photo credit- LULA Magazine

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

Crazy things I do that are normal.. I think?:

watch the same episodes of things over and over .. and over (Arrested Development and Sex and the City have been watched maybe 4 times each)

forget to eat dinner

eat dinner at 11:00 at night

eat icecream and call it dinner if it is between the hours of 5-7

eat organic food as much as possible but still smoke cigarettes on occasion

forget where the car is parked no matter how hard I try to remember by making up elaborate stories about the isle letter the car is parked in, like if it is isle C saying "the car is in Camelot," but then I forget what the reminder means and spend more time trying to decode it all over again wondering what the hell Camelot was code for

become irrationally angry over stupid things like:
something not fitting right
losing an earing
burning eggs even when I have a whole dozen left
not being able to find a pen ANYWHERE when I REALLY need one
not having hot water for an unknown reason even if it's only for a 5 minute shower
my camera battery dies when I want to take a picture


ask friends for second opinions over things I already know the answer to, but for some reason need an external voice to convince me I am right

do yoga stretches in random places: waiting in line for a movie, at my desk at work (I have a yoga ball for a chair so it kiiiiind of makes sense), in the kitchen while trying to cook at the same time.. always a dangerous idea

paint my nails but then nick one and take it all off to do it over

forget to drink water and then wondering why I always get headaches... realize it is because I don't drink water... drink 8 glasses of water the next day, pee a million times and then decide I'd rather get a headache... until I do... (repeat cycle)

refuse to touch the hand rails on the T with my palm but still eat things I drop on the floor

stare into my closet for up to 10 minutes trying to figure out what to wear, proclaim I have no clothes, walk around the house naked for another 10 minutes to procrastinate and then throw on the same t-shirt and jeans I always wear and go shopping.... even though, I have WAY too many clothes

assume my boyfriend/mother/friends can read my mind and while sometimes they can, this is not a logical expectation

ALWAYS fall asleep when watching a movie at home and then the next morning wonder why I can't remember the ending and get paranoid I am developing Alzheimer's

become paranoid I am getting Alzheimer's, decide I should do Sudoku to prevent this but remember I hate math too much and accept that this has therefore doomed me to an early mental deterioration

check my phone alarm clock twice before going to bed

then check it at least 2 more times

leave the windows open but always worry about locking the door (this made even less sense when I lived on ground level)

am incapable of doing anything before brushing my teeth but easily go two days without showering

impulsively make large scale life decisions like what college to go to but debate over how to cut my hair for weeks

continue to try to re-pierce my third earing hole that closed up, even though each time it ends in a bloody failure

"sing along" to songs on the radio even when I don't know the words but just make them up and pretend like I do

write sticky notes to remind me of EVERYTHING

photograph my food

clean the bathtub before I take a bath, but then become paranoid that bathing in the chemicals I cleaned the bath with are more harmful, and then debate this every time I go to take a bath to relax... which obviously just stresses me out and even though the clean-up involved in this may be terrible... this looks so pretty I may need to get some confetti and give this a shot (image from Lula mag website)-




haven't eaten red meat since I was 15 but drool over (and purchase) leather boots without a hint of guilt

refuse to chemically dye my hair because it is too permanent but got a tattoo


I'd love to hear what normal crazy things you do! Please share!!

Dangers of whistling while you work

Okay, sorry that last post became a big rant... sometimes I can't help myself.

Anyways, I'll keep this short. Today coming into work I could tell someone was behind me, probably like 20 feet away and I hadn't seen them but you know how you can feel that? When I was little, when we would drive on the highway I would always stare at other people in the cars that were slightly ahead of us so they couldn't actually see me directly. I would just stare (such a little creeper) until they would turn around. It always worked, they could always feel it and would turn around and see this weird little blonde kid staring at them. It just amazed me that they could feel it and I felt like I had special powers. But then I never knew what to do once they looked because I was actually too shy to wave or interact so I would just look away. Anyways, if this every happened to you and there was a little blonde girl in the back of a tan station wagon .. sorry for being so awkward....

