breaking arms

I'm terrified.

I'm not usually a risk taker--I refuse to place bets, I wear a helmet on a bicycle, I almost always go the speed limit--and yet I seem live a pretty risky life. I refuse to settle. I go right for the bullseye. I let my heart lead me around the earth. I wish I could say it felt exhilarating--sometimes it does--but right now it feels terrifying.

It's terrifying because I change the consistency of my life. I uproot and get used to my surroundings, in endless cycles. I move from city to city, then from country to country. I encounter a lot of dissent for my decisions. I wish my attitude would allow me not to care, but I'd like to have the support from the people who matter.

I admit, with age, it becomes harder and harder to be a vagabond with convictions and a career. But it also becomes harder and harder to live away from my community. I am pulled toward my homeland, and then toward my husband's homeland. I am pulled and I follow the pull. I don't resist and I hope it works out for the best of everyone. It's still terrifying though, and I am terrified.

whatever tomorrow brings, i'll be there

Last week I went to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting as part of my training in mental health. It's really important for us therapists to understand the dynamics of addiction and how 12-step programs offer pretty successful treatment. From my experience, NA meetings are different from AA ones in that they tend to be very diverse: you'll see everyone from crack-dealing prison-tattooed guys to high-society pill poppers. Addiction unites people across classes, genders, place in life, and drugs of choice. It was a speaker's meeting, which meant that one member was invited to share their story. The woman detailed her struggles with various drugs, but her "favorite" was heroin. She described it like this: when you go under anesthesia before surgery they ask you to count backwards from 10, and by 7 or 6 you're usually already out; well, being on heroin is like being at an 8. It's going through life in a sedated haze, free of worries and pain. I've heard someone else describing the heroin high as being wrapped in a blanket of love, feeling protected, warm, and carefree. And man, honestly, being someone who often battles demons of hopelessness, this sounds kind of awesome. Not awesome in a let's-glorify-addiction kinda way, but just… I understand the pull. I really get looking toward something that might help you cope, something that might give you a sense of relief, however momentary.

Then this week, Philip Seymour Hoffman died of heroin addiction, and there have been countless others recently in Hollywood and beyond. Addiction is dangerous and deadly, probably because life never stops being painful, and perhaps becomes more so with the drug involved. The only way to deal with life, it seems, is to increase positive coping mechanisms, increase social support, and confront internal demons turning them into the loving blanket one desires. This has been a startling reminder to keep relying on my own internal strength, even if I don't feel that I have much of it, to battle my daily struggles.

Inhale, exhale, and keep going.

so far

I wish I could write here more. I think I will write here more after May 21, when I better pass my clinical proficiency exam and also successfully propose my dissertation orals.

For now I will say that whoever sent in this postsecret knows a thing or two about advanced degree education. Just replace the words "law school" with "grad school" and you will approximate my experience in the last several years.

P.S. Have I mentioned that my dream in life is to be a Russian-style Frida? I already have my garb in place, now all I need is freedom.

twenty twelve minus one

Just now, less than 10 seconds ago, I decided: eff my principles. The semester has started (my last, my last one on campus!) and I am now permanently in a grumpy hole. I am so worn out and sick of "working on deficits," "improving," and "articulating challenging areas in my professional development" that I became completely against all things self-improvement. Including resolutions, goals, and promises.

I just wanted all of the world's expectations to seriously let me BE.

But you know, reflecting on the good of my life, as is traditional at the start of a new year (even if it's already February), isn't a bad idea. I could use a reminder or ten that last year was not lived in vain, and that it had its purposes of bringing me here, wherever I am now.

So here are the 11 goods I want to remember about 2011:

1. I spent New Year's with my husband, my paternal grandparents, my dad, my dad's wife, and my little sister. This was the epitome of my family's gathering, filled with noise, laughter, Lady Ga Ga impressions, and my sister endlessly playing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" on the piano. I wanted to stay in that moment forever.

2. Sometime in February or March, I decided to leave my exhausting work at midday, told my husband to come pick me up in the car, bring the dog, and take us to a forest. We got a yummy lunch, hiked, and rented a motel room for the night, cheaply. I went to a nearby REI and bought myself a new shirt (on sale) to change into for work the next day. We bought wine and some take-out food, and brought them to the motel. I took a bath, we watched some funny shows, ate the food, drank the wine, and gave each other massages. The next morning, my husband dropped me off at work again. I wore the new shirt, was well-rested, and no one suspected anything. Living spontaneously gave me hope that life can truly have zest and meaning.

