Stoicism sucks
I used to think there was weakness in showing emotion. My angst-filled middle school self didn’t realize at the time that pent up anger and stress are the real causes of weakness. I’m slowly working on being able to talk about myself and how I feel with my friends.
I haven’t written on this journal for a long time. When I did write on it, I didn’t really have anything of value to say. I still might not, but now I’m not writing because I want attention or because my friends are all doing it. I’m writing because I need to fix the years of damage I inflicted on myself.
My parents could never control me as a child. They tell me stories and laugh at the past now that it’s over, but I still don’t know why I was different from “the other kids.”
They never took me to therapy until they thought I was suicidal. For the record, I wasn’t. I’m not sure in what order the events happened, but I’m fairly certain that I’ve got the beginning right.
In middle school and the first two years of high school, I envied Richard. I don’t know what it was. He seemed so much more enigmatic than everyone else. Jerome, who is academically a genius but socially a preteen, was jealous of him. One time, I asked Jerome who he felt the most threatened by, expecting him to say that it was me. I was so cocky and sure of myself that when his reply was, “Richard,” I was sort of shocked. Jerome’s jealousy fueled my own interest. I talked to Richard a lot online and we made a livejournal group where I made a fool of myself and he destroyed my arguments. I read his LJ religiously, which is what eventually landed me in a psychiatrist’s office. Richard posted a poem (I’m fairly sure the title is “Chope,” but I’m not sure of the author):
Once on a yellow paper with blue lines
He wrote a poem.
And he called it "Chope" because that was the name of his dog.
And that's what it was all about. And his teacher gave him
An "A" and a gold star. And his mother hung it on the kitchen door.
And he showed it to all his aunts and uncles.
That was the year Father Tracy took him to the zoo.
And that was the year the girl around the corner sent him
A valentine with a row of o's and x's.
And his mother and father kissed a lot.
And that was the year his baby sister was born
With no hair and tiny toenails.
And his father tucked him in bed every night.
Once on white paper with blue lines
He wrote a poem.
And he called it "autumn" because that's what it was all about.
And his teacher gave him an "A"
And his teacher told him to write more clearly
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
Because it had just been painted.
And the kids told him Father Tracy smoked cigars
And left the butts in the pews.
And the girl around the corner
Laughed at him for going to Macy's to see Santa Claus
That was the year his sister got glasses with thick
Lenses and black frames.
And his mother and father argued a lot.
And his father never tucked him in bed anymore.
Once on a yellow paper torn from his notebook
He wrote a poem. And he called it "Question of Innocence"
Because that was the name of his grief
And that was what it was all about.
And his professor gave him an "A" and a long
Strange look.
But his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because
He never showed it to her.
That was the year Father Tracy died
And the girl around the corner wore so
Much makeup it made him sick to kiss her
But he kissed her anyway.
And he caught his sister necking on the back porch
And his father and mother never kissed anymore
Or hardly ever talked
And he came home at 4 a.m.
And tucked himself in bed
While his father snored loudly.
Once on the back of a pack of matches
He wrote a poem
And he called it absolutely nothing
Because that's what it was all about
And he gave himself an "A"
And a slash on each damp wrist
And he hung it on the bathroom door
Because he couldn't reach the kitchen.
The poem resonated inside me. I had never felt anything like what the poem caused. I never really knew that writing could cause sadness before I read that poem. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to share this experience with people. I printed off a few copies of the poem and put them around my house. My parents found them and read them. Instead of thinking “wow… what a poem,” they thought “Oh my god, our son is suicidal.” They confronted me. This was at the point when I thought that emotions indicated weakness and I had no substantial response for them. I wasn’t suicidal; I was embarrassed that the poem made me feel the way it did.
Since then, I’ve been in and out of therapy sessions with several psychiatrists, none of whom I ever really talked to. I stopped going about two years ago. Only now am I realizing how important it is to be able to talk about emotions. Since I’ve learned something, I suppose that the whole experience hasn’t been for nothing. I’m still on medication for anxiety, but I’m on one-fourth the dosage they originally put me on, which is also the smallest dose they prescribe. This summer, I’m supposed to stop taking it, and I think I’m ready.