Okay, anyways, so I am walking into work (I work in a major psychiatric hospital in Boston) and can feel this person behind me but don't want to be weird and turn around because just like when I was 5, I'd have nothing to do but awkwardly smile or just look away. So then the person starts whistling, not in a cute Jimminy Cricket way (does he whistle?.. he should if he doesn't) but in a creepy way. So now I am officially convinced there is some total psychopath (anti-social personality disorder for anyone who feels like being technical) behind me because I have an over-active imagination and make up these ridiculous things in my head... which is normal right.. but still can't bring myself to turn around. FINALLY he turns to go into another building and I see it is a very prominent physician and I feel like a total idiot for letting my mind get the best of me. At the same time I expect more from someone who possibly works with people who are really paranoid, I EXPECT that he would KNOW that whistling eerily while at a 20 foot distance behind a young girl walking for about 4 minutes next to the old abandoned buildings on our campus would be totally creepy.

Now, I must say, that my opinion, psychiatric hospitals are generally places where I feel extremely comfortable! I'm way more anxious walking home at night on the gorgeous and perfectly safe streets of Cambridge near where I live, than I ever was on the inpatient units at my old hospital. It's one of the few places in the world where people are encouraged to let everything out, to work through things openly, to wear their difficulties and vulnerabilities on their sleeves so they can be identified and then worked on. It's really the safest place in the world because everything is out in the open. Sometimes it can be scary when someone goes off or harms him/herself, or threatens to do one of those things, but at least they are announcing it, it's out there and then you can work with it! The rest of the world scares me a lot more. In the rest of the world dark thoughts are shunned and kept secret and so problems aren't worked out and things fester and dwell and that's just dangerous and unhealthy. Fear is so generally related to the unknown, the potential problem, the unseen danger, the monster hiding out of sight. But if everything is out in the light then it's not scary anymore. Even if the thought expressed is something scary or dark or upsetting, at least it's out, it's identified and purged and can be tackled and defeated.

But that's not how it is right now, and I hear someone whistle eerily behind me and I worry and I am creeped out because I assume he is an axe-murderer who is probably hiding things... like dead bodies... and I am a creep because that is what I think and I harbor it in my brain and that's no good and if we were on the unit I would turn around and say "Hey! Your whistling is really creeping me out and triggering some dark thoughts so please stop!" because I would have been taught to start working on expressing myself and having open communication about my fears and paranoia's. But we are in the 'real world' and so that would be weird. So I do the normal thing and say nothing, because he would think I was crazy and for some reason that is what I should worry about.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

Epidemic


photo-Le Love

Validity is a weird thing. What determines what is valid?

If we perceive something to be valid is it? Is it a judgement call? If someone perceives something as invalid at the same time, how do we know who is right? Do we empirically measure validity? Science can be a way of measuring validity, how valid a certain claim is, that claim being a hypothesis, a belief based on some evidence or probable theory. But then we put that belief to the test, quantifying it until we have some statistical evidence to say that is valid or that is invalid. If a belief cannot be tested is it still valid? If someone believes their opinion is valid, is that enough? Is a belief in validity enough to make something valid or does it need a majority vote, or must a quantitative backing be provided? It seems to depend what the subject of debate is at the time.

I’m of the opinion that… I don’t know.

Sometimes I am a die hard believer of science and of empirical evidence and proof and facts. But then, I work with people, and I work with emotions and opinions and first hard accounts of hazy memories. For someone with scientific training you’d think I’d have no patience for this, because I can’t measure someone’s sadness and say definitively yes, yes you have a problem or no, no you’re dealing with a rational amount of grief that I can indisputably say you can overcome. Psych tries really hard to be a science. It is a science. I work in research, we use Microsoft Excel and SPSS… that’s science, right?( I can hear my brother, the bio-chem major, laughing in my head). Since these things are so hard to measure, but we felt the need to standardize the issues, we tried to come up with a way to measure these immeasurable feelings, thoughts, beliefs and experiences in what is called the DSM- Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. It’s a very concrete, very serious encyclopedia of diagnosis. It is usually found in hard cover with gold lettering, and if the DSM was a person it would be an old man with a white curly mustache and a monocle, in a blue uniform with gold trim, who stands behind a curtain like Oz and projects his image onto a large screen that people would step in front of to receive the bellowing declaration of “Alcoholic!” or “Anorexic!” etc. etc. At least that’s what they were going for when they made this up I think. But there’s the thing, THEY MADE THIS UP.