The view from our hike in Marin County, CA.

3. I was invited to teach an extra course in the spring semester, which was overwhelming and affirming.
4. My friend and I got together for sushi a lot, which meant that a Jewish gay boy and a Russian tattooed feminist girl took over a tiny quiet Japanese restaurant. We laughed a lot. This sushi place also gave complementary fried shrimp on a stick with frighteningly exploding eyes. Our dates kept me sane and got me through the year.

It sees you. It sees your mouth approaching. It dares you to eat it.

5. My mom visited me and then I visited my mom. We survived both visits, which confirmed for me that people and relationships can change, often for the better.
6. My advisor called me a genius (not to my face)(but a jealous friend confided), about which I kind of have mixed feelings. Mostly happy ones, but also sort of embarrassingly blushing ones. Because not that someone else's opinion of me should define my worth, but coming from a woman I respect and admire, it was still a proud moment. I'd like to remember it during all those other times I am told to improve on my weaknesses.
7. I took a horse riding lesson and briefly joined a rowing team, at least until the fall semester began (I wish I'd still be rowing right now).
8. I went to a few Giants games, participated in Occupy protests, and canoed down the Russian River on my birthday in August. I can't believe I found time to be out, but it felt good.
9. I saw the Foo Fighters in concert, and crossed one of, like, two items on my bucket list (for my opinion on bucket lists, see my current thoughts on goals and resolutions above)(the second item on the list is to drink a pint of Guinness in Dublin).

Dave Grohl, in all his musical glory. I can't believe my little dumbphone took this good of a picture.

10. Friends visited me and I felt unforgotten.
11. I failed at things, I succeeded in things. I persevered, I survived. I understood what it meant to walk through the middle of life's darkness and see a light ahead.

knock knock

Is blogging obsolete at this point? Have people ventured over to the multitude of social networking sites, leaving this one-sidedness behind? Or maybe it's just me: I've been feeling sad, stressed, and uninspired lately. So there is hardly a point to come here and hardly a thought I want to express...

But it's the new year already, and people all over the place are promising to improve and stick to their resolutions. I'm not a fan of resolutions, personally. I already function under so many goals and deadlines, evaluations and expectations for growth that when I sit with myself, I really just want to be ok with who and where and how I am. That's hard. I think if I were to put a finger on any one "goal" it would be to meditate more, to get to know pieces of myself that I don't usually engage in daily life. I'd like to be more physical, not for the sake of appearance, but to use my body more than I have been. I love yoga, I love hiking, I love swimming and biking, so I hope that my life in 2012 would involve more of those things on a weekly basis.

People generally seem optimistic at the start of the year, and I guess this year has a lot in store for me. I need to get grounded; I need to get well. I'm ready.

still surviving

Possibly. Barely. Persistently.

Although wouldn't it be nice to have someone not let me choke on the noose around my neck?:





But then, why aren't there any women in this video? And the fact that the band is all-male hardly counts as a true explanation.

upcoming mother's day feelings

I am still in that adolescent (maybe younger?) stage on this issue, where my emotions are intense and confusing. I wasn't allowed to feel much, or at least not to express any guilt-inducing dangerous emotions like anger and hurt. I wasn't allowed to have a voice and I am still working out some way to be.

So here are some feeling according to Smashing Pumpkins lyrics:

Despite all my rage I'm still just a rat in a cage






Pink ribbon scars
The never forget
I tried so hard
To cleanse these regrets
My angel wings
Were bruised and restrained
My belly stings




Maybe one day I'll channel my feelings into art and help others know that they are not alone.

all the way down

In the middle of another gruesome year, I am also dealing with childhood emotional abuse. It seems awkward, harsh and guilt-inducing to even say this out loud, but it is what it is, and when feelings are involved, it's always best to be honest. This whole thing of sorting things out is somewhat incongruous with the essence of Russian daughterhood, where the bottom line is to understand and accept whatever parents could offer at the time and be thankful. And surely, I do understand, but it's the latter two states that I have yet to master. I'm getting there.

