"Change. It seemed too simple to be the cure for depression; nevertheless, a cure it was. "
Black Hawk College
When fall classes began at college and I found myself on the inside looking out, time was once again a rare gem. Balancing a full load of study in one hand and what had evolved into a hateful job in the other, I soon found myself nervous beyond all levels of acceptability.
Some people thrived on activity, and the more deadlines they had to meet the better they performed. I did not. For me, school in itself expended plenty of effort, and with the added pressure of my job, wherein I now had to work at a newly installed, central cashier island, I watched helplessly as my sanity wore away. The new system was chaotic and inefficient; two cashiers had to meet the demands of patrons who congregated on all four sides of the island. There were no numbers or lines to assure that customers were served at their proper time, and special sales from the surrounding departments were never clarified to any reasonable extent, leaving us to distinguish "bargains" through catalogued stock numbers and tips from the customer.
Under such slow procedures, anger and pandemonium were the routine terrors of employment. My desire to please was a virtual impossibility. To the public, "I was the store" and any disagreeable feature of the store or its policies were doused on me while the upper echelon stood beaming at a safe distance. "You'll get used to it," one particularly brash fellow would comment as I propped myself up on the counter after a long and grueling siege. Then he would spin around and walk leisurely to the escalator while I gritted my teeth in silence. I am sure he was responsible for many "bitten" tongues through the years.
When I was relieved of cashier duty my nerves were as taut as a bow-string, and to dissipate my energy, I would zing about the department like an arrow to its target. I hung clothes and arranged the stock with such speed that an onlooker might have thought I was competing in a marathon.
Once home, I still could not relax. Homework, if any, demanded my thorough attention after work, so I would routinely plug in the coffee maker and brew twelve cups of caffeine. With a warm mug in one hand, I was able to perceive with intelligence the content of books and write themes which otherwise might have dissolved altogether through the debilitating numbness of fatigue. When I had completed my studies to my satisfaction I allowed myself the liberty to prepare for sleep.
"Going to get your four hours?" Norm would tease. Actually, it was more like six hours. I am sure my body would have preferred eight. However, the caffeine had the ability to bluff my body's requirements and I happened to need all of the waking hours I could reasonably obtain. Thus, six hours of sleep plus twelve cups of coffee equaled one day of maximum level performance.
Unfortunately I failed to acknowledge the existence of hidden parts of the equation which, in reality, were the most important regarding its successful outcome. One could not give 100 percent of himself toward all areas of demand; there would be nothing left. Before realizing this concept, I fell into the hole that I had been so intent upon digging; having depleted myself, I stood alone at the bottom of the pit. My confidence was no longer a staff, for it had crumbled on my way down.
Thereafter, little I did was worth any merit; it should have been better. Self-satisfaction was almost an impossibility, so I tried not to direct notice. Even when I appraised myself in the mirror, I saw only pounds that needed not thrive on my body.
Sept. 14, 1980… Work 12-4. Not a bad day. Pizza for supper. I gotta lose more weight.
I was very depressed, yet so busy that my depression had taken on emotional nuances of its own before I took the time to utilize objectivity and see my problem. Meanwhile I had erected many of the building blocks of an anorexic; though I wished no attention, I felt emotionally "small" and naturally turned to dieting as a means of attaining physical smallness.
What had begun with scrutinizing my body before a mirror and weighing myself at least twice a day blossomed into an obsession. I became an expert on the subject of calories, reading every article and scanning every chart to ascertain that my daily intake of food never exceeded my minimum requirement. If I ate too much, I turned to exercise as a partner to dieting. Indulging in a late night snack would make it necessary to burn the calories before bedtime, and I would do 45 minutes of leg-kicks and lifts to alleviate the guilt of eating. I even encouraged a nervous state within myself to burn more calories at work. I began to view diet pop and coffee as alternatives to eating without feeling physically deprived. The caffeine helped me to retain energy without having ingested a bulk of calories. I also lied to avoid eating. If Mom told me to take some meat, I would say I was not hungry and would eat it later. Later, of course, never came. I stopped accompanying my parents to restaurants to better adhere to my diet plan, not trusting myself when faced with a tempting menu; my supper would then consist of a bowl of lettuce and one half of a glass of milk.
When the subject of dieting became my favorite topic of discussion, I realized I was not simply trying to lose weight; my compulsive behavior did not originate from the thought that I was over-weight, but rather something far greater that I had chosen to ignore. I studied my obsession and grew fascinated by it. Never before had I given such power to an emotionally derived fixation (except perhaps picking my nails into virtual oblivion; that, however, was a habit, not an obsession, and had no authority over my common sense).
After its discovery, I looked upon my fanatic dieting as a "willful distortion of reality," for I knew what I was doing. As if toying with or testing myself, I allowed my emotions to "feel fat"; since I was aware of the irrational view of myself, I perceived that it would not rule me and I was in no danger. Something within me made it impossible to lose control. I was fortunate; I was able to understand, indeed, feel the terror of an addiction without personally submitting to its reign.
I was curious to find the strength of this radical self-perception and how long my rationality would tolerate its existence, as it certainly affected my life on a daily basis. It happened that I allowed my diet to carry on until I weighed 115 pounds, at which point my parents, Norm and several friends were truly worried about my thinness. Crazy though it was, I continued, emotionally speaking, to view myself as overweight; rationally, however, I knew I was too thin, and not desiring to be a source of concern for my loved ones, decided the diet had proceeded long enough.
