sanity log #1

 "I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, 'If this isn't nice, I don't know what is.'"-Kurt Vonnegut                 

I can feel a physical shift after crying, a sweet calm-after-the-storm, dust-settling clarity that I never know exists until I reach it. What's tricky is that I don't know I'm holding my breath until I let it go. When I'm depressed, I don't see it as depression, but a false clarity. I see it as reality finally hitting me, and so I wear it like an ugly cardigan and pretend it's a blood orange Michael Kors blazer, shifting my tastes to fit this "objectivity." Because really, all I want to do is exist on the same plane as everyone else. I too often feel like my thoughts and emotions are at a completely different altitude than those of my peers, so it's difficult to converse with them. I constantly feel like there's a hurricane brewing under my skin, and it rushes and rushes until I can't even hear myself think anymore, least of all hear anything else. But when I cry, it's gone. But it's always a matter of time until it collects again, starts spiraling and spiraling, just gradually enough for me not to feel it coming. Like a lobster in the cooking pot.

I cried today, but it was a different kind of cry. It didn't feel torn from my lungs like the first one, it wasn't violent or sharp. It wasn't a downpour. It was almost a happy cry, relief. The tears rolled down my cheeks, involuntary, but cathartic. I can feel myself finally beginning to heal.

And I feel in control, at least for today. I chose to write this, not out of knee-jerk escapism, but out of inspiration, knowing that I need to listen to Vonnegut and keep note of when I feel this way. Here's sanity log 1.

tyler, the master

"Fuck buying studio time, I'ma go purchase a shrink/Record the session and send all you motherfuckers a link"-Tyler the Creator, Rusty

                                                                       dude gets me.

en rose

"She wanted to die, but she also wanted to live in Paris."-Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary 

That is one of the most beautiful strings of words that I've heard in a long time. It's a string of words that makes me feel. Where I am is a dull, pale ocean, but where I'm going is a marvel. Paris, my honey-colored lover. I'll meet you soon when my lungs are ready.

And I was coincidentally drawn to the novel Madame Bovary when I was at the Strand last weekend. I had to have you, but I didn't know why. But now I think you're just what the celestial doctor prescribed.

I have a difficult time believing that I'm real. I see myself so objectively that I think every word that falls out of my lips is a lie. If personality is is an unbroken string of successful gestures, then no wonder my vision of myself is shattered. I can't utter a word without tearing it apart in retrospect.

I close my eyes, and all I see are the sunglasses.

The sunglasses I'll wear in Paris one day strutting down cobbled streets.

The sunglasses I'll wear in New York walking to the publishing office.

I see lots of striped dresses and peacoats in candy colors.

I also see the other sunglasses.

The sunglasses I wore in high school to shield my tired eyes.

The sunglasses I wear Wednesdays after crying.

But I never wear sunglasses to hide. I'm always making a statement.

My gait transforms when there's plastic resting on my ears.

My breathing eases. All of the muscles in my body melt.

I'm hot and I'm heady and I'm ready to take you on.

C'est la vie en rose.

                                               Shameless selfy

                              "Let us play with your look"= life motto

confessions

So I'm just really mad, okay.

I have an anger burning a blinding white exploding in my core,

atoms splitting in my spine,

fire ravaging my veins.

I'm honestly done with this.

I'm done with segmenting myself for everybody to match their expectations of me.

I'm done with letting my fears manifest themselves into my reality.

I'm done with hiding my intelligence as a cry for help,

as a way to make my limb-splitting pain

tangible to everyone who

refuses to recognize it,

myself included.

I'm done with squandering all my potential

in rebellion of the atomic war inside of me,

a war against myself and everything I stand for.

Just because the problem is myself doesn't mean I should punish myself.

There's nothing else to burn, so I set myself on fire.

I feel powerless otherwise.

It's the only control I feel like I have.

When "Just" makes sense to you, you should probably go to therapy.

So I did.

It helps me understand myself, but it doesn't do anything to help anyone else understand.

My academic advisor asked me how everything is going, but the answer to that question

can either be answered in three words or a thousand.

So of course I chose the former.

And I can't help but compare my problems to others' problems,

and in the grand scheme of things

my issues seem frivolous,

and the fact that they're burning the edges of my life

makes me feel frivolous as a human being.

How dare I be destroyed by this when there is so much greater pain in the world.

But everything is relative, and this pain has too many layers to unravel so simply.

It's my fucking disposition, I can't target it.

I broke my foot playing dodgeball recently,

and in a way it's the best thing that could have happened to me.