I am not going to go into details of my journey here right now, but all I can say is that if I could represent my mental state musically, it would be a desperate attempt to jump from here to there.

transformation

In January, a friend came to visit me from Ireland and of course one of the items on her tourist list was to walk on the Golden Gate Bridge. And yes, even after all this time, I was still nervous to actually walk on what I viewed as a killing machine, and not a beautiful landmark. Since my friend's suicide, I'd only driven on it twice, very quickly, while focusing on the road. I pictured that being on the bridge on foot would be really intimate, like there we were, in direct contact with each other. On the other hand, I feared that it would feel inescapable, in case anything came up for me, or I ran into a suicidal person.

I talked about this with my therapist and she suggested that I light a candle or bring flowers or say kind words for my friend while on the bridge. This would reframe the monument into a memorial, kind of in the way that tombstones are eery but useful for remembering. So on the way there, we stopped to buy a candle, and while we were right over the churning dark waves, I lit it, had a moment of silence, and left the burning candle (in its fire-proof protective casing) by one of the towers. Others passed it, looked and probably understood. Maybe it even deterred a few people that day or at least provided solace to possible friends and family of the deceased. Interestingly enough, this simple deed really worked to transform my view of the bridge, and it is now no longer a scary means for death, but a quiet, elegant memorial to the sad circumstances under which people choose to end their pain. When I catch a glimpse of it now from any corner of the Bay, I send a few thoughts to the fallen souls. Maybe they really did find a sense of other-worldly peace...

Photo belongs to Jennbawa

Still, while we were on the bridge lighting the candle, a strange man kept pacing from the tower to the railing and back to the tower. It was a gloomy windy day, so he'd look down at the waves and return to the safety of the tower nook. His behavior seemed sketchy enough that my heart started to pound hard and fast. The statistics were against him: he was alone, he was a man, he looked disheveled like he might have been drinking. I really wasn't in the right state of mind to deal with it, but my crisis training would not let my conscience go. I had to find out what was going on. In an awkward way, I asked how he was feeling, and he said he was fine. Oh, he was just waiting for his friend and friend's son who wanted to walk just a little bit further. He was knowledgable about boats and so was watching the freight ships perusing the Bay underneath. Later, as we drove on the bridge on our way home, I saw him walking with another man and a boy. So he wasn't lying; he was alive and well, and I breathed a sigh of relief. He probably tells the story now of how some random girl bothered him out of nowhere to see if he was ok. But asking proactively is the way to take care of each other, and concern and curiosity may very well be the first step in saving someone's life.

rained out

a phone picture of Berkeley

Winter in the Bay Area comes in a variety of wet adjectives: foggy, rainy, misty, humid, stormy. I like this much better than the mocking rays of the sun that follow me all through the fall. They say sunny weather correlates with happy mood, but for me, it only matches my annoyance at all things bright and confrontational. So this wintery gloominess, this foggy mellowness is quite a welcome environment for me to float in. I love gliding through the hazy streets and watch the unfocused city lights flicker through rain drops. Finally there is water all around me, and I feel in my element.

Holy Hill is a foggy hill

no homecoming

The seasons here are just the opposite of what I am used to. I've only lived in places where summers are hot and muggy, falls are rapid decreases in temperature, winters are dry and frigid, and springs are pleasant, blooming, and inviting. Now switch the names of the seasons with those 6 months apart while leaving the descriptives and you get the year's cycle in the Bay Area. Yes: summers are cold and cloudy, falls are sunny and mild, winters are humid and rainy, and springs seem like uncertain times between the coolness of December and the coolness of July. My first year here I thought I may have accidentally moved to the Southern Hemisphere, it being opposite-season land. I don't know if I've yet found my way back up to the Northern one, mentally.

scraps

What a melancholy night.

That 10pm coffee didn't help. The chat with my friend didn't either. At 2am, I am still exhausted, I am still agitated, I still feel my heart sinking low.

The funny thing is that I can be an optimist, I can be a romantic. I, too, love long walks on the beach and hikes to the mountain tops. Many things, both abstract and concrete, give me purpose and enthusiasm for the world. But this life of mine right now seems to exist just to break my bones.

With every unachievable demand that I am expected to fail, I can see myself growing, but when will I stop moving upward or sideways and simply just be? When will the world stop moving forward or around and put us at ease?

I miss people for unexplainable reasons.

What was the point of this post?

fight like a girl

Ack. Things keep happening in my internal life. Things I would like to document here, for history's and reflection's sake. Writing about which perpetually falls pretty low on my daily to-do lists, right underneath persevering through school work and immediate deadlines, writing up my research results so I can finally and officially receive my masters degree/certificate, and you know, saving people's psychological lives.

