Things are beyond busy. The kind of busy where you are goingoingoing from 7am until 11pm and when you finally do fall into bed, your body is in such a state of high alert from trying to accomplish all the things you needed to get done that day that you feel like you mainlined coffee all day and your muscles are twitching beneath your skin as your brain attacks tomorrows hurdle's and you can't actually relax enough to fall asleep. The twisted thing is that I do not drink coffee except on the rare weekend. I love it, but I can't. This is what I am like on water and white tea - imagine me on caffeine.

Anyway, the good news: I got my first choice for my practicum placement. Which terrifies me. I chose it thinking it would be a valuable experience, look amazing on my curriculum vitae, but never thought I would actually get it. Not when I would be completing with graduate students for the placement. Impossible! Yet. So, in a few weeks I will be done with the research, lectures, and classes of my undergraduate degree. In January I will finish up my bachelor's with a stint doing assessments, creating treatment plans, running group therapy and forming discharge plans for the locked-down crisis ward of a mental health center. Baptism by fire? Well, more like baptism through psychosis, I suppose. I am sure it will be fascinating. I hope I am up to needs of the patients. I am putting my faith in the center, and the idea that they would not put patients in my care if they did not trust in my skills and were not prepared to teach and support me. That aside, it will be interesting to work with a patient population that is the exact opposite of what I have been working with nearly 2 years now.

In other academic news, I am putting together the people I would like to have write letters of recommendation for me, and so far they have all been surprisingly flattered that I asked them. Which is very cool, especially since one of those people is a nationally recognized professional. To have someone of that caliber tell you they would be honored to write a letter of recommendation for you is pretty damn amazing. She also added that I was receiving an A in her class for the semester - so, double bonus! If this spate of grades does what I hope it will do, I just might graduate with honors.

Holy shit. Graduating. And then on to the final leg of this journey I started what feels like eons ago.

I can't wrap my brain around that. I am too tired. Besides, I have studying to do.

Sometimes I can't sleep.

Sure, sometimes I awaken in the dead of night from that dream again, or from a variation thereof. But that is different. That's the body and it's inability to regain homeostasis because an electrical storm in amygdala caused the endocrine system to flood adrenaline into the body because the autonomic nervous system decided this was a fight of flight scenario that needed to be dealt with, post haste. Which just means that consciousness can be a bitch even when you are unconscious.

Sometimes, I can't sleep because apparently that is how I was wired. Melatonin deficient, perhaps.

But sometimes I can't sleep because I am worried. Do you realize that in less than 8 weeks I will be working in the field? It's stupid to worry now, of course. I put in my top 5 choices (a mental ward, an oncology ward, a county center, a group center and a suicide hotline, oh my), but have not even met with my advisor yet to discuss the areas of the population I don't want to deal with (violent and sexual offenders) much less gone on a single interview (already picked outfits, though). All the same, I can't help but wonder...where in all the years of schooling, have I learned anything vitally important to therapy? Granted, the chance that I will be doing actual therapy work at this stage in the game is about nil, but my musings are more academic than that.

You see, I can tell you all about Erikson's stages of development (there are eight and they fall across two major categories and once you are on the negative side of the line, it's incredibly difficult to get back over to the positive and it goes from infant to senior citizen!) or Maslow's heirarchy of needs (think of the old food pyramid except instead of fats and oils at the top, it's self-actualization) but what can I actually DO with that? What does knowing about Piaget's theory of cognitive development actually gain me, professionally? Will it help me know what to say to a family who has just found out their oldest son is schizophrenic? Will it help me know how to help ease the depression that has plagued someone for a decade? Will knowing how systematic desensitization is supposed to work tell me what to say when working with someone to overcome the anxiety and fear they have felt regarding cars ever since surviving an accident that killed others?

Sometimes I can't sleep, because I worry I am not the right person for this job.

