girl, interrupted
etiology
this person is (pick one):
1. on a perilous journey from which we can learn much when he or she returns;
2. possessed by (pick one):
a) the gods,
b) god (that is, a prophet),
c) some bad spirits, demons, or devils,
d) the devil;
3. a witch;
4. bewitched (variant of 2);
5. bad, and must be isolated and punished;
6. ill, and must be isolated and treated by (pick one):
a) purging and leeches,
b) removing the uterus if the person has one,
c) electric shock to the brain,
d) cold sheets wrapped tight around the body,
e) thorazine or stelazine;
7. ill, and must spend the next seven years talking about it;
8. a victim of society's low tolerance for deviant behavior;
9. sane in an insane world;
10. on a perilous journey from which he or she may never return.
this is on page 15 of susanna kaysen's memoir.
which one do you pick for me? you may respond with your choice in a comment.
i think i am sane in an insane world. how do you define anything, really? it's all relative. nothing really exists. you can convince yourself of anything. this is an old debate from lit crit. i still maintain that if no one knows about a thing's existence, then it doesn't exist. hence the need to publish.
i somehow feel that other eyes reading my thoughts validates my private anxieties. writing is just an expression of anxiety, and a means to existence. there are plenty of private locked entries on here whose contents will only ever be found out if i should apprehend the means to my own end and leave my password in the care of some specially chosen agent of my personal effects.
i've started three-ish books in the last two or so weeks, and i'm so distracted i can't seem to get into them. this is rare, and so slightly troublesome. but today, after raiding the library and picking apart its innards, i finally extracted a winner. i can't believe what a relief it is to read girl, interrupted. i find myself nodding at the accuracy and integrity of the descriptions and explanations. i get frustrated with myself in therapy because i can't seem to communicate my perceptions in a way that doesn't come out sounding trivial and made-up. it sounds like i am creating a fantasy illness, because surely no one else feels this way. surely no "normal" human being thinks about things that human beings are surely not wired to think about. my lines of thinking sound fictional in a non-fiction context. chances are you are scared of fictions. as a writer, it's very humbling to find yourself in a position rendering words useless. perhaps, in another lit crit sense, this is the language barrier between writing and speech, but i still find it inexcusable that i can't fully transfer the inside of my head to the inside of another head, at least vicariously. my shrink can only keep asking questions, making my story longer but not necessarily more accessible. it's a parallel universe.
every window on alcatraz has a view of san francisco.
this person is (pick one):
1. on a perilous journey from which we can learn much when he or she returns;
2. possessed by (pick one):
a) the gods,
b) god (that is, a prophet),
c) some bad spirits, demons, or devils,
d) the devil;
3. a witch;
4. bewitched (variant of 2);
5. bad, and must be isolated and punished;
6. ill, and must be isolated and treated by (pick one):
a) purging and leeches,
b) removing the uterus if the person has one,
c) electric shock to the brain,
d) cold sheets wrapped tight around the body,
e) thorazine or stelazine;
7. ill, and must spend the next seven years talking about it;
8. a victim of society's low tolerance for deviant behavior;
9. sane in an insane world;
10. on a perilous journey from which he or she may never return.
this is on page 15 of susanna kaysen's memoir.
which one do you pick for me? you may respond with your choice in a comment.
i think i am sane in an insane world. how do you define anything, really? it's all relative. nothing really exists. you can convince yourself of anything. this is an old debate from lit crit. i still maintain that if no one knows about a thing's existence, then it doesn't exist. hence the need to publish.
i somehow feel that other eyes reading my thoughts validates my private anxieties. writing is just an expression of anxiety, and a means to existence. there are plenty of private locked entries on here whose contents will only ever be found out if i should apprehend the means to my own end and leave my password in the care of some specially chosen agent of my personal effects.
i've started three-ish books in the last two or so weeks, and i'm so distracted i can't seem to get into them. this is rare, and so slightly troublesome. but today, after raiding the library and picking apart its innards, i finally extracted a winner. i can't believe what a relief it is to read girl, interrupted. i find myself nodding at the accuracy and integrity of the descriptions and explanations. i get frustrated with myself in therapy because i can't seem to communicate my perceptions in a way that doesn't come out sounding trivial and made-up. it sounds like i am creating a fantasy illness, because surely no one else feels this way. surely no "normal" human being thinks about things that human beings are surely not wired to think about. my lines of thinking sound fictional in a non-fiction context. chances are you are scared of fictions. as a writer, it's very humbling to find yourself in a position rendering words useless. perhaps, in another lit crit sense, this is the language barrier between writing and speech, but i still find it inexcusable that i can't fully transfer the inside of my head to the inside of another head, at least vicariously. my shrink can only keep asking questions, making my story longer but not necessarily more accessible. it's a parallel universe.
every window on alcatraz has a view of san francisco.