Category Archives: Intro post

Recovery begins with the letter ‘I’ [tw: disordered eating]

My life, up to this point, was something I regarded as a string of accomplishments and mess-ups in no determined order of priority or relevant impact to my own existence. My unique forays into excellence and my individual tragedies have often been co-opted (rather than empathized) into my peers’ graduation speeches, or my colleagues’ credentials, or even my supposed loved ones’ dating profiles.

I’ve lived with the knowledge that my exes and ex-associates have been using my byronic fanaticism and  my academic achievements as *their* selling points in half-baked pick-ups.

Years before that, I learned what while my parents’ love was unconditional, there were some obvious lapses in the honest continuum of maintaining that truth. The unconditional love was considerably more loving  when my excellence was above average.

But then along the way, I’ve had smatterings of friends who haven’t gone the way of the dodo who have certainly not been hollow in their praise of my excellent qualities. However: 1. most of these friends have only been acquired during or after the foundations of critical self-loathing have been laid, 2. most of this praise is perceived as acting in defiance of my put-upon circumstances, rather than the actual result of them.

The way of the dodo: on a ship, sailing to exceed in the New World while I'm left shriveled and alone on an island surrounded by an ocean of my own tears

The way of the dodo: on a ship, sailing to exceed in the New World while I’m left shriveled and alone on an island surrounded by an ocean of my own tears.

Someone in my life recently praised me, telling me that I’m the most humble person they know, “even though [you] try not to act like it.” That was mortifying. Compliments to my supposed humility in this nature terrify me. They blatantly smash the life lessons from the Kanye School of Self Esteem that I try to implement in my day-to-day presentation—the ones that I put into practice to specifically scare people away from the horrible truths that 1. I’m not actually a god, and 2. I identify with this sequence more than anything else in the history of cinema.

Obviously this isn’t so simply said that “I have zero self worth and that’s why I can justify abusing/neglecting/actively sabotaging myself.” The problem is that I have worth, but that I don’t deserve it and it doesn’t belong to me, because while I’m some kind of Post-Modern Prometheus, it’s infinitely preferred that I’m a decidedly Bound Promethean.

If you are inclined to continue after the cut, please be conscious to the frank discussions of self-harm-inflicting behaviors that will follow and do not subject yourself if you can be potentially triggered by the implications! Safety first! [to bypass all of the ED-talk, please hit ‘ctrl (or cmd)+f’ and search for the sentence ‘And that’s where the line needs to be drawn’]

 

 

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Filed under Important post, Intro post, Not strictly school-related, Out of the field

The Inaugural Post

The best way for me to frame my mental state is to relay how I accepted an invitation to a job interview, today, as an excuse to get out of the house and an exercise in feeling feelings.

Today was a beautiful, crisp day. It was as close to proper Fall as I could ever beg Florida for. Today was a beautiful day to ride my bike to my job interview!

We know how these blissful bike rides end: with Catholic guilt and unrequited homosexual tension. A.k.a., my life.

And then I jerked my bike handles directly into oncoming traffic. And the nose of some breed of Chrysler.

Fortunately, neither I nor my two-wheeled companion, Charles Ryder, were more than bruised and bounced a bit–the bike moreso than me.

I continued biking toward the interview as normal. That or I died back there on the corner of Americana and John Young and was damned to a purgatory of mundane (after)life-blogging. Fast-forwarding past the revelation that I’m the third prospective hire to walk into this particular location by mistake, the third in a series of miscommunications in exactly which location I and my never-known kin were intended to interview at, and fast-forwarding past the ten awkward minutes of half-crying outside that compelled a security guard to slowly roll down his window and meekly ask, “Are you okay?”:

I went on a reparative manic spree at my not-exactly-local-but-close-enough corporate giant book store. Admittedly, my initial goal was just one single book.

Not even thirty seconds into the store, I had an armful of bargain-priced books, including a collection of the tales of H.P. Lovecraft. I abhor Lovecraft’s person–but at $7.98 I was totally down to throw my money at his miserable grave, right??