I remember the first patient that died. She had suffered through numerous brain tumors and surgeries that sent them into remission, only to reemerge again a few years later. Cures that left their own damage. After she passed, I read her entire file. It was about two inches thick. It was filled with the kind of diagnostic information that is the stuff of nightmares. All the things you don't want your baby to have, all the things that don't go away, all the things that seem to rob a person of a life not even begun and leave only suffering in it's wake. And I read about the reality of it. The fears as well as the joys. The celebrations and the defeats. Then I scanned it, shredded it and wondered if anyone would ever read it again. She was younger than me.

I deal with patients now, of course. But in a more peripheral sense. I assuage their immediate fears and anxieties, the short term fix, until the doctor can call them back. And I will never have to handle the medication management that comes with that side of practice. All the same, what happens when I am not passing the call off? When I am not the band-aid? I start to find out in less than 8 weeks.

Sometimes I can't sleep.

Apparently, Al Gore winning (or, rather, co-winning) the Nobel Peace Prize is driving some people utterly batshit insane. I've seen some of the crazy on online forums and have seen both the prize and the man denigrated repeatedly. In fact, in order to further bad mouth the Nobel in general, I've heard people badmouth Mother Teresa.

 

It's not that I believe people who win the Nobel are without sin. Hell, I was raised Catholic, we are all chock full o' sin. It's part of being human. But the Nobel is not about what we do wrong. It is about what we do right. As such, it is not about the fact that Mother Teresa traveled outside of Calcutta for her own medical care – it's about the fact that because of her, people in America – who are notoriously self-involved – know even a little about what is going on in Calcutta and will maybe send some money that way when looking for something charitable to do. Or for a tax deduction.

 

And Gore's win is not about his political party affiliation, his previous run for the presidency, the size of his house or the fact that he doesn't always fly on a commercial jet. It's about the fact that because of him people are more acutely aware of global climate change. It's about the fact that because of him people are starting to "think green", and minimize their "carbon footprint" – terms that were not in the popular vernacular before An Inconvenient Truth.

 

Additionally, people seem to be so hysterical about him being granted the award that they feel no qualms about steamrolling over the scientists whose hard work in experiment design, research, data collection, statistical analysis, and so forth who have also contributed to the awakening awareness of what is perhaps the most serious problem the entire human species has ever faced.

 

 It's a uniquely depressing psychopatholgy.

 

For a slightly different take on it, see Krugman.

There are layers, hidden under sheets, comforted under quilts signed by women long dead and never known, and it is there the dolls abide their time. Not sure if they are dead but not forgotten or forgotten but not dead. Either way, I suppose.

I've been sick for over a week now. I think it's the plague. I'm not sure, since I lack a differential diagnosis. I only know that I am tired of coughing until my ribs are sore. Sleeping at 2pm, waking at 2am, my internal clock has made me a girl anachronism. I've watched entire seasons of tv shows in an afternoon, read entire book runs in a matter of hours, contemplated novels and managed to avoid doing extra schoolwork while still managing to get all my assignments done on time. Deadlines don't care if you have the plague or not.

In an attempt to pretend I am not, in fact, sick, I went and got a mani-pedi. The hardest part was holding in the coughing for almost a full hour. I did well, as much as I could. I used anti-bacterial hand cleanser to avoid spreading my plague to the girl giving me a manicure and coughing would screw that up royally. I had my toes painted the darkest cranberry merlot color imaginable and my fingers are a pink that screams ballerina with more than a taste of cotton candy. There is even a slight touch of pearlized iridescence to them, I swear. Better health through the miracle of modern lacquer. Dr. Opi to the rescue! A girl can hope, right?

Oh well, at least I have pretty fingers and toes.

I went through a period where I drew strawberries. Contemplated strawberries. Dreamed strawberries. I painted water color strawberries in neat little rows, sets of three and then three by three and nine by three. Each a soldier with it's own personality. And then I floated the paintings onto lakes. I sat on the dock and took pictures of the colors running, the strawberries distorting, little hearts melting into sludge. Then I burned the pictures of the floating strawberries and watched the smoke join the night clouds.

I don't own a single picture of any of this work. Not a single memento. No piece survived the process. They weren't supposed to. I knew I was done with the strawberries when I had the last dream. I was trying to accomplish the impossible again. And I was not understood, again. He said he liked my hair and he asked if he could cut a piece off. I sighed and agreed, took a seat on a rickety chair on a front porch. And as the scissors snipped just behind my ear I looked over the yard and saw all the discarded strawberries scattered among the green grass. Rotting.