Yes, the diet would come to a halt. However, there would need to be additional changes in my lifestyle to combat the underlying problem. Because I had allotted ample time for self-observation, I pin-pointed my problem as having stemmed from physical and mental exhaustion. Also to blame, but initially less apparent, was an evasive need for freedom and personal time. . . which had always eluded my control. I was trapped between asserting a nasty declaration of independence and submitting entirely to those who would rule my time; total conqueror or total prisoner seemed my only alternatives, and disliking both, ignored the issue.
Returning to the more obvious realm of change as dictated by exhaustion, my first act of healing was to quit my job.
The results were marvelous. Even before I was actually through working at the store, I found the strain had been lifted from my mind. I was flooded with relief and realized that, for months, I had not emanated such happiness. Previously, I reflected, happiness only came in the form of doing something for someone else. Thinking about myself brought a sense of disgust and the need to deny myself of life's pleasures. The greatest compliment I could have been given at that time was, "You're so skinny!" If I heard comments in just suggesting that I was in any way overweight, I would still take them seriously; Norm caught on to my twisted thinking and quickly began calling me "Hair-on-a-stick." It was a name I loved. . . and one that aged with me, although I never again turned to such destructive means of abating depression.
Ode To The Furnace
A groan,A rumble,Click!Sputter!…Then…pop!The furnace turned on,But my heart nearly stopped!
Lauren IsaacsonJanuary 1981
Prey
The flightOf the owl…Vise-like talonsStifle life…The ceasingof breath.
Lauren IsaacsonJanuary 1981
The Endless Vigil
Step carefully, now,For a house never sleeps;Beware of the hallway…The second plank creaks!The stairs to the basementWill yawn in dismayAt the touch of a strangerTiptoeing away.Hush!…not a wordNear the southern most vent…(On revealing one's presenceThis house is bent!)For an echoing messageWill rumble and shout;"Someone is here,Of this there's no doubt!"Step carefully, now,For a house never sleeps…Quietly whispering,A vigil it keeps.
Lauren IsaacsonJanuary 27, 1981
Change. It seemed too simple to be the cure for depression; nevertheless, a cure it was. Not all changes would be as easy as quitting a job or dropping a class; I would not allow myself to be fooled by my relative success regarding the cessation of dieting. Some changes, I realized, would hurt myself and others, and these were the ones that would deal with my freedom. . . my time; they would be the most important changes of my life, and to forever avoid these would lock me in an unhappy state of being. One day I knew they would be faced, for to deprive myself of happiness would be a deprivation of growth, and life without growth would be worse than death. Thus, before growth's stagnation, change.
Mar. 15, 1981… I can live, love and laugh because I have known my emotions; I have experienced ecstasy as well as depression. Serenity, though, lies midway between the high and the low.
I was staring thoughtfully through the windshield. "I think maybe the reason I can't make decisions is because I lack confidence, I guess."
Norm glanced over at me from the driver's seat, his eyebrows punctuating a look of disbelief. "Man," he said, "That's great!" enjoying the moment to its fullest.
My statement had rolled from my lips with unflinching honesty. It was a gut analysis, a spontaneous reaction that could not be retracted once spun into words. I shook my head. "It's pretty pathetic, isn't it?" I laughed. It became the joke of the month between us, made more humorous by the fact that it was true.
For the most part I was able to enjoy life after quitting my job. My anorexic tendencies slowly disappeared and I turned my attention away from food. School was my only real obligation, and though I applied more pressure to various assignments than perhaps was necessary, I was satisfied with the final results because I knew I had done my best. I found that certain subjects made me come alive with interest, and while self-confidence remained low, confidence in my school work increased rapidly. Occasionally I dueled with guilty qualms when I was indulging in recreational activities because I wondered if I had studied enough. Rhetorically speaking, however, by what measure and under whose authority is "enough" determined? Norm, more than anyone, helped me to see the necessity of "letting go". . . of saying, "enough!" and turning my back. He felt little obligation which allowed him to do as he wished; when his emotional well-being was at stake, few people could alter his stance. He spent time as, and with whom, he desired. If he chose to be alone, he made sure no one interfered with his intention. At times Norm's reactions unintentionally hurt the feelings of others, yet his sanity remained intact; he knew his limits, and made certain they were never reached.
I, on the other hand, would plow headlong into a doubtful situation at the expense of my emotional well-being, to avoid hurting another individual's feelings. I would endure intolerable people and ready myself for the asylum, while the person rattled on and thought well of me. After his or her departure, Norm would be responsible for finding a putty knife and scraping me off the ceiling.
It was no secret between me and myself that I despised a fight. I controlled anger with a fervor, frightened that I could not defend my position if the recipient of my vehemence chose to see red. Quite removed from anger, though, I could not even wage a modest war against the persuasive tactics of those who would pirate my wish for solitude or guarantee myself "equal" time in a conversation; if I was not blessed with a fair companion, my desire to spend time alone was rarely respected and my views were seldom heard. How was it possible to say "no" without being hounded until my response was "yes"?. . .or claim my share of the conversation without rudely interrupting with, "shut up!"?…
I hated to hurt people; I once had a hard time hanging up on a prank phone call. Nevertheless, I knew I was still slightly depressed, and until I was able to defeat my lack of aggression, I would continue to be haunted by the weakness and resent those who dexterously wielded the power of persuasion over my head.