This past Sunday was the first time in over six months, since my friend's suicide, that I got anywhere close to drove across the Golden Gate Bridge. It was a stormy afternoon, just like the days prior full of non-stop rain. The clouds hung low across the Bay and covered most of the golden towers. All I could see around me was gray interspersed with the sparkling lights of cars. Even so, I noticed dark silhouettes walking gloomily along the bridge sidewalk. Why anyone would be out there in that type of weather is beyond me; you couldn't see much of anything, and especially not the San Francisco skyline, besides rain, storm clouds, and the churning waters below. My eyes kept shifting from the road ahead to the railing to my side. 

As far as I could tell, nobody jumped while I drove across, but I think my heart still skipped a beat or two.

socialism even works sometimes

The San Francisco Department of Public Health requires all health care workers (including mental health) to pass a tuberculosis (TB) test before working face-to-face with San Francisco residents. In order to fulfill this and finally be able to see clients at my practicum agency, and without health insurance of my own, I have gone to the:

1. Berkeley Free Clinic over Labor Day. Since this is volunteer gig for the workers there, the medical staff did not show up on a holiday weekend.

2. Back to the Berkeley Free Clinic a week later, to hopefully do the skin test for TB. Got that done, thank god.

3. Back to the Berkeley Free Clinic a week after that, to get my skin test results. Not surprisingly, because I've had a TB vaccine as an infant in Russia, the skin test was positive (at least I know the vaccine is still in there working?). This means that I don't have clearance and must get chest x-rays taken in order to verify that I do not indeed have TB (the working vaccine and lack of any symptoms apparently are not enough for a rule-out diagnosis).

4. A week later, off to the Berkeley Department of Public Health, which was listed under resources who might do x-rays without insurance, as given to me by the Berkeley Free Clinic. Turns out, this is a government building without medical equipment or medical staff. Go to the county hospital, crazy lady!

5. The same day, show up at the County Hospital, who allegedly provides services to the uninsured. And yes, they do, they could even do those damn x-rays, except not today. How about an appointment in a week?

6. Show up for my x-ray appointment, while skipping other scheduled responsibilities, because this is my only chance, clearly. After a few hours of jumping through bureaucratic hoops, I finally get a chest x-ray! The process of which takes less than 2 minutes. Oh, but they have to develop the x-ray and have a medical staff look at it, so come back in another week to get the final results.

7. Here I am. Next week is October and I started this whole ordeal over Labor Day. I still have no proof that I don't have TB, but I hope that the end is in sight. Wish me luck that the x-ray and TB gods will smile on this last leg of my journey as an uninsured consumer of public medicine.

But just imagine that even after all this, I am still a firm supporter of socialized healthcare. I am even pretty excited that in this country of extreme capitalism, run in part by banks and insurance companies, I am fairly able to have my needs met in hard financial times when I cannot pay extra for medical coverage. We have a lot to learn, of course, about how to run socialized programs, but giving up on them is not a way to get to a place where people are taken care of regardless of income.

back

So, it's been two months since I last wrote here, and in that time I've been to Mexico and back. I meant to write in that time, of course I did. And actually, I did write, mentally, in my head. But my mind was far too often far too overwhelmed and tired by the time I was anywhere near a computer, and nothing materialized here.

So I am back. And I guess I'll start at the end and go backwardly from there.

I was nervous about coming back to the US. I always suffer from a severe culture shock when I return from foreign countries. Most of it having to do with the richness and greediness and the utter sterility and, often, a lack of soul that becomes so apparent about life in the US. I know that people experience this country differently, and in fact, most people love the comforts and the availability of stuff. But I get melancholic. Food starts to taste bland, the landscape only offers sprawling strip malls and oversized houses. Driving, again, becomes a necessity. Conversations start to seem trite and everyone around me carries an air of entitlement. And I don't even live in the most typical place of America. I live in the Bay Area, what with all its ocean life and redwoods, and naked people protesting something or other on almost every street corner. Yes, it's easier than usual to find some sort of meaning to life in this 30 mile radius. But even still, I remember coming back from England (the land of trains, and sheep, and pubs) last year, in tears, as we descended from the Sierra Mountains into the developed, oppressive valleys of Central California.