That's a pretty clear indication that it's over. I felt lucky to get such a clear cut message from whatever or wherever such influences come. Most of time I feel more like I have simply lost the ability to express more with a single image than I have already expressed. It feels like failure. That I have run out of things to say, not that there is nothing left to say. This, though, was a revelation. I awoke from my sound sleep feeling at peace. I reached for the black and white marbled notebook beside my bed. The one covered in punk kitty stickers. The one that says "everything I need to know about life I learned by reading banned books". I wrote down the dream and sent myself a card through the U.S. postal service. It said "acceptance".

When I first saw the trailer for Across the Universe, I loved the stark opening. The desolate beach. The opening lines of "Girl". The cacophony of images created a crescendo of emotional response. A building tide that rose until the strawberries appeared and I was stopped cold (OK, to be perfectly honest, I wasn't stopped cold as much as I was stopped with one thought : "You've got to be fucking kidding me"). If there had been any question of my seeing the movie, it was ended there. When I found out one of my favorite directors of all time was at the helm (Julie Taymor) and that it was a musical using tons of Beatles classics, I knew it would be an experience like few others. And coming from someone who has gone to seen the Lion King 3 times (twice on broadway, once by a touring company) and owns Titus and Frida, I was ready for more.

And I was not disappointed. There are moments of sheer brilliance (She's So Heavy was an astounding 10 seconds of screen time), there are moments of complete acid soaked indulgence (brought into sharp comedic imagery by Eddie Izzard) and moments of the sort of sublime musicality that can only come from the Beatles. And some Bono.

It was an experience.

The strawberries were different then my own, of course. By far.

And I think that was the point.

Jung believed in the collective unconscious and perhaps there is something to that. The archetypes, dreamscapes, intuitive understanding that just comes from beyond our own reality doesn't often seem clear. They are just there and you either understand or your don't. You are either conscious of it or you are not. I've spent a long time ignoring it all, frankly. But it's hard to ignore it when it jabs an insistent finger in through your rib cage. Through the third and fourth rib and slightly up. I used to think that understanding that other side, the universe wide side, was magic. And that magic was delicate and only happened under very specific conditions. Conditions that I could not create on my own. I wasn't enough on my own. But if I am the one ignoring those sounds and sights, then I am enough to deny that magic's existence. And I am the one denying that it is my own, and only I am the one who can make it for myself.

So, the berries said something else - that things are different in everyone's basket.

But strawberry fields are forever.

Something else from the marbled collection of after thoughts: "Love alters when it alteration finds."

Yes, I disagreed with Shakespeare. In point, not principle. And thus, I agreed with Elizabeth I. If only in a sense (she said you're alone here).

Love fades, in a manner of speaking, but the heart is forever. And though it can be broken, the cracks can yield anew. I think it's time to paint some strawberries for myself.

It's been a week that feels longer than its reality. I've got Louis Armstrong playing some Dream a Little Dream of Me on my iTunes at the moment, one of the best songs of all time, and yet dreams seem far away. I have my hair twisted into a bun and held in place with a piece of bone from the other side of the continent, I have a leaf around my neck (I am a leaf on the wind), a soft stone cauldron bubbling my favorite oil (BPAL's Phantom Queen) and a purr machine at my feet, and still, I can't fathom the passage into the dream king's realm as being something I will walk through anytime soon.

Reality is too pressing.

And yet, this morning, I promised someone I would take time out to do something for myself. So, here I am writing. But is it really for yourself if it feels like an obligation you are fulfilling to someone else? Feels like bad karma in the end. Besides, my thoughts are elsewhere. I have to look into taking the GRE. I have 5 papers to write. I have to figure out who to ask for letters of recommendation. I need to finish my application for my first round of practicum.

Who can think about a mani-pedi or a hair cut when there are GPAs to obsess over?