During a sociology course based on the family, students were given various choices for extended study beyond those areas covered in the classroom discussions and book reading. Because I loved to write, I decided to keep a journal of my personal views on relationships. As I had previously discovered, writing helped me to clarify my emotions in a logical and systematic fashion; knowing this, I looked upon the assignment quite favorably. It had been some time since I had last spilled the contents of my mind onto paper, and an assignment dictating that I do so granted me the time I needed to pursue my beliefs in depth and reflect on personal experiences and observations. This assignment would be no waste of time.
I rarely ventured anywhere without a note pad and pen. When I was enlightened by relevant thoughts or glimpsed feelings that pertained to my journal entries, the note pad would suddenly appear and I would scrawl viciously until I had captured the idea in permanent ink. Soon I possessed a hoard of ideas and encapsulated thoughts which would serve to fuel the concepts expressed in the journal itself.
Essay:Views on Choice
". . . one's self can be either his best friend or in selfishness, his worst enemy."
The normal human mind is to be used; primarily it allows man to survive. It then allows an immense capacity for growth, and a definition of values toward compatible co-existence. A child grows to adulthood, and similarly, his brain and thoughts are able to mature; he can choose between instinctual selfishness or attempt to view life with a broader scope, thereby improving the world he touches by improving himself. The more the mind grows, the more humble its "master" becomes, for he realizes that knowledge is infinity and infinity cannot be encapsulated in the human brain.
It is not enough to say simply "we are what we are," for although there are certain aspects of one's personality which, I feel, are unchangeable, I must also believe that man has a certain amount of liberty over his actions; yet possessing that mental freedom, man also is capable of perverting both instinctual behavior and societal standards of conduct.
The ideas of right and wrong are generally clarified for each person by his elders when he is yet quite young. Even those with learning disabilities and those who are not severely mentally retarded have the ability to distinguish between socially defined "good" and "bad" behavior. When children grow into adulthood, it is difficult to view wrongdoing as simply "bad behavior," much less "acceptable"; one has been taught to think, and then to act.
Even when the environmental aspects through one's youth are considered, certainly the expectations of behavior and conduct are taught in the school; the child cannot say he was not aware of the societal rules, despite any lack of respect for those rules in the home. Each individual possesses a mind of his own; he is free to act upon or disregard negative pressure.
Saying evil occurred due to environmental pressures is, perhaps, today's way of avoiding the issue of bad and good behavior, blaming life's circumstances for immorality, instead of facing the fact that the person made a wrong decision of his own accord. Those who continually blame other people and circumstances for their personality disturbances gain little respect, for one can choose with whom and in what manner he desires to spend his time. Exceptions shall always exist, yet often a grand problem can be reduced by making select changes in one's life; changes such as a transferal from a tough job situation, or the decision to stop interactions with a "friend" who truly is not a friend. People must be responsible for their own actions, although it is always easier to blame, to utilize a scapegoat. It is virtual music to the ears to hear someone in this age admit that he has made a mistake or has done a grave disservice to humankind.
The environment argument robs each person of his individuality, for if one cannot be punished for wrongdoing then he cannot be applauded for decent behavior. It would be as if one was a robot, devoid of character, and stripped of choice. Furthermore, the fact that two children from the same environment, indeed, the same home, can grow to be complete opposites in character, subtracts environmental importance regarding one's disposition and life choices. It is not so much the environment as the manner in which one reacts to it that forms one's personality.
There are countless choices in life; whether to lie, or tell the truth, to cheat or be fair; whether to be unresponsive or kind, to give or, like a child, demand constant nurturing. Then, of course, there are degrees of tolerance regarding the enactment of distasteful traits and illegal practices. While a minor may snatch a bottle of liquor and proceed to intoxicate himself in the woods behind his house, an adult can legally indulge, yet will then climb into his car and drive haphazardly to his next destination; an under-aged drinker, and a drunk driver…both are illegal, but for me there is no contest as to which is the worse offender since the "adult" drunk is jeopardizing lives with each block he passes.
When other crimes are committed, such as mass slayings and violent attacks upon innocent victims, insanity is often utilized as a way to avoid severe punishment. While certain individuals may well be apart from reality, surely not all of those who claim insanity are, for they knew exactly what they did, as well as the implications and seriousness of the crime.
When an apparently mentally intact adult commits such a brutal violation of the societal code of conduct, it is difficult to rationalize his behavior as acceptable by way of insanity; certainly he exercised a choice, worsened by the fact that he was an adult. He did not use self-control; though he felt murderous, he did not have to act upon his impulse.
If an individual was bound inextricably to a fore-fated disposition by (God) then his actions would prove nothing as to the man's character… that is, his inherent ability to choose right over wrong. If God undertook the creation of a perfectly "good man," in so much that he, the man, was incapable of doing evil, the man could not receive applause for his acts of good will because he essentially had no other choice.
In conversations with my father, he often offered an inquiry for discussion as to which man is essentially the "better" of the following: a non-drinker who, without the slightest twinge of anxiety, refuses a drink, or the alcoholic who, fighting desperately, also refuses a drink as sweat forms upon his brow. My father could always come to the conclusion that the non-drinker was, in essence, the weaker of the two described since he felt no temptation in the first place and could not be congratulated for a decision which created no mental turmoil.
