be it. Not fighting with my boyfriend, going out to his birthday dinner tonight, interested in school again, I love my job....

I think that once I kicked them both out of my head, "I" began to come back. The "me" that I've been missing... the one I thought I had lost. It's a good feeling, and I'm glad Melina finally found it too.

"Disappearing on Seroquel"

I stole the title... 

From an article I read that I really related too. I found this article this past week. This past week I have not gone into work once because I can't get out of bed in the morning. I even made an emergency appointment with my psychiatrist but overslept and missed the appointment. I've spent the entire week obsessively researching bipolar on the internet.

I realize that I need to be on meds. But I haven't had any luck yet finding "my cocktail." Well at least I hope I haven't yet-- I hope that exists. After a horrid depressive episode last winter, I decided to start going to a pdoc. She put me on lamictal and a few weeks later I swallowed the entire contents of the bottle during a drunken rage and ended up in the hospital. I stayed away from the pdoc and bipolar meds for a few months, and was fine, until a mixed episode hit me this summer. My episodes always tend to come during the same time of the year. She put me on 500mg Seroquel and now I have lost all my motivation. I can't get out of bed, I can't stop crying. She put me on Wellbutin 75mg for energy too, but I feel none of it.

I know I'm probably crazy for saying this--but honestly all I want is adderall. I know it works for me. I've been taking it for years and it really helps with things. She's afraid it'll make me manic, but when I take adderall I go to the library and do homework, or I clean the house-- I don't go binge drink and spend all my money.  I've been trying for nine months now and she just refuses. And also she's the only psychiatrist at my school, and because my insurance is through the university, I can only go to her.

I don't have the feeling that "I'm losing my mind" anymore... but I can't get out of bed either. It's like I have absolutely 0% motivation for anything... even my job that I love more than anything, or my favorite classes. I love that it puts me to sleep at night but hate that I can't wake up in the mornings. I've been obsessively reading hundreds forums for days now about bipolar and seroquel and I keep finding the same...

"I was calm, but inwardly dead. The capacity for compassion, love, enthusiasm, or real joy diminished to the point of nothingness. Yet I wasn’t depressed anymore. I had become a zombie." 

http://www.bipolarbarebook.com/disappearing-on-seroquel/

Part of me wants to just go back to self-medicating with adderall and xanax. I get my shit done during the day, I get good grades, I always go to work, I'm fit (seroquel has added a solid 15 pounds that WON'T budge. I've been working out, dieting, juicing, diet pills--the scale hasn't budged) and then I take a xanax when I get home, make dinner, go to bed, and repeat.

I can't keep doing this. My head hurts, my body feels old and sore. All I want to do is sleep. What's the point of taking these meds if they reduce your desire to live? Breathing isn't being--there's much more to living. I feel like seroquel takes these things away from me. It leaves me like a shell of my former self-- I sort of look the same plus 15 pounds but I'm a completely different person. 

I've fucked up my life so much already (collections call 10 times a day, I've ruined my credit, have a felony warrant worth over $1000, no driver license, no money) I can't afford to NOT be productive. Honestly, I'd rather just die than keep sleeping my life away. I just don't know what to do anymore. 

The Scary Side Of Art

I recently read an article that stated the following:

"We are right smack-dab in the new golden age of young adult literature." -Michael Cart, Booklist magazine critic and a leading authority on young adult literature. He went on, "And publishers are courting young adults in ways we haven't seen since the 1940s."

Well just look at that, one of the best things a young adult writer could hear, right?

You can read the full article here:
 http://www.seattlepi.com/ae/books/article/Teens-buying-books-at-fastest-rate-in-decades-1230449.php

Sometimes I feel so blessed and confident to have found writing. So many of my friends changed their majors so many times, or still aren't even passionate about their majors. I honestly have to say that at least three quarters of everyone I know in college doesn't really give two shits about their majors and just want to be able to land a job.