Eventually, as I was leaking books from every crevice of my poorly woven arm/hand basket attempt to cradle all of my prospective spoils in front of a clearly-labeled, clearly bemused employee, I decided that I would try to reel it in. Lovecraft didn’t make the cut. Neither did most of my initial grabs. I realized that I was using the staging of the store’s signature classics as my sorting table.

Rather than look for myself, I asked the employee, who I was certain upon catching the tell-tale tag again was definitely an employee and obviously endowed with this knowledge, if they had a signature edition of Frankenstein. I own 7 unique physical copies of Frankenstein (differentiated by edition and annotation content), 9 physical copies in all when factoring in duplicates/variant covers. A.k.a., I don’t own enough unique copies of Frankenstein–and I’m particularly lacking in ownership of the 1831 edition, which reflects in my admitted lack of scholastic insight in said edition (and now I know for sure that I didn’t die back at that crossroads, because only now has my darkest academic secret been revealed and only now is my soul purged and pristine for heavenly assumption).

The bookseller responded no, but encouraged me to pay attention to the Nice Copy of Dracula where Frankenstein could have been–would have been. Dracula is nice. I like Dracula. But having gone steady with Frankenstein for the past four years, I would feel particularly cheated (and like a cheater) if after all the commitment circumstances brought me to prom night with Dracula in my arms.

There was, however, a Very Nice Edition of the King James Bible that could possibly occupy the void in my cross-referencing web and by proxy my heart. I apparently narrated this out loud, or the bookseller employee was an undercover clairvoyant (which would seem more legitimate of a theory if we didn’t rule out the whole Me Being Dead thing a couple paragraphs ago), as said bookseller quipped that I should consider the Lego Bible as an alternative. (Lo and behold, to my right, there was, in fact, a display proudly presenting The Book as illustrated by customized Legos.)

When I commented that brandishing the Lego Bible in my hypothetical Restoration course would probably be the last straw (not the worst stunt I’ve pulled in my academic history, but *definitely* the last straw) that would definitely get me kicked out of my Reputable Academic Programme at Oxford that next summer, the bookseller half-smirkingly commented on how that was a “fancy school,” to which I quipped back:

“Yes, but my fancy pants degree doesn’t make me qualified to work in your store, apparently. So for the time being, you lord that over me.”

The bookseller legitimately smiled. The ice was broken. The contract was sealed. The bond was fused. In that single moment, scholar and bookseller became egalitarian symbiotes. His business was necessary for my business needs to me met to require his business to fulfill my business, etc. etc.

We became inseparable, turning corners and finding the other there by Complete Accident, exchanging quips of, “Fancy meeting you, here,” wink wonk. When he found me the last time, it was in Poetry agonizing over which edition of Paradise Lost was worth the difference of a dollar in annotated aptitude. When he approached asking me if I needed help, though, I didn’t even consider how my new partner in business might possibly weigh in on this Great Debate and instead admitted that,

“I actually came here for one book in particular. Do you know if you have The Disaster Artist by Greg Sestero?”

To be fair, my knowledge of All Things Frankenstein might be legitimately rivaled by shameful cesspit of All Things Wiseau (and on a broader spectrum, All Things Romantic versus All Things Badfilm). The family resemblance between Tommy Wiseau and Karloff In Makeup is the only superficial qualifier I need to justify my intent.

Sestero…” he muttered,  “How do I know that name?” Before I could stop it, it was out of my mouth, “Leave your stupid comments in your pocket.“It was equal parts eerie fate and good fortune that the bookseller had an unconscious connection to the source (and that my surprise verbal abuse wasn’t a surprise).

Unsurprisingly, my new compatriot later met me at the register—and specifically stole me from another bookseller by opening up a second register, gleefully decreeing, “I can take care of this one.” Another contract was forged. In a manic minute, my membership with this chain corporate bookstore that I had let lapse in a phase of disaffected brokeness and anarchic dissonance for the Capital On Enlightenment was renewed—-but I was also 10% richer than had I not engaged the contract. The guilt of that didn’t hit me until I got this far down in my posting. But now that it has, it seems a fair enough place to stop, having come full circle with adequately framing my mental state.

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Filed under Frankenthoughts, Important post, Intro post, Mundane academic