The above analogy could be substituted in many arenas of human weakness. Though the degree of temptation toward wrong-doing varies among its subjects, I believe the most courage and fortitude of character is demonstrated by those who are able to rule their impulses and seek the road of a clear conscience. A battle won with oneself against injustice will always remain a noble endeavor; one's self can be either his best friend or in selfishness, his worst enemy. There are times in everyone's life when two or more choices present themselves for inspection; and it is not always easy to choose the ethical course of action, yet for those who are mentally aware of themselves and the people who share their world, there should ideally exist only one choice, the benevolent choice.
It will never be possible for one human to completely judge another's character, and likewise carry out justice on earth. Even if the committers of crimes are punished, justice will not come to the victim who suffered the loss or trauma. The victim's pain can recede, but it cannot be washed away. My mother told me once that when she was a little girl, she thought God would strike down evil people, and they would one day fall over, dead and benign. It did not take long for her young eyes to see that life was not that way. However, one can, perhaps, derive a small amount of satisfaction from hope vested in "ultimate justice" and the idea that a being far greater than the greatest human is able to detect one's truthfulness and the depth of his knowledge of right and wrong.
Essay:Views on Awareness
"An individual who is not one with his inner core cannot hope to give of himself fully, for his mind encompasses only his life, and not life itself. "
The inevitable passage of time, varying levels of maturity, and our life experiences are all elements which, in part, have the power to change our outlook on life and alter our personality; it is yet the mind, however, which fully determines our reaction. To illustrate this point, allow me to create the following scenario; two women, both of whom enjoy a life of queenly leisure, are one day forced to face their husbands' untimely death, thereby obliterating a prime factor in their story book existence. One woman, quite distressed, solemnly prepares for her husband's funeral arrangements. After the initial shock of his sudden departure from the earth, she is able to settle into her daily routine once again.
The other woman, however, is completely unable to accept the solid truth that her husband is dead. She pines remorsefully through each day and wearies her friends with her incessant lamentations. So obsessed with the mourning of her late husband is she, that she eventually falls into deep depression and seeks the aid of a psychiatrist.
Thus we have seen two instances which have had numerous circumstances in common, yet the manner in which the women reacted to their misfortune was markedly different. This leads me to believe that an individual is essentially who he will ever be at birth, excluding, of course, those accidental occurrences which mar and sometimes obliterate certain abilities of both mind and body.
Despite my belief that a person will be essentially unchanged from his mental and behavioral patterns as determined at birth, there is within each individual a certain ability to change; however, the potential must be there. One cannot become someone or something for which he lacks all foundation.
That which allows an individual to overcome the reins of selfishness and base behavior, and to grow toward the best image of himself is awareness. It is the key to change and self-improvement, and through these qualities I believe it also sets one free.
Awareness is not easily given to definition, having so many variables which shroud its very essence in obscurity. It is more than one's perception of the world; it is also the ability of an individual to view himself with objectivity and in turn, understand the way in which he is visualized by others; it is seeing the world through an eagle's eyes, and conducting oneself in such a manner as to avoid injuring humankind; it is demonstrating respect to one's neighbors and associates in a way which is conducive to nature's intent and societal congeniality. It is the ability to know when the time is right to voice one's opinions and when, also, to remain silent; it is restraining habits in the presence of others which are discourteous or distracting; it is conducting oneself in a manner respectful of himself and the whole of society, for without the benefit of the unselfish, the world could not exist.
Unlike other aspects of ability, awareness is not a factor which is easily determined. This is so because there is no scale by which to calculate awareness as there is in dealing with educational acuteness. Moreover, awareness does not necessarily reflect intelligence; one can be extremely intelligent yet possess no sensitivity regarding his conduct. To further add to the confusion, everyone feels himself to be aware of his actions; while some undoubtedly control every aspect of their personality in public situations, others feel as if they are perceptive, but conduct themselves rather distastefully in the midst of others. Once alerted to their actions, they are able to alter their behavior. Still others continue to demonstrate highly irregular behavioral patterns even after candid instruction, for they feel their actions are in no way peculiar, and are not hesitant to say there is no reason for them to change. Then, of course, the true victims of insanity are not responsible for their actions, for reality has become distorted and vague; the same is true of mentally retarded individuals.
Just as every human being has mental and physical potentials, so, I believe, do we have an "awareness potential." In all things there are degrees of performance and capabilities which are instilled within us long before birth; these seeds can sometimes lay dormant until, perhaps, the need arises for their use or they are, in effect, stumbled upon by their master. Though we may well attain our potential in a certain area, whether it be consciousness toward societal behavior or an inexplicable hatred for the mathematical language, there are other mental and physical arenas which are seemingly boundless in regard to one's capabilities; I tend to think of these as one's "natural gifts" which apparently grow with little effort on the part of the individual thus endowed. We are not created equal in the mental, emotional, or physical sense; we do, however, excel in various facets of each. Thus, while its presence alone determines if one can change, the amount of one's awareness is the controlling factor of how much one can change.