Okay, before you start thinking the entire world of mental health is some sham, let me elaborate.

They took their scientific knowledge gleaned from exposure over decades and decades of practice and millions of studies and to the best of their abilities compiled the criteria for diagnosis of varying disorders. Like any medical handbook, this is based in research and exposure and of course as time goes on we learn more, we change our perspectives, we are proven wrong where we were once so sure. SO, now we are on DSM IV soon to release DSM V. Unlike the hard sciences, mental health is clearly a more complex thing to try to pin down. A broken arm is a broken arm is a broken arm, the doctor can see it and feel it and the person with the arm can see it and feel it and everyone knows when it is broken and when it is fixed. I wish mental health were that simple, I wish the diagnosis criteria that we use was always fool-proof and obvious to both the clinician and the patient. I think it’s a lot easier to deal with a challenging situation if you can understand it, because otherwise it’s just scary.

Unfortunately the media doesn’t do a whole lot to de-scarify mental illness. There is this weird mess of fear, fascination and even glorification of mental illness, but very little explanation. There is even resentment, and sometimes jealousy. A girl who is anorexic becomes resented by peers because she has things like “discipline” that reward her with a “good body” and people don’t see the illness, the compulsion, the sadness, they only see the desirable figure left behind… until that desirable figure is in a wheel chair with a feeding tube through the throat.

One of my favorite movies, that despite casting the most beautiful woman in the world as a sociopath...seemed to get a fairly well-rounded picture of the varying degrees of mental illness and the pitfalls of diagnosis, without too much glorification is Girl Interrupted, with Wynona Ryder and Angelina Jolie. It takes place in a psychiatric hospital in the 1960’s, and in the movie they mockingly call a diagnosis “diagnonsense.” I have issues with diagnosis in general, the whole concept. Sometimes it can be really helpful for people to have a name and a description of what they are going through, to know that they are not alone and that they are not so beyond recognition but that they are simply in this category of other people also going through similar experiences. Then again, sometimes labels can be detrimental, “am I always an alcoholic even after I am sober?” Just like any labels, they classify and they can bring a feeling of togetherness or a feeling of isolation and everyone reacts differently. It’s even harder when the criteria for these labels is always changing, or if you don’t quuuuiiiite have the exact amount of criteria listed to make the cut then where are you? If you have 3 of the needed 4 out of 5 criteria for a given diagnosis then are you totally fine? The answer of course, is no, but people can use the strict criteria as a way of denying a need for help.

Say it another way, invalid- a sick person, someone who has a disability.

But what if your problems are not valid enough for you to be called sick… see what I’m getting at… that’s right… if your issues are not valid enough you can’t be an invalid, you’re not sick, but you’re not healthy, so what the hell are you then? Well, your arm isn’t THAT broken… not something we really hear.

To invalidate, to make invalid, to make sick, to make wrong.

One of the most common issues surrounding what is called Borderline Personality Disorder (also the diagnosis of Wynona’s character in Girl Interrupted, which I should add, is a true story). This diagnosis has become in “vogue” recently meaning that it has become very common in a very short amount of time. It generally involves teenage girls who have self-harming behaviors and significant difficulty forming healthy interactions and relationships (to give a very general summary). This can manifest very severely, where the individual is putting him/herself in extremely dangerous situations or actively self-harming or both. One of the major sensitivities of this population surrounds feeling invalidated. We have all felt this way, when you feel sad or angry over something and you are told that it’s all in your head, or that you just don’t understand what happened. Sure, sometimes these statements might be true, but are they ever therapeutic when someone is really upset… not really.

To invalidate, to make sick, to make wrong. My most difficult patients were BPD and I admit I really struggled to develop the skills to help them in the ways that they needed me to. However, just like any mental illness it is just “you or me magnified,” to quote the movie. What I had to offer, was the empathy that came from knowing how I felt when I was invalidated. You feel sick, you feel crazy, you feel wrong and it is just the worst.