At the end of the day, I glanced through my day planer (Shut up, please. Yes, I am now forced to carry about a day planner so that I know where I coming and going from, otherwise I am likely to lose track and forget something. I have a lot going on these days) and realized what I had been doing in the morning felt like it was something that had happened a few days ago. No no, just this morning, half a century ago.

Cry me a river.

So, I am still actually getting paid to write, if you can believe it, leaving me little time to contribute much here. I am extremely gratified to announce that they have decided to keep me on as a writer through the fall season, thus I will no longer be relegated to reviewing truly terrible reality television, but will now be writing about real shows that have actual plot lines and forward progression. Well, the good shows will have plot lines and forward progression...the bad shows will get canceled. And I am going to hope that none of the shows I am reviewing are bad. Which means I need to get caught up on two seasons of Supernatural, but quick. My other shows are new debuts, so I am going to keep my fingers crossed.

I feel kind of bad, because I know there are people that have worked at writing as a craft, submitted writing samples and been turned down, likely from the company I freelance for and it's publications. And here I am, a girl who started writing online just for the hell of it years ago...who never considered herself a writer, never put any real effort into her writing and stopped most of her own online writing to a large degree. Yet, I am getting paid for the words I never gave much thought to before. And honestly? While I certainly put more effort into proof reading the work I do professionally, I still don't consider myself a writer. I'm just someone who got very lucky.

Anyway, in other reasons why I have not written here in nearly two months, my last academic semester (for this degree) is under way and keeping me quite busy. Only two weeks in, but already have quizzes coming up and have already made contacts at as well as gotten a professional package and tour from a local inpatient facility for 2 papers. I also need to start applying for graduation and for my practicum next semester, as well as start getting my ass in gear on my applications for grad school. It makes me tired just to think about it. At the same time, I am starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel, a blessed relief. Despite the anxiety I can work myself up into if I really start to think about practicum. Putting theory into practice can be scary, but I am hoping my experience working in the psychiatric office will serve me well.

Bigger is the anxiety about applying for graduate school. The school I want to go to is private, competitive and expensive. My grades are solid, but on the lower end of a 3.0, so not great. I know the doctor I work with will write a letter of recommendation, but I don't really know which professors to ask for the same. Can I even afford it? Hell, I am not even certain when to submit my application - during or after this semester? And the university is less than forthcoming with any really useful answers, so I am going to concentrate my attention to my practicum application this week, and worry about grad school applications next week.

I've become more and more addicted to audiobooks, which I download off iTunes and listen to on my iPod in my (new!) car. Dear Deity who has questionable interest in my activities, how in the world did I live without the ability to plug my iPod directly into my car stereo? I cannot fathom it. Every moment I spend in my vehicle, I have thousands of songs at my fingers tips, and hundreds of books and podcasts. And the podcasts grow, with weekly additions to Smodcast, This American Life, RadioLab, Psychiatry Today, 60-second Psych, and The Social Work Podcast. I can barely keep up. In fact, I find myself driving slower, in order to hear more.

Currently, I am listening to an audiobook called Crashing Through: A True Story of Risk, Adventure, and the Man Who Dared to See, which is rather like a true life Daredevil story. Mike May was a world record holding down hill speed skier, former CIA man, inventor and entrepreneur. He had also been blind since age 3, due to a chemical accident. The story is about a new break through medical procedure (using stem cells) that could give him back his sight and his decision to take the chance to gain vision.

On the surface, it seems so simple. Who wouldn't want to see? The trees, the clouds in the sky, the twinkling lights at christmas, the warm glow of a fireplace,the smiles on your children's faces. But as May explains it...you come to realize he sees in his own manner. Not only though touch, light perception and echolocation, but he sees with those senses we have no names for. Would he love his sons more for having seen them? Of course not. Nor does he need to see to know they are smiling. And beyond the risks of the surgery itself, there is the risk of losing an integral part of his identity. Not just as a blind man, but as a man who didn't care than he was blind. What would it mean if he did try to gain sight?