It's given me a lot of time to think.

And I can't help but think that I wish people reacted to my mental health

in the same way they reacted to my physical health--

sympathetic, but confident that I'll be okay,

and proud of my strength in powering through the difficulty.

I wish I could address it with a funny anecdote,

and I wish we could all laugh at it so I can begin to move on.

I wish I could bedazzle my psyche

and have my closest friends sign it with

sarcastic pseudonyms so that

every time I feel it

I can wish it away with

sassy adrenaline.

But instead I get an academic advisor to tell me that "it's okay that you're not an A student,"

while I want to scream that I am,

I am I am I am I am I Am,

I know I

A

m,

I'm just trying, trying, trying to find a way

to show you without completely

falling apart.

And one day, when I finally get there,

you'll rue the day that you defined me,

and understand that a 4.0 will mean

much more to me than a

GPA.

Me and my BFF Johnny

4AM college rants

OKAY SO IT'S 4AM IN COLLEGE AND I HAVE AN ESSAY DUE AND I PUT OFF MY HOMEWORK TO WATCH THE GRAMMYS WHICH WAS SUBPAR BUT THEY'RE STILL KINDA LIKE MY SUPERBOWL AND I JUST GOT MY PERIOD SO I'M GOING TO BE SUPER CANDID.

                              Enter ghostly complexion and dark circles.

1) I REALLY WANT SOME MINT CHOCOLATE CHIP ICE CREAM, SODEXO MAKE IT HAPPEN.

2) I KINDA REALLY REALLY WANT A NOSE RING BUT IT'S MORE PERMANENT THAN OTHER PIERCINGS BECAUSE IT IS ON YOUR ACTUAL FACE AND COULD LEAVE A PERMANENT MARK ON YOUR ACTUAL FACE.

3) I RAN OUT OF BAND AIDS SO I'M MAKING MAKESHIFT BAND AIDS OUT OF PAPER TOWELS AND MASKING TAPE AND ALL I CAN THINK OF IS HEROIN BOB'S MAKESHIFT BAND AID FROM SLC PUNK AND HOW IT GOT CRAZY INFECTED AND HOW THIS CANNOT BE ME.

4) I SWEAR THAT I WILL NEVER BE UP THIS LATE AGAIN. IN LITERATURE THAT TIME BETWEEN 2 AND 5 AM IS CALLED THE WITCHING HOUR BUT I HEREBY DEEM IT THE BITCHING HOUR BECAUSE THERE'S ALWAYS THIS ONE GIRL IN THE LOUNGE BITCHING TO/ABOUT SOME GUY AND SOMETIMES THAT GIRL IS ME.

5) MY STOMACH IS MAKING SAD MOUSE NOISES AND THE BITCHING HOUR GIRL CAN DEFINITELY HEAR IT AND IS SILENTLY BITCHING ABOUT THAT IN HER HEAD WHILE SHE'S BITCHING ABOUT THE GUY.

6) TAYLOR SWIFT MAKES HER MONEY OFF OF BREAKUPS AND I CAN'T TELL IF I HATE HER BECAUSE IT'S MORALLY SICKENING OR BECAUSE I'M SLIGHTLY JEALOUS OF....NOPE IT'S DEFINITELY THE FORMER STOP THE PRESSES.

7) I ACTUALLY REALLY LIKE IT HERE.

I've been making some slightly irresponsible decisions lately, and I still feel lost, but I actually feel like I'm exactly where I should be. And that means more than anything at this point in my life.

on my skin

My life has been a lovely cloud of nondescript moodiness and underutilized creativity lately, so what's a better way to procrastinate than through drawing self-imposed ballpoint pen tattoos!!!**†

**Actually, I can write this one off as "helpful diversion," because it made me realize a lot of important things about my psyche. Turns out that the prospect of getting ink'd focuses your mind on what matters most.

† Excuse my recent obnoxiously wordy tendencies. Aaand there I go again.

"Park that car, drop that phone, sleep on the floor, dream about me."
-Broken Social Scene, Anthems for a Seventeen-Year-Old Girl

This here tattoo is "don't forget it in people" on my forearm. It's a variation on the Broken Social Scene album title "You Forgot it in People." I was listening to my iPod on shuffle, and Anthems for a Seventeen-Year-Old Girl came on--the album title seemed to suddenly strike a chord with me. I too often try to find the worst in people as a way to protect myself from getting hurt. I'm too slow to trust, even with something as simple as being my actual self around somebody else. I feel like I often come off as detached because of this. I need to always remember the good in people. How amazing the sun of friendship is. And that it's worth the fall to let them in.