But this time, we landed in LA (I know, LA! The culture shock should be worse!) and I was quickly scooped away, past all the smog and vanity of the city and into a more rural life along the coast line. There I was met with ocean-fresh air and the smell of pine trees. I could go to the beach, and eat fresh sushi, and feel the dry heat on my shoulders. People were happy to see me, and I was glad to be exactly where I was.

For the first time in my busy two months, I breathed deep down and exhaled loudly. It was good to come home, after all. 

take me all the way

Under the bridge downtown
Forgot about my love
Under the bridge downtown
I gave my life away

Credit: Khataroo at DeviantArt


I mentioned before that there have been sad things happening in my life. I've been trying for months now to write something down, but it's difficult to find the words to really describe what has gone on, externally and internally. Everything I say sounds gauche and awkward. This is just another one of those clumsy attempts.

Three months ago today, a friend of mine committed suicide. She wasn't in my circle of closest friends, but she was a colleague in our small graduate program, and more than an acquaintance. We were in a class (of 12 people) together this past semester. And last semester, she planned a baby shower for a good friend of ours, where we all enjoyed her New Orleanese cooking. She was also the roommate of another close friend, and our paths crossed all the time, whether through studying, mutual social activities, or in conversations about dogs.

Credit: PostSecret

On March 17th, on St. Patrick's Day, she jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge. This fact feels just as beautiful and grotesque as it sounds. Beautiful, because it essentially bypasses the mess of death. This is exactly how I would picture her leaving this world: falling weightlessly into the abyss of the waters, surrounded by the beauty of the Bay. And grotesque, because there it is: the magnificent enormous symbolic San Franciscan sculpture transformed into a killing machine. I haven't brought myself to be near it yet (walking or driving), but whenever I catch a glimpse of it from across the Bay or through the buildings of the city, I feel it staring back, stoically and mysteriously. Just like in the movie, The Bridge:





Everybody always wants to know the facts surrounding this event, and the facts are that yes, she most likely had a mental illness. She was in a lot of pain, and many of us knew that. We think she had Bipolar II (depression is predominant to mania), which is actually one of the most deadly disorders, since as you come out of a depressive episode and you still taste the bitterness of depression, but you also have more energy and the impulsivity to hurt yourself. There were times when she was clearly manic, and (most) times when she was pretty depressed. She had attempted suicide before, and that just drives the risk even higher. She was in the field of mental health and knew all her resources, but this was her definite decision. There is such finality to taking that plunge off the bridge. There is no turning back and virtually no possibility of survival. As you're standing on that ledge, the pain of life must outweigh the fear of death.

While we knew she was quietly suffering inside, she poured her heart into giving to others. She was honestly one of the most selfless people I have known. She made everyone around her feel comfortable and accepted. She knew exactly how to converse with every person, on very diverse topics. She loved experiencing foods and culture, she loved to meet new dogs in parks, she loved to welcome everybody into her heart. And maybe that got a little too heavy.

And the feelings since then? There have been so many: disbelief (we were in class together two days before this happened, her name is still listed in our online class database), guilt (were we really all so wrapped up in our cocoons of grad school stress? and did these cocoons really matter so much that we couldn't look around? were we not watching/listening/understanding? and where was that suicide hotline number?), anger (because, wtf? WTF?!, sometimes I wish I could just shake her, screaming, are you f'ing kidding me?!). But the most prominent feeling is sadness. Powerless, despairing, soul-wrenching sadness. Because we lost an amazing friend and talented colleague. Because my first funeral was for a young classmate. Because the menacing Golden Gate Bridge is a reminder of the pain people in this world feel every day, when death seems like the best most logical option.

Credit: Vaggelisf at DeviantArt

I wanted to write more, especially about the aftermath and where all these events have brought me, but I'm afraid I am running out of steam tonight. You will just have to hold tight for an equally-awkward Part 2. Until then, stay safe, and please enjoy every moment with your friends and loved ones.

something's always coming

So give me something to believe
Cause I am living just to breathe

My clients don't even know it, but they teach me many interesting important extraordinary perspectives. They inspire me. They remind me that life goes beyond the books and my own personal achievements. They show me how important it is to give back to the community and feel passionate about something. They assure me that even one tiny positive step per day is more than enough. They affirm for me that this is the job I would really love to do.