I haven't gotten any further than those questions, but I know he does go through with the surgery. That statement no longer has the "of course" that I would have tacked on to it. Not because I fully understand all the reasons behind his trepidation - I couldn't understand, having always been sighted. But I no longer take it for granted that vision is the miracle I assumed it to be. This is largely because of the case studies that are mentioned in the first few chapters, regarding the few people who had gained sight after blindness (of which there are less than 60 recorded cases ever). It seems that most of them dealt with crushing depression after seeing. Which seems to say that the idea of seeing the world is better than actually seeing it. Perhaps the colors of the mind are better than the colors our corneas can perceive.

But to know the difference? Is it worth losing one experience - one that you have known and been happy with your whole life - to try another?

How can you say it is not, until you try? I suppose I am one of those people who would prefer to risk it all and know than to wonder for the rest of their lives, what if? Contentment is well and good and if you are happy with peanut butter and jelly every day, then I suppose you could feel no need to ever eat anything else for lunch. Me? I had pasta I made, with green beans, stewed tomatoes, carrots, egg noodles and tofu. Because I had never tried tofu in anything other than miso soup.

I rather liked it.

I walked into the office today and set my book down on my desk.  A co-worker was heading out for the day and glanced at the thick hard cover ... the following ensued:

 

Her: Oooh! "The Lobotomist" … That sounds like a thriller! What is it about?"

Me: *Blink

Her: ... It's really about lobotomies, isn't it?

Me: *Grin * nodnodnod

Her: Oh good Lord.

 

So, as I warned those of you on my friends list, the blogs are coming thin because you guys aren't paying me. Now that I get paid to write, I hardly think it's right to do so for free. I have to control the marketplace!

 

Well, there's that, plus I have been ungodly busy. For those keeping score, I am now working 3 jobs and going to school full time, because I am apparently insane. I am also terrified of the mountain of debt I will be looking at once I finish college, so I am trying to offset that as much as I can. And by mountain, I am not being glib. Between the new car loan and the student loans, I will be falling just south of six figures. So, I work a lot. Because I feel like I have to if I want to buy property in the next two years.

 

Jesus, I almost sound like an adult.

 

Speaking of student loans, after summer, I have one more academic semester and then I am in my practicum, hoping I am not screwing a anything (read: anyone) up too much. Oh, and my last academic semester is a doozy. Check out this line up: Biological Basis for Psychology, Research Methods, Practice 2, Practice 3, and Abnormal Psych. Yup, that's a 15 credit course load. So, don't expect to see or hear much from me for until about February. Ish.

 

On the upside, I spoke to my current employer about my academic plans and what that will mean for my future in his practice. The short story is that I may get to begin practicing pre-licensure by moonlighting, as it were, while working within an accredited agency to get my supervised time in upon completion of my graduate degree. Since only about 3 people understood that sentence, I will put it a simpler way: I get to build my patient base starting around 2009 instead of 2010 – 2011.  Which makes me happy. I was worried about taking a year or two off from this practice to get my license, and not having the option to come back, and this effectively takes care of that worry.

 

Now, just cross your fingers for me – I need to get accepted into the fancy pants private college – then all my plans will be riiiight on track!

In the United States, in 2004, there were 209,880 reported victims of rape, attempted rape or sexual assault. The National Violence Against Women Survey found that only approximately 1 in 5 adult women reported their case to the police.  Every two and a half minutes someone in America is sexually assaulted. In 8 out of 10 cases, the victim knows the perpetrator. Over 32,000 pregnancies result from rape every year (Holmes et al. 1996). 80% of rape victims will sufferfrom chronic physical or psychological conditions well after their attack. The overall probability that a rapist will be sent to prison for their crime: 16.3%.  The average length of time spent behind bars: 128 days (The National Center for Policy Analysis). Nearly one-fifth (18%)of women report experiencing an attempted or completed rape in their lifetimes. Rape is the only crime in which the victim must prove a crime was even committed.  

The very first time I saw an FJ Cruiser go down the road, I nearly gave myself whiplash with the reaction "What the HELL was THAT?!". It wasn't until I had seen about 3 more over the following weeks that I managed to remember to get a look at the make so I could research it. I prmptly fell in love. And now, I am finally the proud owner of my own Toyota FJ Cruiser! My 16 year old Camry - with nearly 160K in mileage - is gone, and I have AC again!