Through observation and extensive thought, I have reached the conclusion that any obsessive self-indulgence or selfishness is merely a hollow attempt by the individual thus incensed to fill an emotional void. Self-love is quite separate from self-infatuation, with the latter lacking all objectivity in thinking because all thought is mirrored toward oneself. Selfishness is an insatiable hunger which consumes far too many individuals; as with all obsessive emotions, it feeds upon the imprisoned mind, destroying the love and replacing it with malignant desire, resulting in no less than hatred.
No one can read the mind of another, or delve therein for the truthfulness of his statements or actions. Only the individual knows whether he is giving his best or if selfishness is the controlling power behind all deeds. I do feel, however, that one who displays a knowledge of all restrictions and codes of conduct regarding another's rightful behavior toward himself is also capable of returning respect and cordiality, for obviously he is aware of societal expectations.
When a person is aware of his faults but makes no effort to change, he is a leech upon society which drains others of their rightly earned freedoms, whether as simple as desiring a yard bereft of dog litter or the wish for tranquillity, or as significant as the right to security and peace within the home. He who takes from society without returning something of himself gains the regard of no one. One determines the way in which he shall be treated by his self-conduct; respect begets respect.
The person who indulges in selfishness is a most distressing companion; he demands rather than asks, and will not take "no" for an answer; he is opinionated and short-sighted, seeing only the effects a certain measure will have upon his own welfare; he feels he knows everything, and will be pleased to fill one in; if he listens, he will misconstrue the information or turn it around to suit himself. One unwilling to change himself looks only to his own needs; he is unable to release his child-like mentality for fear that he shall not receive "his share"; riding abreast of laziness, rebellion, resentment, or another usually child-like mode of behavior, he locks himself in a prison which he himself built. Indeed, he would be pitied if he was not so abhorred; yet it is unfair to expect a share of the harvest if one has not also planted seed in the field. Thus instead of attempting to discover the true problem behind his emptiness, the self-centered individual often ignores his mind's plea for help and tries to fulfill himself through that which others will give, creating a most devastating hindrance toward personal growth.
One must develop his mind to the point that he can love and accept himself, and regard his flaws not as hopeless, but rather, attributes which, with growth, will be overcome. Only through undiluted awareness can one develop wholeness of character. An individual who is not one with his inner core cannot hope to give of himself fully, for his mind encompasses only his life, and not life itself.
While awareness allows one to discover his faults, honesty clarifies them. Looking into one's own character can be unpleasant and even distressing, for there is no one who does not wish to erase certain mindless inclinations and base emotions from his personality slate. However, without the initial realization and acceptance of such faults, no reversal shall take place. It is through these confessions to oneself that one is able to grow and eventually change into a being more worthy of his own existence in the realm of nature. I view honesty as a product of love. Therefore, honesty toward oneself must be of utmost importance in the development of self-love and the creation of inner wholeness. In this scope, perhaps it could be said that irrationality is an attempt to "mask" selfishness, for few who act toward the benefit of humanity will inflict upon it needless pain. For the most part, only thoughtlessness proves injurious to the masses. Just as it is important to nurture one's character, so is it imperative to see the whole character and weed from it that which desires to choke and plague its life and surrounding lives.
I believe that each individual desires to be liked by his fellow man and have a sense of "belonging" . . . (although certain individuals so desire companionship that they succumb to the notions of others and rob themselves of a personality). They want to possess a feeling of individuality, and be accepted for who they are and wish to become.
Far from perfect, I realize that I could use an infinite amount of improvement within my character, and despite the menacing flaws which I must face, I feel quite fortunate to be able to acknowledge them, for without detection, they could not be overcome. I hope that I will grow in strength and love until I no longer live, for when inner growth stagnates, one essentially dies.
Soul's Voyage
Alone, I observeIn the eerie glowThe earth-bound voyageOf falling snow.The trees are all cladIn angelic white…Such calm I findOn this midwinter's night!Framed by the door,'Twas the picture of peaceAnd earnestly beckonedMy soul to releaseThat I might lose myselfIn night's deepest confines,Ne'er to returnTo life's dismal design.My heart would not yearn,Nor would it pineFor a life that was lostTo one more divine.Ah, but alas!And how the night fliesFrom dawn's icy fingersAnd wind's bitter cries!'Twas naught but a dream:The night gone byWhen moonbeam raysKissed snow-drenched skies!Ah, cruel memory!Disparaging blow!For my hopes are consumed'Neath the deepening snow.
Lauren IsaacsonJanuary 1981
"Owning a healthy sense of self-worth was not immodesty but protection against vulnerability. "
Interlude
Jan.—Feb. 1981… I am a loner, used to spending time alone …I dislike a lot of contact…
….I am a listener, although not always by choice…
….I think a lot… contemplate life (and) death. Is there such a thing as thinking too much?
. . .I know myself through observations and experiences and my writing.
Writing is sometimes the only means through which I can express myself, for I found that, being a listener, I usually help people more than they do me. I perhaps begin, but more often than not, I fail to say what I set out to say. I wonder if this makes good relationships…all ear and no mouth. (But) I feel better giving than receiving.
…One must be receptive, or the relationship cannot last.
…The amount one discloses about (him) self is oftentimes parallel to the amount of attention given (to him) by the partner. If one listens with the intensity of a brick wall, it naturally follows that the other will be less likely to express feelings in other situations…he feels shut out.