I honestly feel as if I'd go insane without writing. I have to do it. I've always had to do it. I've been writing poetry since I was eight years old and have kept a diary for the last fifteen years. And I still own them all too-- they sit proudly on my bookshelf. I feel like my bipolar disorder has a lot to do with my need to write as well. The more I learn about the two-- writing and bipolar disorder, I see their paths cross far too often. It's almost as if I was meant to be writer, and during the golden age of young adult literature? Could it be more perfect? All of the writers I've studied have had many things in common, they had talent and good timing. The wrote for the nation and they wrote about exactly what the nation wanted and needed to read. And right now our nation wants young adult literature more than ever. I honestly really think I have a chance of making it. My father even  believes in me. He still can't believe I write so well. My father has never had faith in me.. my entire life, and writing restored that faith.

But then again, I also have to realize that writing is an art. It's much like painters and sculptors and actors and musicians-- very few actually make it. Sometimes I just wish there was a way to know if I am good enough. I keep telling myself, just get your degree in creative writing, make sure you get into grad school, get your masters, and you'll have to be good enough. There's no way I couldn't be after so much schooling! But then again... I guess I'll never know until the day comes. It's scary and risky but maybe that's part of the reason it's so beautiful. Things like writing and art don't achieve meaning in any sort of easy way.

I'll just have to cross my fingers and hope for the best! 

I wrote this over a year ago--it's amazing to see how far I've come. 

June 14, 2012

To be too spontaneous is not a good thing at all, but more of a curse. Especially mine—after all the title of this book is Slow Down, isn’t it? I have more than one curse bestowed upon me though. My family always told me I was “13 going on 30”—all I wanted to do was grow up faster. Now I’m all grown up and I hate it. I can’t act my age. I can’t be responsible. I’ve broken three leases since I’ve been 18 now. I’ve been absolutely penniless accept for the loans I’ve taken out for school. I have no license, no money, nothing. As usual. I mean yes, on the bright side I’m on the Dean’s List, but that’s only because I’ve picked up an Adderall addiction. I’m 21 now and still haven’t bought myself a single drink, not even a beer! Because I haven’t had any money. I seduce people into doing things for me, and I always get my way. I’ve completely fucked over my aunt by having her cosign for me, and then not paying rent. I seduced her into doing what I wanted. I fucked over my father by convincing him into giving me thousands of dollars for rent, school, food, living expenses. I’ve borrowed money from Matt Farmer (who harassed me to pay him back for months), Jack Swagger (whatever his real name is), and Steven. Mariza, Steven, and Jaime (my closet friends) pay for nearly everything I do. This is exactly what I do to my mom my whole life and what I vowed I wouldn’t do to anyone anymore, and here I am! It’s my fucking lifestyle! And now I’m trying to run away to Georgia, telling myself I’ll change (but secretly hoping some dreamy billionaire sweeps me off my feet and solves all my problem for me), but at the same time I’m so scared to leave ASU. I know everyone! Everywhere I go I see everyone I know! All of my friends always gasp “Gosh Lauren who don’t you know?!” as we make our way through a crowded bar and I get tugged and hugged and yanked everywhere, and I just wait for the words –“Would you like some shots?” and I smile knowingly to whoever I’m with, thinking to myself ‘Hmm I may have no money to pay you back for everything you’ve done for me, but I can introduce you to some cute guys who will buy us whatever we want all night.’ And ASU is such a big school, that I can use up and throw away as many people as I want, I’ll always find more. I don’t want to do this anymore. I want to wake up in the morning, be able to buy myself a cup of coffee. I want to cook again, write again, watch good movies again. The only reason I’m even writing right now is because I ran away to my dads, I’m bored out of my mind, and I have SO much on my mind. I want to start a savings account, I want to exercise, be successful, land an internship, be a writer! But I don’t want to be bored. I don’t want to be like Sara going to bed at 10 on a Friday and eating my sorrows away. I still want to have fun. Can’t I have both? Isn’t there a way? I’m in debt $1000 to my current complex, I fall in love with a new boy every weekend, I’m a total fucking disaster. But then again, whats new? It’s probably not best to run away to Georgia, seems like running away never does much more me anyways, I just dig a new hole, just as deep, in a different location. I just need to get my fucking shit together. People love me, I can do this. I just have to learn to love and rely on myself.

9/6/2013

I never went to Georgia--I got too drunk the night before and missed my flight. And instead I found help for my bipolar and the two loves of my life. I've learned I can rely on myself more than anyone, and truly believe I've become a good person.