In the midst of chasing all the deadlines of the finals, I read some writings from H*, her depression report, cannot help bust start experiencing the sadness, really realizing that I have never understood the portrait of depression, the people who living, the struggling and suffering ways of living, and so on, and so on.
It really is, after all these years of studying, thinking that I was taught all the important knowledge, well, they said that they are the “truth,” but what I really learned was empty theories, metaphysical imaginations;
What I really need to understand are in lives, in the past me who I have abandoned,
The me that once performed a passionate writing, active and effortful,
And the me that would not stop a suicidal kind of gesture as I deconstruct myself, after having everything,
having everything that others envy: loved ones, cars, house, higher educations, knowledge and power in bubbles, and all the materials...
To deconstruct the one who has been long stabilized and has not been drifting,
a life that still has a breath left.
Afterall, some part of my life continue to exist,
just like, I can’t go outside and play during the spring blossom, staying in the room to write or grade papers;
Like, a life that seems almost directionless despite the summer plan is slowly forming, so I wrote some arrogant theories to deconstruct gender and culture.
Alas, it’s true, what I want to say has already been said. So what am I talking about?
Like the spring cherry blossom in the fake sunshine of the summer, though still wither after a week, and life proceeds slowly,
The earth does not stop turning because of Easter.
It’s a bit like this, [getting] too busy to breath,
And lives are consistently bad.
These few weeks, sleep for six hours, take three classes, teach two, meet with 7-8 people, write clinical reports, write final papers, grade papers, interviews, book plane tickets, attend conferences, research, read whenever I can.
Last Wednesday, I woke up at 6am, my schedule was, meeting-meeting-meeting-meeting-conference-class, from the morning to the evening, 7.12pm, still working on paper works at the Office. I was the only one left at the office, and suddenly I felt extremely tired, completely useless. NOTHING WAS DONE!!!
Can’t save some people I met, research has no progress, an article that was written halfway through, incomplete final reports, unreturned emails from students, etc.,
I can’t believe, that I worked from 6am to 7pm, still working at the Office, and NOTHING was done.
Thursday, my headache was so loud that I would like to go home. Reluctantly taught a class in the morning, meeting with a student. It’s until the end of the semester that I finally realized his reading level is no better than a 6-grader.
Another student cried because she was diagnosed with X, and some irresponsible textbooks said things that terrified her.
We read for an hour, two pages were understood.
While we talked, she was in treatment but remained hopeless.
My tiredness was added with a few brush of cynicism.
Who allowed students who cannot read to enter college?
What kind of stuxxp doctor told an 19-year-old that their diagnoses represents the whole spectrum of their life?
And, the kind of treatment she was in obviously did not help.
And some clinicians has no self-awareness.
Who said that you don’t have to be responsible for yourself after taking medication?
The money-making pharmaceutical company and hypocritical doctors,
Go away!
Go away! I will throw you out.
And I was still helpless.
Friday, I thought that it was a big deal that I lose my flash drive.
It turned out that a friend of mine got robbed and another wrecked her car.
As I was mourning for the lost flash drive and trivial documents with arrogant writings inside,
I was also deeply realizing the inevitable sufferings moments of life,
The consistency of the inconsistency.
And all of these, probably cannot even compare to the pain in a peron’s bone when one is heartlessly sad, genuinely depressed.
And I still don’t understand.
What I finally realize from the start is, those stability, peace, happiness, warmth, empathy, care, and smiley faces are all illusions.
The truth is, after destroying everything related to the illusion of stability,
Everything can then start again, everything can then start with a how.
The truth is, everything only restarts after a complete de(con)struction,
And I repeatedly restart, to start again, and again.
I love your rage, it makes me feel good. It is probably safe to say voicing your anger makes you feel better as well?
ReplyDeleteHope it smooths out for ya :)
Like always, the answer is yes and no. :P
ReplyDeleteI'd say putting feelings into language at once unload the weight and consolidate it. So of course there's always the danger of trespassing the expression as the expressions are put into words.
To put it differently, I thought I was more sad than angry, but your reading of it was angry, so yeah, perhaps I was angry. And only by letting those words out to consolidate themselves, I would have never thought that I was angry.
Woohoo! thanks for the word. :)
BTW, the yes part of the answer has a good reason too--writing is therapeutic. always.
more later. :)