…He is the chief voice in the relationship. (He) says he will listen to me, but unless I talk in an unending flow until I'm finished, he breaks in with a response and continues to elaborate upon it until I have virtually forgotten my thoughts. I have found short, powerful phrases the only means to convey my beliefs at times…or reading my personal essays and poems to him. Sometimes I feel small . . . I am unable to make myself heard.
Feb. 1981… Although a relationship is composed of a great deal of sharing and companionship, the need for privacy must be respected. Each individual needs to maintain a firmly established sense of identity to fully give of that self. Grow side by side and learn from each other…two vines cannot grow on one tree lest they strangle their support and eventually, each other.
…I find it most exciting to discover someone and watch him grow in his understanding of life. I could not live with myself if I felt I was purposely attempting to mold another individual to fit my perception of the "ideal mate." I once told (my boyfriend) that I would rather break up with him than change him, for propensities which I found disturbing would be virtually non-existent to someone else. He has as much of a right to live and love in his own way as I have.
…The friendship which (he) and I share is invaluable and irreplaceable. Perhaps it is because I place no supreme importance on romanticism that our friendship is my deepest gratification.
In another composition, I wrote these words:
I look not for the ideal because idealistic individuals are often quite disappointed when their "key" is ultimately bigger than the "lock." Instead I give my best and accept life as it comes. My concept of happiness consists of satisfying the mind to achieve emotional stability. I try to look to each day as another chance to grow in knowing myself and my world. My "ideal" would include a total acceptance of life and a perfection of love.
During that period of time, I also expressed with morbid cynicism my inability to dissuade a friend from his use of marijuana. The poem, although somewhat disturbing, projects my hostility toward a habit which claimed sufficient importance that it continued despite my open concern.
1981
Is life (for you)So dull and meaningless….Is it so necessary to escape,To drift from reality,To pull awayFrom summer's soft and fragrant breeze,And mold into a beingWhich is not yourselfBut rather,Some distorted orb of existence…If you so desireTo kill yourself,Draw your plans…Burn the grass…Blow your charred breathInto the baggy…And pop it.Be daring.Your loss of lifeSeems so indifferent.Why not go out with a roar,Like the coming of March,Instead of this infernal,Everlasting,Torture.The suspense is killing me,And I'm ready for a good show.I'll applaud…I'm a good and experienced audience.I'll be intent (as you)On your motive.Can't you get it overSo I can go home,As usual,And take off my clothesAnd my make-upAnd roll my hair…So I can play BozoTomorrowTomorrowIn the great showCalled LifeThat never endsExcept for you, my friend.
It was evident in my writing that I harbored discontent. Perhaps this was because I had recognized the elements and images of good relationships. In my written kaleidoscope, I contrasted generalizations with personal experiences; I was aware of what I wanted in a relationship of romantic nature and knew that my current relationship did not have the capacity to fulfill those characteristics. I had been trying to forcibly extract romantic inclinations from within myself and adhere them to primarily platonic feelings. I was not blind; in the brilliant sunlight, I had seen reality, but rather than facing the light or turning my back, I had simply chosen to wear sun-glasses to cut down the glare. For a time it had been the easiest solution; now, with a certain degree of fear, I knew I could no longer deflect the truth.
For several months I continued to drift along, contemplating life's moments and my reactions to them. I had been letting life "happen" without becoming involved in the decisions that were at least partially mine; self-confidence had withered, robbing me of my voice and my ability to decide how my time would be spent.
Toward the end of spring, my personal analysis bloomed; although the flowers, my conclusions, were not delicate things of beauty. I found I had transformed into someone who I disliked, feeding on a tremendous wall of resentment. Since I was not strong enough to simply discontinue the romance, I began to create areas of conflict, tempting him to argue or basting him with his faults. Knowing that he generally avoided disagreements at all costs, I tactfully asked questions for the purpose of testing his genuiness of character and individualism. I tried to induce friction to see when and if he would take a stand, yet he never would. I began to wonder if he possessed any opinions of his own.
Needless to say, the time we spent together was not joyous for either of us. I grew irritated at little eccentricities and habits, sometimes with good reason, and on other occasions, without. Even simple companionship, which I had once valued, became a victim of the blighted romance; as he sought to do everything in his power to maintain the romance, stressing that our problems would pass, I strained violently against his intentions with the hope that our relationship could deflate to the status of friendship. It was a battle that neither wished to lose and blazed ever more intensely through the days because nothing was lost or gained. I was unable to walk away and he refused to shake my hand. There was no room for compromise.
May 30, 1981… West Lake. Doubtful…thought (he) and I might break up. We just sat on the blanket in silence, and then I went over and picked a wild rose and brought it back. I showed it to him. "It has thorns," he said. "Some of the prettiest things have thorns," I replied. "I know." He squeezed my hand.
When summer came I felt the relief of having no obligations. Time was my own, logically, but I had to laugh at the thought. "Who are you fooling?" a voice cackled from somewhere. I mused for a second and then became annoyed. "You don't refuse him calls and dates, because you are afraid of hurting him, yet, when you are together, you display few loving qualities!"
By harboring such hostility, I was hurting both of us. I began to realize more damage was done through seeing him than if I would collect myself and entirely pull away from the relationship.
He did not want to let go, that was a given. I needed more time; that too was a given. In one last attempt to stress my needs, I asked him to grant me three days of complete solitude, during which time he would not call or visit; after some argument, he agreed.