I didn't feel this way in the beginning, but now, even after 10-14 hours at work, time flies, I feel engaged, and I come out changed at the end of the day.

a striking image

I also see a client at the agency itself. This is a younger woman who, like most of us, has a chaotic family that often drives her nuts. So her family was coming into town that weekend after our scheduled session, and she confessed her gratitude that she'd be able to see me before they all came. "I knew I needed to see my therapist before the weekend of family," she said to me.

Eek! You guys (and girls), I am now that therapist who people need to/want to see in difficult times. Yikes! But also, what a validation of my work! Of course, as therapists we have to remain somewhat skeptical or cautious of the true meanings of such statements... but I gave myself an internal high-five anyway. Because this is just such a striking contrast to those times in the beginning, when I used to go home and cry after sessions, feeling like I couldn't really help anyone.

And I mean, I still can't really help anyone; people have to ultimately help themselves. But hopefully, my presence, my support, and the bit of my expertise makes it just a little easier.

an ironic image

As part of my practicum, I work at a large, confusing inner-city high school that's located in a primarily Mexican-American neighborhood. About two blocks from the school, there is an absolutely giant Catholic church with typical Spanish architecture and a big lawn. I know that many people in that community attend the church, at least out of tradition. My students generally think it's too conservative, but they still go with their families, every Sunday.

The other day, as I was passing it on my way to the school, I spotted an enormous sign in the front lawn of the church. I mean, this sign was huge, wooden, hosted on large wooden posts the size of tree trunks. It was a sign about teen pregnancy. The clipart of the girl holding her baby even looked a little like Madonna and Child.

This is probably a good thing, that the church is willing to talk about this issue, rather than shunning it. And if I had read the sign closer, it probably would've had a pro-life spin on it. Like, we know you're a pregnant teen; just come to our church and we can help! But in the moment on my way to work, it seemed like the perfect imagine to describe my experience there: poor Mexican neighborhood, conservative Catholic church, giant teen pregnancy sign.

no one mourns the wicked

Shoot guys, it's already March! Almost the middle of March, in fact, and when did that happen? I feel that this is how my life has been going lately: wondering what month it is, wondering what year it is?! And the next thing I'll know, there will be hospital bills and a eulogy! Things will be like this until at least the end of the semester in June, with every minute double-booked with meetings and assignments and clients and paperwork. This is hard for me, not because my back isn't strong enough to carry the weight (though it is getting tired), but because I resent missing out on life. I like living in the moment, and the moments around me are just so wonderful. It's a difficult balance, but I think I'm learning to appreciate whatever momentary glimpse of life I do experience. Like right now: the tree in our little garden outside the apartment window is bursting with white flowers, it's sunny out there, and birds periodically land on the bird-feeder. Sigh -- I want to take the dog to the marina park with a blanket and a book. I want to go back to the projects I started before this whirlwind of school and work happened. Maybe in June...

I have many thoughts (yes I do!) circulating in my head at all times. Thoughts I would like to write down, process, and discuss. I think I'll try writing mini-posts as often as I can, just to commemorate a few of the various things I'm learning and experiencing.

For example, things I've thought about recently:

* The term "opposite sex" is incorrect, misleading, and actually kind of offensive. We are not a dichotomy and we are not opposing. I wish there was a way to teach people to stop using it...
* The show "Lost" is going in a disappointing and misogynistic direction. I really liked the show at first, but now it's become a fight between territorial men over exotic land, with women and minorities as background sidekicks. Way to establish patriarchy on the island as on the "main land", white male screenplay writers.
* Women today refer to their pubic hair as "gross, dirty, and disgusting" (whereas most men really don't seem to mind, and probably actually prefer, it). Is it because younger women have watched too many episodes and the movie of Sex and the City (remember when it started out as empowering independent women and ended with oppressive comments about Miranda's bikini line)? Obviously I find hair on women just as natural and womanly as I find hair on men natural and manly, so I just don't understand this whole "brazilian" trend.

I could go on, but I know I am being the epitome of a feminist social researcher right now. But what can you do if this is what my brain is steeped in day-in and day-out? And actually, I like who this is shaping me to be (which I guess is a good thing, otherwise I would need to go to therapy (just kidding, I still need to go to therapy, as should we all)). But I promise my education and life are much more well-rounded, and hopefully there will be comments on all sorts of interesting and well-rounded things of note that I am thinking and feeling. For now, I'm off to analyze transcripts on the gender roles of Soviet women. Ha!