"The moon is always jealous of the heat of the day, just as the sun always longs for something dark and deep.”
 -Alice Hoffman, Practical Magic

This one's a pieced-togther sun and moon crescent on my upper wrist. The classic image of the sun has consistently appeared in my dreams since I was a child. Also, it represents the two contrasting aspects of my personality--I'm boisterously silly, optimistic, and spontaneous. I'm simultaneously introverted, self-conscious, and a rabidly deep thinker. My life is a constant battle between these two extremes. I'm often taken too seriously, or not seriously enough. I write both tragedies and comedies. This tattoo is a reminder that the two sides of myself can coexist, and that they are both equally necessary for me to be myself. I need to remember that they help, not hinder each other.

"Sometimes I think that I'm bigger than the sound, I think that I'm bigger than the sound, I think that I'm bigger than the sound, I THINK THAT I'M BIGGER THAN THE SOUND *sexy guitar riff* "
-Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Cheated Hearts

This one, I messed up. But it's supposed to be Karen O's lips dripping in black on my lower forearm. First of all, Karen O just rocks. I admire her creativity, style, and general badass-ness. I love how she balances toughness with femininity, and how her singing is so raw. I love that she has a sense of humor about herself and her music, but it doesn't take away from its honesty. I also feel a connection to her because she was born in the same town as me. It all basically just inspires me to take on the world.

Chances are that I'll never actually get any of these tattoos, and maybe that's for the best--everything about me is so transient, I could never commit to any of them for my entire life. And I don't need to. But as long as there's a Papermate around, I can be an office-supply-store certified badass.

and so this is college

Oh, Ali. Oh my gosh Ali. You have no idea what you're about to accomplish. You have no idea who you're about to become.

You have no idea what you're capable of.

Every fiber of your being that has strung you along since you were a child has culminated into this.

And I'm talking to my younger self, by the way, because I can't believe how much has changed, how much I've changed, since I last posted. During my last post, I was chained to my mint gingham chair by the unbreakable links of pneumonia, watching Arrested Development, The Office, Donnie Darko--all of the things I should have watched years ago. I was a breath away from college, and changing already.

And now I'm here.

Sitting on the top bunk bed, my top bunk bed, in my dorm. To my left is a pattern of stick-on mirrors, a pink-and-green Modest Mouse poster, a Garden State movie poster, a Hello Kitty calendar, a blue-and-pink Keane poster, a long Coldplay poster to stare at as I drift to sleep, and a picture of my brother and I as badass kids, wearing leather jackets and standing next to our first puppy-love, Jazz.

And I'm delicately drowning in joy and hope.

My time at Fordham hasn't been without doubt, pain, and pitfalls, but it's been wonderful in ways I never even knew were possible. And it's exactly what I need.

I've accomplished so much. For sanity's sake, I'll only talk about this weekend.

On Friday, I saw the alt-rock band Cheers Elephant play at Rodrigues, Fordham's magical coffee house. I wore a kickass dusty-rose-pink skull crop top, a striped black-and-white blazer, jeans, and charcoal cotton heels. I danced crazily with my friends, and sang along to all of the words, even though I didn't know a single one. I pushed myself to the front of the crowd with my friend, and we both won a free CD because were undoubtedly the best dancers in the room. I made silly faces at the lead singer and he smiled at me.

After, the crowd clung together outside, and I saw some old friends and attempted to make new ones. I left with my other friend, and we said we were going to the bar, but each step took us further from that plan. We watched Tiny Furniture and music videos while eating Pugsley's pizza instead.

On Saturday, my friend and I went to the Columbia University Media Conference, where we rubbed elbows and ate sandwiches with writers/editors from the likes of the New York Times, Gawker, and Slate. I hung onto every word they said. Columbia is a utopia, I swear, and the path to get there was immeasurably beautiful. We went through Morningside Park and climbed a million stairs Rocky-style to get to there. New York City is unreal.

Today, on Sunday, I slept through my morning plans. But after hours of unprecedented concentration and isolation, I finished my article for the Fordham newspaper, in which I interviewed Tony Hawk and Stacy Peralta, two of skateboarding's most massive stars.

And here I am. My name hasn't changed. But everything else has. I feel powerful and strong, but I have so, so far to go. But I know I can get there.

"Goodnight, and good luck."-Edward Murrow, a new inspiration of mine. One of many. Many to come.

    Edward Murrow, badass extraordinaire 

       Ali G, badass extraordinaire (in training)