Time was a gift, and the first and second days were marvelous. I was alone and it felt wonderful. The third day, however, brought duress via the mail; unable to let go, he sent me a letter. I was decidedly angry, considering the letter a breach of promise. After all I had not asked for much. Three days. It had not seemed an unfair request.
Disappointed, I folded the letter and returned it to its envelope. Some things in life seemed so impossible. It was ironic that, through various ways of caring, people could hurt each other so badly.
The following events changed my outlook on life toward the positive, which at the time meant an improved self-image. My parents had noted my lack of confidence and perceived it was a marked impediment. Without an agreeable opinion of oneself a person cannot hope to lead a full life; fear of failure precedes and echoes every step, eventually leading to emotional immobilization.
Out of exasperation for my warped self-image, Mom took matters into her hands and enrolled me in a charm class, acting upon the theory that a woman's confidence was directly related to her appearance. I objected, but Mom insisted that I go. Thus, with reluctant steps and an uneasy stomach, I drove to my first class.
Students were challenged to enhance unique features with which they were born. Rather than criticizing oneself, the emphasis was on improvement. This involved a thorough evaluation wherein one's traits were honestly viewed, after which a commentary was meticulously written for the instructor. Every student was given an individual make-up consultation, and as a weekly assignment, we were to come to class wearing make-up and proper attire. We learned the correct way to walk, sit and gesture, and were instructed concerning hair care, manicures, diets and exercise.
The most beneficial aspect of the class from my point of view was learning. . .or perhaps simply remembering. . . that no one was perfect. Moreover, vanity in carefully measured doses was not frivolous; beauty dealt more with the ability to project one's inner self than painting and displaying the surface characteristics. Though it may sound shallow, the compliments which I received in class by my instructor were the stimuli I needed to reinforce the image reflected in my mirror. For the first time in months, I felt good about who I was on the inside, even though I had to begin my "renovation" on the outside.
Toward the middle of July I was able to escape in every sense of the word when Norm and I took our second vacation together. I knew the week would grant me time and distance required to objectively view my troubled "romance." The trip meant a chance for both fun and reflection.
We stayed, once again, in the basement level unit of last year's motel. Upon entering, we quickly noted that no changes had been made. The same relic radio still graced the dresser, and the same avocado crushed velvet bedspread sagged drearily to meet the worn carpets covering the floor. It was somehow a pleasant sight, albeit the fact that the place desperately needed attention; I guess it was like a worn out pair of tennis shoes, ugly yet be-loved for the sake of the mileage and memories which they represented.
The following morning, as we strode toward the car, we truly felt at home when we noticed the sadistic mailman of the previous year busily engaged with Marion. We looked on with amazement. The one undesirable factor of last year's vacation had reappeared!
Hoping to escape recognition, we quietly loaded the car while he jawed away, absorbed in his story of the hour. We might have slipped from the parking lot had it not been for Marion's eyes flicking repeatedly from him to us. We both had one leg in the car when a huge bellow resounded from his direction.
"Hey! Weren't you the folks with the Dart?"
We felt as if responding with a "yes" would be an admission of guilt for some heinous crime. "We were the ones!" Norm replied, pulling himself into the protection of the car and starting the engine. My brother was artfully combining politeness with perpetual motion. A brief exchange ensued as the car rolled slowly backward from its parking space, then a shift into low gear signaled that the conversation had ended.
"Catch ya later," the man yelled after us. He never did.
Five days dissolved, one into the next, until the week's peaceful interlude came to an end. The time had allowed my emotions to rest and my mind to clear. Questions which I feared to answer now appeared to have lost their malignancy, and I had gathered the courage to enact the unsavory business of breaking up. Nothing would dissuade me; my decision had been made and its certainty felt like the cool breezes in which it had been developed.
I came home feeling revitalized and cleansed. Nature's splendor, Norm's companionship and time to enjoy for its own sake; these were the aspects of life which, for me, made it uncomplicated and full.
With my decision firmly planted I was a changed individual, and it was obvious to my boyfriend that the summer would not bring us closer together. Confidence helped me to overcome his heartiest attempts to reroute my intentions or confuse my thoughts and within days after returning from Colorado, I did what we both knew was inevitable. As we parted, I was drowned in sorrow. . . for myself and for him. . . and although confidence helped to dispatch a prompt conclusion to a floundering relationship, it did nothing to absorb the pain which accompanied such an end.
Breaking up hurt. It had to hurt. I knew I had done the right thing; like a canker, my resentment festered when in his company. I finally cared enough to let go.
I remember that night so well. We had stopped at a playground to rest on the swings after a bike ride. I was feeling quite detached and spoke very little. When the summer sun drifted from view, I stood to mount my bike, and he rose to receive the customary good-night kiss. I offered my hand as he approached, leaving no doubt that the romance was over, but he would not accept a platonic relationship. He was not ready for that; I could understand, but I would still miss him.
"Well, I guess you'll never see my black pants," he stated, reminding me that he and his mother had gone shopping earlier that day. Why did he have to say that? "Never" was so permanent. I felt tears well up in my eyes and cloud my vision, and pushing off into the gathering darkness, I realized that I may never see him again. For years he had demanded much of my time; now he was rejecting all of it. No, there was no compromise.