People are complex and while some aspects of our experiences can be quantified and measured, mental health is not the easiest aspect to chart. My point is, a diagnosis doesn’t make you sick, it doesn't make your illness more valid or your lack of a diagnosis doesn't demean your struggle, it is a label, the issue is there before that and the issue might very well be there at least to some extent after the official diagnosis is removed. The person labeling might be misinformed or the person expressing the issue may be struggling to articulate the problem because it is so complex and so mislabeling occurs. We are almost on DSM V, and the criteria continues to change and the labels themselves change and we are doing the best we can with a very amorphous task.

However, in the mean time, there is no reason to get attached. We just need to do our best to try to make each other feel heard, feel healthy feel valid, because we can’t hold up a ruler when someone says “I’m sad” and say “umm nope, you are 2 inches away from sad actually; you don’t get to say that!” I don’t know of BPD behaviors existed to this extent before the diagnosis came about in such large numbers, we never know whether it’s just that now that we have the label that it seems to spike because we have a way to identify it, or if the glorification in the media plants some seeds for behaviors or if the awareness leads to over diagnosis, we don’t know. What I do know is that teenage girls are one of the most consistently invalidated groups in our society. If you are told you are wrong, and told you are sick, and told it is all in your head enough times you’d start to believe it. We need to stop invalidating, we need to stop making each other sick.

Sunday, May 23, 2010

Make Believe

Okay... so about that whole "I'm not a crier entry," thanks to the Grey's Anatomy and Private Practice season finales I may need to edit that a bit. I don't have tv but I have followed those two shows online forever and even through some questionable seasons where they managed to put out like 8 episodes in a row when nothing happens (which is a writing feat in itself), I keep coming back. It's a good thing too because I guess the writers saved up all the drama they haven't been using and crammed it all in at the last minute.

Another one of my favorite photos from my childhood is me on the floor of my bedroom kneeling in front of a naked baby doll on her baby blanket, wearing jeans, and an arts and crafts smock. You know how grown ups made you wear old button downs backwards with the buttons up the back? Why they didn't just button them up the front, I really don't understand; it was so uncomfortable and is a little paint on the clavicle such a big deal? For accessories I have on a paper surgeons mask that I stole from the dress-up box at school. My hair is pulled back in a pony tail and I am looking down at this fragile life, ready to save it with: pasta tongs, a turkey baster and a jar of vaseline. I was super serious. Not your typical baby doll behavior, I think most girls hold them or coo at them or sing to them or something? That clearly got old really fast for me, but they made for the most dramatic imaginary surgeries because what is more intense and badass than saving babies? Nothing, ask Addison Montgomery.

That picture was taken when I was about 9 and even before that I remember some other unusual make believe scenarios. Of course there were the typical days of being a fairy-princess-queen-ballerina, that goes without saying. However, one of the other major motifs was 'playing homeless,' as one of my good friends calls it. Playing homeless usually involved pretending I was 16, that was the golden magical year when I imagined myself being super mature and beautiful and knowing everything about the world, and also anything over 17 just seemed rreeeeaaaaalllllyyyy old. So I was 16, and I had to take care of my baby sister (something I ALWAYS wished I had) because our parents had died in a car accident and we were orphans and homeless. Usually we lived in an alleyway somewhere that I kind of pictured like Agraba. There were elaborate plots in my head of me trying desperately to figure out what I would do when it became nighttime and how I had to hide from the police (usually under coffee tables or in the linen closet). The whole thing was very dramatic, and very serious.

I always thought it was so weird that I used to do that until one of my best friends in college told me she did the same thing. I was not alone. I was not the only upper-middle class white kid in America pretending to live in squalor. Which then rapidly lead to the question... WHY do kids do this? Pretending to be fairy-princess-queen-ballerinas, sure, that makes sense, but homeless orphans in alleys in someplace kind of like the Middle East, it seems to me like if you have the incredible super power of imagination that kids have, why spend it one something like that?

