That I am very well aware of how privileged I am.
I am very well aware that my illness could have been far more grave.
I just wish people would understand that I did not live through the flu, I lived through something far worse.
I'll return to Melville now. Which, by the way, my computer autocorrects to "Melvin." Not like he's one of the greatest American authors of all time, or anything.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Sunday, December 12, 2010
How my inability to fry an egg reveals my deepest insecurities...
I love eggs. Breakfast lunch or dinner, I’ll eat them any time. Hard boiled, soft boiled, scrambled, poached - count me in.
I cannot, however, fry an egg. I can cook them any other way, no problem. Cooking an egg is a pretty simple process.
Frying one? For whatever reason, that eludes me. I always spray the pan - but sometimes I don’t let it heat up long enough, or I try to flip the egg to early, or I haven’t wiggled the spatula far enough under the egg and it folds over on itself or the yolk breaks. Sometimes it comes out too runny - and I don’t like runny eggs - or sometimes it comes out overcooked. This should be one of the simplest meals in the world, and I cannot get it right. I rarely bother to make one if my mother is not home and handy to rescue my lunch from whatever runny fried fate is its due.
There are lots of things I can do. I can do laundry, I can clean a house with the best of them. I’m on the dean’s list at school and I’ve never had a traffic violation or parking ticket. But every time I fail to fry that egg just right, I feel like an imposter.
Twenty one years old, Judith, and you’re not yet grown up. All your friends are living out of their parents houses, taking care of themselves. Even your little sister has her own place! And you can’t even fry a silly little egg.
A short conversation with some in my acquaintance and you’ll get the impression that they share this sentiment, though for different reasons. I have not left home, I have not partied, I have not pulled an all-nighter, I have not had a boyfriend, I have not done all of the college-y things you’re “supposed” to do - and to them, I have not had adequate life experience to merit the title of “grown up.”
At twenty one, I doubt anyone is fully “grown up,” but responsible, perhaps, mature, certainly, they can be.
I may not be able to fry an egg, but I have life experience. Not all paths to “grown-up” dom are the same; how could they be? I - a straight A, five Advanced Placement classes, top band in school, academic nerd - was forced to drop out of high school and finish up my education on independent study - in standard level classes. I did not attend prom or graduation; does missing out on those “essential” life experiences count as its own form of experience? I have felt and dealt with loneliness, living an entire year house bound - bed bound, in fact. I, an avid reader, had to give up books, in favor of the overwhelming migraines that would overtake me.
I fought for my life. Maybe not a matter of death, but life as a matter of being able to go out and live - instead of simply sitting around, barely able to think, doing nothing more than existing. I had to summon whatever strength I had - and it certainly was not physical, and not much mental strength either - to endure endless doctors trips, to keep trying new medications. I went to yoga and physical therapy and even though I could barely walk, I began to exercise, because I was told it might help me. I had to find, somewhere in me, a determination to get better - despite the chances that I may never have been well enough to attend college, never have been well enough to have any social contact outside of my family, and the depressing statistics that say I will live with my disease for the rest of my life, and relapse is inevitable.
So maybe I cannot fry an egg, but I have life experience. Maybe I don’t drink very often (rarely, actually) and maybe I don’t like to party, or stay out all night, or waste money on clothes and movies and things like that; but in the two years I spent recovering from rock bottom, one year of which I spent hardly able to move, I grew up, and I realized that those things are not the hallmarks of a grown up, but simply the hallmarks of a newly “free” college kid who thinks that, because they are free to make those choices, they are grown up.
I have to choose how I spend what precious energy I have. I have to choose what is most important - and every time, I end up choosing responsibility, because it means that I will have energy tomorrow, that I will be able to continue to fight my disease. Freedom is not what being grown up is all about - maturity and responsibility is.
I accept that I may not be completely mature, but I think I’m fairly responsible. If I were physically well enough to move out of my parents house right now - to do all of my own cooking and cleaning, on top of school and other responsibilities - I could, mentally and emotionally, handle it. I would make good choices.
I cannot, however, fry an egg. I can cook them any other way, no problem. Cooking an egg is a pretty simple process.
Frying one? For whatever reason, that eludes me. I always spray the pan - but sometimes I don’t let it heat up long enough, or I try to flip the egg to early, or I haven’t wiggled the spatula far enough under the egg and it folds over on itself or the yolk breaks. Sometimes it comes out too runny - and I don’t like runny eggs - or sometimes it comes out overcooked. This should be one of the simplest meals in the world, and I cannot get it right. I rarely bother to make one if my mother is not home and handy to rescue my lunch from whatever runny fried fate is its due.