I haven’t written on this journal for a long time. When I did write on it, I didn’t really have anything of value to say. I still might not, but now I’m not writing because I want attention or because my friends are all doing it. I’m writing because I need to fix the years of damage I inflicted on myself.
My parents could never control me as a child. They tell me stories and laugh at the past now that it’s over, but I still don’t know why I was different from “the other kids.”
They never took me to therapy until they thought I was suicidal. For the record, I wasn’t. I’m not sure in what order the events happened, but I’m fairly certain that I’ve got the beginning right.
In middle school and the first two years of high school, I envied Richard. I don’t know what it was. He seemed so much more enigmatic than everyone else. Jerome, who is academically a genius but socially a preteen, was jealous of him. One time, I asked Jerome who he felt the most threatened by, expecting him to say that it was me. I was so cocky and sure of myself that when his reply was, “Richard,” I was sort of shocked. Jerome’s jealousy fueled my own interest. I talked to Richard a lot online and we made a livejournal group where I made a fool of myself and he destroyed my arguments. I read his LJ religiously, which is what eventually landed me in a psychiatrist’s office. Richard posted a poem (I’m fairly sure the title is “Chope,” but I’m not sure of the author):
Once on a yellow paper with blue lines
He wrote a poem.
And he called it "Chope" because that was the name of his dog.
And that's what it was all about. And his teacher gave him
An "A" and a gold star. And his mother hung it on the kitchen door.
And he showed it to all his aunts and uncles.
That was the year Father Tracy took him to the zoo.
And that was the year the girl around the corner sent him
A valentine with a row of o's and x's.
And his mother and father kissed a lot.
And that was the year his baby sister was born
With no hair and tiny toenails.
And his father tucked him in bed every night.
Once on white paper with blue lines
He wrote a poem.
And he called it "autumn" because that's what it was all about.
And his teacher gave him an "A"
And his teacher told him to write more clearly
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
Because it had just been painted.
And the kids told him Father Tracy smoked cigars
And left the butts in the pews.
And the girl around the corner
Laughed at him for going to Macy's to see Santa Claus
That was the year his sister got glasses with thick
Lenses and black frames.
And his mother and father argued a lot.
And his father never tucked him in bed anymore.
Once on a yellow paper torn from his notebook
He wrote a poem. And he called it "Question of Innocence"
Because that was the name of his grief
And that was what it was all about.
And his professor gave him an "A" and a long
Strange look.
But his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because
He never showed it to her.
That was the year Father Tracy died
And the girl around the corner wore so
Much makeup it made him sick to kiss her
But he kissed her anyway.
And he caught his sister necking on the back porch
And his father and mother never kissed anymore
Or hardly ever talked
And he came home at 4 a.m.
And tucked himself in bed
While his father snored loudly.
Once on the back of a pack of matches
He wrote a poem
And he called it absolutely nothing
Because that's what it was all about
And he gave himself an "A"
And a slash on each damp wrist
And he hung it on the bathroom door
Because he couldn't reach the kitchen.
The poem resonated inside me. I had never felt anything like what the poem caused. I never really knew that writing could cause sadness before I read that poem. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to share this experience with people. I printed off a few copies of the poem and put them around my house. My parents found them and read them. Instead of thinking “wow… what a poem,” they thought “Oh my god, our son is suicidal.” They confronted me. This was at the point when I thought that emotions indicated weakness and I had no substantial response for them. I wasn’t suicidal; I was embarrassed that the poem made me feel the way it did.
Since then, I’ve been in and out of therapy sessions with several psychiatrists, none of whom I ever really talked to. I stopped going about two years ago. Only now am I realizing how important it is to be able to talk about emotions. Since I’ve learned something, I suppose that the whole experience hasn’t been for nothing. I’m still on medication for anxiety, but I’m on one-fourth the dosage they originally put me on, which is also the smallest dose they prescribe. This summer, I’m supposed to stop taking it, and I think I’m ready.