I've stopped playing homeless, and I've stopped creating high pressure surgical scenes on my bedroom floor, but here I am crying to my computer screen watching these medical dramas. They are upsetting, they really are! People almost die, people seem fine and then die, people are kidnapped, kids die, parents die, miscarriages happen, families are torn apart and if that wasn't enough there are layers of tangled relationship issues on top of it all. It actually stresses me out to write about it, so WHY do I spend my free time 'relaxing' in bed watching this stuff?

There are a lot of theories over why we watch what we watch. Some people think we watch scary movies as social rights of passage, to feel pride that we sustained something that gruesome and painful to endure. Some people think it is a group bonding experience, that it creates a tie between the individuals sharing this collective emotional reaction and if you ask anyone who watches Lost they'd probably agree. Some think we watch sad movies because it trains us to go through the response of grieving which helps us not only release grief in our own lives on a small unconscious level, but that it prepares us for grief in the future if we practice that reaction now. This makes the most sense to me.

I can't even count the number of times I have heard people on these shows say "I'm sorry for your loss." I had to say that for the first time the other day in a clinical setting. I've said it only a handful of times in my personal life (knocking on wood) but I have been lucky enough that even after working in a psychiatric hospital for 2 years and in a research hospital for 1, I have never had to say that to anyone until last week. The way my job works now, I talk to people all over the country, it's all over the phone so I have never met these people face to face, it's more detached which has it's pros and cons. I talked to this person exactly one week before he/she died. One week. I called a month later to do the follow-up, I asked to speak with X and the little girl who answered the phone paused and I heard her shuffle around and give the phone to an adult. I asked again to speak with X and an older woman told me X had died a month ago and asked what it was I was calling about. We are not allowed to say because it is confidential but not wanting to disturb her by letting her know her loved one was in a study for something I could not disclose I said, without even a second thought, "I'm so sorry for your loss, it's not important, don't worry about it."

After I got off the phone the shock set in a bit. I have no idea what X looked like and I had to look up his/her information to recall the details of our interview which pointed to numerous possible causes of death, but then again it could have been a car accident, it could have been anything.

I used to want to be a pediatrician but then I decided I couldn't because I couldn't bear it if a kid died. I think I want to go into medicine and I watch these shows and I think I could do that. Mental health is obviously a different can of worms but for anyone who thinks it's easier, give me a call after your psych rotation. I'm usually really good in a crisis and I've dealt with people cutting themselves in front of me, threatening to kill themselves or someone else, chewing through their lips, smearing feces on the walls, hurling furniture across rooms and just sitting there staring and refusing to do anything at all for days. I've been fine, I mean really I've been great in all of those situations and that made me feel even more confident that I could go into this field and all that it entails, until I had to say that. Saying that sucked. I don't know if he/she died from drugs or from drug complications but I hope not. They tell you if someone commits suicide it's not your fault. It's the patient's choice. That seems like an easy out to me but I get it, because otherwise it's your fault as a failed clinical case and that would make everyone quit the field. So we need a little denial, a little removal, but come on, isn't that just making it a bit too easy?

With surgery you can say "we did all we could," they say that on those shows all the time too, usually right before the "I'm sorry for your loss part." However, with mental health, if someone doesn't get better, if someone hurts themselves or someone else it's a lot blurrier. We like to think we do all we can but do we ever know? It probably gets easier to deal with that stuff the longer one is in the field, I'm sure it does, it has to. Or maybe we just keep watching these medical dramas trying to desensitize ourselves so that when it crops up in real life it's not as shocking. We don't play homeless anymore, but we keep imagining these sad and difficult scenes, well someone imagines them, and writes them down and then people act them out, and we watch, and we imagine ourselves in those roles and are we all masochists or are we just trying to prepare ourselves?

I think there should be more shows about fairy-princess-queen-ballerinas, but I don't think the ratings would be very high.

Friday, May 21, 2010

Post on Post-Its

Relating to my last post, I came across this amazing youtube video on one of my best friend's blogs http://hotchildinanothercity.blogspot.com/ check her out. Anyways, she posted this video with the caption "I think I need to take a page out of Jessica's book," and I watched it and I agree.



Kids really know how to express themselves leagues better than adults do. Whether it's screaming, because they KNOW that it is more important to let it out despite what the neighbors think. Or, having positive self-affirmation time in the bathroom mirror even when the camera is rolling.