There are lots of things I can do. I can do laundry, I can clean a house with the best of them. I’m on the dean’s list at school and I’ve never had a traffic violation or parking ticket. But every time I fail to fry that egg just right, I feel like an imposter.
Twenty one years old, Judith, and you’re not yet grown up. All your friends are living out of their parents houses, taking care of themselves. Even your little sister has her own place! And you can’t even fry a silly little egg.
A short conversation with some in my acquaintance and you’ll get the impression that they share this sentiment, though for different reasons. I have not left home, I have not partied, I have not pulled an all-nighter, I have not had a boyfriend, I have not done all of the college-y things you’re “supposed” to do - and to them, I have not had adequate life experience to merit the title of “grown up.”
At twenty one, I doubt anyone is fully “grown up,” but responsible, perhaps, mature, certainly, they can be.
I may not be able to fry an egg, but I have life experience. Not all paths to “grown-up” dom are the same; how could they be? I - a straight A, five Advanced Placement classes, top band in school, academic nerd - was forced to drop out of high school and finish up my education on independent study - in standard level classes. I did not attend prom or graduation; does missing out on those “essential” life experiences count as its own form of experience? I have felt and dealt with loneliness, living an entire year house bound - bed bound, in fact. I, an avid reader, had to give up books, in favor of the overwhelming migraines that would overtake me.
I fought for my life. Maybe not a matter of death, but life as a matter of being able to go out and live - instead of simply sitting around, barely able to think, doing nothing more than existing. I had to summon whatever strength I had - and it certainly was not physical, and not much mental strength either - to endure endless doctors trips, to keep trying new medications. I went to yoga and physical therapy and even though I could barely walk, I began to exercise, because I was told it might help me. I had to find, somewhere in me, a determination to get better - despite the chances that I may never have been well enough to attend college, never have been well enough to have any social contact outside of my family, and the depressing statistics that say I will live with my disease for the rest of my life, and relapse is inevitable.
So maybe I cannot fry an egg, but I have life experience. Maybe I don’t drink very often (rarely, actually) and maybe I don’t like to party, or stay out all night, or waste money on clothes and movies and things like that; but in the two years I spent recovering from rock bottom, one year of which I spent hardly able to move, I grew up, and I realized that those things are not the hallmarks of a grown up, but simply the hallmarks of a newly “free” college kid who thinks that, because they are free to make those choices, they are grown up.
I have to choose how I spend what precious energy I have. I have to choose what is most important - and every time, I end up choosing responsibility, because it means that I will have energy tomorrow, that I will be able to continue to fight my disease. Freedom is not what being grown up is all about - maturity and responsibility is.
I accept that I may not be completely mature, but I think I’m fairly responsible. If I were physically well enough to move out of my parents house right now - to do all of my own cooking and cleaning, on top of school and other responsibilities - I could, mentally and emotionally, handle it. I would make good choices.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Judith writes about writing... again
On Friday, I had a break in the SUB, and so I sat down with my notebook and began to write for my Nonfiction Writing final portfolio. I did not really know what I was going to write.
All I knew, in fact, was that at that moment, I really wanted to go to the beach.
I still do.
It became this story - which is getting longer every time I visit it - of my love for the sea. It became the tale of how I have never been landlocked, of how both of my grandfather's appreciated the coast, of how I am terrified of fish yet think the harsh rhythm-less timpani of waves is one of the most beautiful sounds in the world.
I have not been writing as much as I ought to have been in recent years. I used to sit down and write nearly every day, every time I felt like it. Then high school happened - and since then, I have had to make a conscious effort to get the words out of me, where it used to come so naturally to me. Even doing National Novel Writing Month in November was still an effort and a struggle. So, I appreciate moments like Friday, and this afternoon, and last night at one in the morning as I was convincing myself to go to bed, when a story will just not leave me alone, and where I cannot, as hard as I try, push it away.
Moments like those make me wonder if maybe I am a writer, after all.
All I knew, in fact, was that at that moment, I really wanted to go to the beach.
I still do.
It became this story - which is getting longer every time I visit it - of my love for the sea. It became the tale of how I have never been landlocked, of how both of my grandfather's appreciated the coast, of how I am terrified of fish yet think the harsh rhythm-less timpani of waves is one of the most beautiful sounds in the world.
I have not been writing as much as I ought to have been in recent years. I used to sit down and write nearly every day, every time I felt like it. Then high school happened - and since then, I have had to make a conscious effort to get the words out of me, where it used to come so naturally to me. Even doing National Novel Writing Month in November was still an effort and a struggle. So, I appreciate moments like Friday, and this afternoon, and last night at one in the morning as I was convincing myself to go to bed, when a story will just not leave me alone, and where I cannot, as hard as I try, push it away.
Moments like those make me wonder if maybe I am a writer, after all.
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