I pedaled home, half-blinded by tears, then rushed upstairs to my room to hurl my frustrations onto paper. Writing was the release that I needed; I had to ask myself whether or not I had done the right thing. Three pages later I was satisfied that I had, concluding my written rampage with, "I think I'll make some bran muffins."
The rest of the summer was spent as I wished, and admittedly took a degree of adjustment on my behalf. Such a wealth of time was alien to me.
As always, freedom had its price. Mine was lost companionship, and I did experience lonely moments, for he had been my principal friend as well as my boy-friend. Generally, however, I remained content with my decision. Not only had my ability to follow through with an important decision multiplied my confidence, but I was no longer haunted by the knowledge that I was hurting another individual or trying to ply him into something he was not. Moreover, as a loner, free time was most often a luxury; the rare occasions of actual loneliness were remedied through the former, positive facets of my ultimate decision.
I excitedly enrolled in the charm school's other class, which taught the skills necessary for one to become a model. Regardless of my eventual aspirations, I assumed that the class would prove enjoyable and fulfill the educational side of a glamorous dream. My intuition was accurate and I loved every minute, from performing turns and poses to working with a photographer for my own photo session.
When the class came to an end, the proprietor invited me to her office and offered me a cup of coffee. Saying that I showed promising qualities, she bid me sign a contract with her firm for local modeling opportunities. I was stunned. My portfolio had turned out quite well and I had fostered little anxiety in the class, yet such a display of high regard was a powerful and pleasant shock. Her offer bridged my loftiest hopes and without hesitation, I accepted the contract.
If humans could fly, I surely would have soared home that day. I felt so good, so whole. There was nothing that could impede my sense of freedom; no one would make my decisions or steal my time.
Owning a healthy sense of self-worth was not immodesty, but protection against vulnerability. I knew I could bestow kindness and still be shunned, or honestly state my opinion and draw hateful criticism. The difference was confidence. In many ways, life seemed too good to be true… too good, at least, for me. I could not stop suspicion from seeping into my mind; even Norm and Mom professed to be rather leary toward harboring too much optimism. Unadulterated happiness and good luck appeared in fleeting glimpses for our family, and to feel differently now was too risky. I therefore enjoyed my newly acquired good fortune with humility and wary disbelief.
All good things come to an end, and summer's end paralleled the beginning of my second year of college. I felt different that year, quite ready to welcome new opportunities. Looking back, last year's memories recalled a vision of myself trying to breathe through a plastic bag while striving to function like a normal human being. Now, constrained neither by the depression spawned of unfaced problems or subdued emotions, the world appeared as it should; I had drawn out all of the hob-goblins that my mind repressed, and scourged them.
Several weeks into the fall semester I received a letter from my ex-boyfriend. Briefly informative and somewhat impersonal, I considered it a peace offering and a suggestion that mild relations could resume between us. I was pleased. We knew each other's likes and dislikes, and had spent many recreational hours together; his casual friendship would be a pleasant addition to my good luck.
Deciding that enough time had elapsed since the rending of our emotional ties, I wrote back to him, honestly defining the hurt I had experienced and how hopeful I had been that we could one day be friends. After posting my letter, I heard from him again, almost immediately; his exuberance toward restoring a relationship was overwhelming, and it was plain that the direction he wished to take was unlike that which I had mapped. A definite knot swelled in my stomach; I did not want to relive that which had transpired between us when we were last together, and I nervously asked myself, "what have I done?"
In typical style, I suffered for awhile, drenching myself with worry until I sought my notebook to disentangle the hoard of thoughts that had just constricted my rationality.
Aug. 5, 1981… Is it wrong to have a friendship wherein one of the involved parties is highly romantically bound to the other, who is not? . . . Is it wrong to relish each other's company, ruled by the standards set by the individual who is not involved whole-heartedly? All of a sudden I feel I have greatly wronged him by writing back… Is it right to call someone to be your friend, and date him, but constantly keep him at bay? I somehow feel that I am the bait and the holder of the pole, while my "friend" is kept running in pursuit.
It always helped to see my problems in the black and white form of ink strokes on paper. Perhaps I was unrealistic to believe that two people having such different intentions could maintain a healthy relationship. I would not fret about it, I decided with determination, nor would I tolerate a reenactment of last year's folly. As long as I remembered that days were made up of individual minutes, I had no reason to burden myself with worry over that which had not yet come to pass. If I controlled the minutes, the hours, days and months would surely take care of themselves and cause no pain, for as I had written in a journal, "I can't stand to hurt anyone any more."
Beginnings and endings, life changed continually under their influence. Autumn 1981 seemed rich and alluring, a virtual invitation to walk in the sun. In a diary entry dated over one year later, my memories of that time were sweet.
Nov. 3, 1982… My life was beginning to come alive… From an experience with cancer five years before, I was given a sharp taste of the harsh brutality which is an innate, but sometimes overlooked, characteristic of life. I viewed life as highly impermanent, and believed that it was too short to spend one's precious time playing games of popularity and prestige. What mattered was feeling… experiencing… life to its fullest without marring in any way the rest of society. Modeling I saw as a potentially exhilarating encounter, which, like all facets of one's life, would inevitably come to an end. Carrying this baggage of values upon my shoulders, I felt entirely prepared for success or failure, and intended to propel myself toward modeling at full throttle. I had no idea that the end would so soon be upon me…