At college I used to write reminders to myself in lipstick on the long full-length mirror on the back of my door. I kept adding them until the whole thing was covered in red smudges. I don't remember what any of them were now, but they helped me out then. I'm also a big fan of post-its. I write post-its for everything. Some people keep post-its in their office desks for work reminders or in the kitchen junk drawer for small grocery lists. I do both, and I keep them at my bedside table, on my bookcase and by my dresser. Really I think this is just because I have a terrible memory, so I know that just as quickly as an important reminder will pop into my head, it will keep on truckin out my ear before making an impression on my brain. I know most people have upgraded to the electronic post-its on their laptops, or to iphone reminders, but that is all too much for me. I still use a paper planner and I will always love me some little sticky yellow squares.

I stopped the lipstick reminders when I downsized to a small wall mirror in my 'big girl apartment' post-college land, but the post-its work just as well. Actually, I'm probably better off because when people come over, they don't see blood red scrawled notes-to-self with embarrassing fortune cookie-like wisdom when they go to adjust their hair. No one expects you to be sane and have it all together in college but in the 'real-world,' I like to keep up the facade anyways.

The point is, as grown-ups we actually need to write this stuff down to remember it and that is the crazy part! The most IMPORTANT reminders wind up on the mirror because they need to stare you in the face to get through. The most simple and basic things like 'breath,' 'relax,' 'enjoy.' Not only do these wind up on mirrors and post-its but these are also becoming popular tattoos! We need to have these things inked on our wrists for the rest of our lives because otherwise we will forget, we will forget to breath, to relax and to enjoy. The real question is what are we remembering instead? Deadlines, appointments, grad school application requirements. Important things no doubt but if you forget to breathe you won't get around to any of this stuff so I ask you, what is really the most important to remember?

Kids are smarter, they don't know how to write but they don't NEED to because they got it down. I think if I started my day with a list of positive things about my life while dancing over the bathroom sink I'd be in great mental and emotional shape. While I may still be a measly 5' 2" I don't think my crappy bathroom sink could support me and I'd probably fall and crack my skull on the bathtub so I'll leave that to the kids and stick with my post-its.

Friday, May 7, 2010

Open Ribs

I almost never cry these days. While I generally think this is a good sign of things being alright in my life, when I do cry it is BIG. Well... that's not exactly true. Thanks to my female hormones I get teary eyed at stupid things way more often then I would like to admit. But generally, I don't consider myself too emotional. But when it all builds up it's a massive, all flood gates down kind of situation. It's usually really cathartic, and for someone who can be kind of a control freak, it's nice to make my inner monologue shut the fuck up for a little while and just feel things, no matter how upsetting it may be.

I was never a big crier as a kid, so this isn't much of a surprise. I was happy and I'm grateful that aside from the every day kind of kid stuff that makes you feel like the sky is collapsing on your 4th grade head (until it's recess), generally things were good. But I did have a pretty fantastic system for giving myself a little needed release now and then. Myself and one of my best childhood friends, Jamie would have massive, I mean EPIC, screaming contests (I'm still so sorry Mom and Dad). Now in today's world I would imagine that the blood curdling cries of young children over and over would evoke at least some concern from the neighbors, but in 1995 no one seemed to care. We would go out and lie down in my driveway, open up our little ribcages as wide as we could and just let it out. I don't think we really ever cared who won, if we did I don't remember because it usually ended in a giggle fit. There is this type of therapy called Primal Therapy, and the treatment employed is basically just screaming your head off (amongst a lot of spin-off Freudian analysis and repressed memory digging). I think Jamie and I were just way ahead of our time. If I could get away with walking out onto my porch in my crowded greater Boston neighborhood and having a massive cathartic shriek I would, but I just don't think it would fly.

Still, have you ever noticed how little kids are always making noise when they are doing things? If they are skipping they are humming and skipping, or if they are jumping they are punctuating it with some vocalization or if they are running it definitely involves some kind of increasingly loud vowel. I think they're onto something. Maybe if we made more noise throughout the day it wouldn't all have to come bursting out of us when our guard is down?

I don't remember if there was anything in particular we were screaming about. My Mom said that I made up for in sound what I lacked in size and maybe as two tiny blonde little girls we just wanted to feel big and noticed and important for a minute. Or maybe it was to shake up our perfect suburban lives. I would still like to shake up my life, though now more urban and I would still like to feel bigger than my 5 foot 2 frame will allow. I'd still really like to be able to scream. One of my friend's told me that sometimes she drives around town with the windows up and just yells and yells and yells. I think this is a genius idea. Most of Massachusetts seems to be doing that anyways to some extent.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

Whirling Dervishes

I've always been attracted to extremes, hence the turquoise wall paint I selected at age 7.

I was lucky enough to have parents who encouraged this. I love children (now) but I'm not sure what I would have done posed with the requests I made as a kid. Despite household decor decisions which I began to take over more and more as I grew older ( I bought my parents stained glass ceiling fan pulls when I was twelve... what twelve year old does that!?) my madness was generally contained to my own little world, my bedroom. My Mom says that ever since I was born I have been a "whirling dervish," when I was up I was spinning around at high speeds and then all of a sudden she would notice that the house had been silent and she would know that I had passed out somewhere mid-step for a cat nap.

In one of my favorite photos of myself as a child, I am in this shiny gold party dress with a big bow in my hair, all dolled up and passed out cold in a big (big enough to hold my tiny 6 year old self anyways) box with tons of my stuffed animals and dress-up clothes surrounding me stuffed in the box. Wherever I may have been going in my imagination I was certainly prepared for the voyage, clearly very practical from an early age.

Though my major life interests have changed over time I have always been concerned about aesthetics, in my home, in my closet, in my imaginary dream boat or what have you. I wanted to be a "cocktail waitress astronaut." Seriously, that is what I told my teacher in kindergarten on my 'When I Grow Up' poster. It's still in my basement, I have proof. My Mom asked me why I wanted to be a cocktail waitress in space (come on... as if it wasn't obvious) and I explained that OBVIOUSLY I wanted to go to space but I wanted to wear pretty little dresses. Where I developed the association that cocktail waitresses wear tiny dresses at the age of 5, I don't even want to know. However, if someone offered to send me to space in a couture LBD I think I'd jump at the opportunity so I really think I was quite in touch with myself. It wasn't until later that I started developing my current passions (in addition to space and fashion of course).

I used to hate people. Really, everyone, all of humanity, I was an 8 year old raging against all of mankind. Why so much hatred from a generally happy pint-sized blonde child? Ferngully. I was obsessed with that movie and if anyone has ever seen it they will recall that it is about how humans are destroying the rainforest and running the faeries out of their homes. Well as an 8 year old girl, faeries clearly trumped humanity, and I became ashamed to be a part of the enemy team. I started talking to trees in our backyard and I would listen to the birds in the woods and pretend that I could understand them. I used to think I could read my cat's mind. Delusional behavior or normal child behavior? Well I was fine with it, and I'm sure my parents were just grateful to have some peace in the house while I was outside for hours and hours cursing my species and trying to commune with nature.

I was on a big eco kick for most of my childhood and I am still obsessive about recycling and turning off lights and saving energy. I tried being vegan once. That lasted a week. But I am one of those weird non-vegetarian vegetarians who eats poultry and fish, so half the world considers you a veg, but then the rrreeeaaall veggies get all righteous and cast you out of the club.

Anyways, it really was not until much later that I started accepting my fate as a human and even more impossibly, caring about other people.

Not exactly the college essay one would expect from a Psych Major.

It will all make sense later, I promise. I've always been attracted to the extremes. I wasn't going to just fall into complacent love of my brethren as a whole. No, my compassion fell only to those I felt were truly interesting. It's all part of my life aesthetic, things in extremes, things that are entirely unique (re: stained glass ceiling fan pulls) and what is more unique and more extreme than a human being? Well.... at least all the really interesting ones, who I have generally found to be kids.

Whirling dervishes with secret boxes of gold dresses and hidden treasures and grand adventures planned. Living breathing turquoise walls.

This quote from Kerouac sums it up for me,

"'They danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!"'