When I was a senior in college, Jonathan Franzen's book The Corrections was published, and Oprah chose it for her book club. Franzen made a big deal about the book being published with the "Oprah's Book Club" seal on it, and apparently didn't think that Oprah's readers were literary enough to understand his work. (Never mind that the book centers on a Midwestern family struggling with the heady days of the late nineties and a few family secrets.) I bought a copy of it while I was living in Japan about a year later, where the book was published without Oprah's seal of approval. I still think it's one of the best books I've read.
Denver is in the midst of a record-breaking heatwave, and when I was there last week, I escaped to the Barnes and Noble store for about an hour to cool down. I was all set to buy a copy of The Bourne Identity, because I love the movies so much, but bought a copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude instead, after reading on the back that it is "the first piece of literature since the Book of Genesis that should be required reading for the entire human race." (I'm about one-fifth of the way into it, and will reserve my judgment until I'm finished, as I found The Hours a failure to live up to its hype until I got to the last third, when it turned into something amazing.)
The B&N had one copy of the book on the shelf and another stack of copies on a "Summer Reading" table. I noticed that these had the Oprah seal on them. Ugh. Back I went to the shelf for the Oprah-free edition. Though I am not sure One Hundred Years of Solitude is "the great novel of the Americas" it is supposed to be, I like it enough so far to be considering ordering Love in the Time of Cholera from Amazon.com. Unfortunately, my only two choices for editions are one that announces the book is "now a major motion picture" and the other that bears the Oprah seal. (Did she pick two books by this guy? Or are they just putting the seal on all the author's books after one gets picked or what?)
I own two other books that possess the "major motion picture" line: The Hours and a collection of Philip K. Dick stories that included Minority Report. I bought both of them in Japan because they were the only copies available in English. I own zero books with that Oprah seal. This is America! In exchange for my $10.17, shouldn't I be able to get a copy of the book free of both pop-culture reminders so I can feel free to pretend that I never buy books because they get made into movies (like, say, The Bourne Identity) and that I never watch Oprah?
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Let's hope Denver's air is cleaner and weather is warmer. (Yesterday, when I was in SF, I was wearing a winter coat.)
Tomorrow is my twenty-ninth birthday. Happy Birthday to me! Generally, I avoid working on my birthday, and this year is no exception: I am on vacation. Sadly (for me, and for perhaps one other reader), I have not been writing much lately, either here or in my journal. Nor have I been working on writing this other thing I've had knocking around in my head for several months. I'll have a computer with me, but I don't know if I'll post much. If you get bored, why not read some of the blogs I have linked to further down this page? Or a good book? A Short History of Nearly Everything by Bill Bryson is fantastic. It even mentions my undergraduate alma mater.
And, I fully recognize that I am absolutely terrible about remembering other people's birthdays, so if I've forgotten yours recently, it's nothing personal, and Happy Belated Birthday!
And, I fully recognize that I am absolutely terrible about remembering other people's birthdays, so if I've forgotten yours recently, it's nothing personal, and Happy Belated Birthday!
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Wow, they really have NO idea? Wow.
Dick Cavett wrote a follow-up to his earlier column about depression this week. The story about his exchange with Marlon Brando over a segment Cavett taped with Laurence Olivier while feeling horrible surprised the hell out of me, but was a bit of a relief, too.
For a long time, I have wondered why no one has ever said anything to me about any of this. How could everyone at work be so callous? Can't anyone see how much pain I am in? Don't they understand that it feels like my life has fallen apart, that there's a bottomless pit inside me? And on top of that, nobody seems to care?
Finding out that I seem perfectly fine to these people has helped me twice over. First, I am much less angry with them for not caring, although I'm still somewhat upset over them not noticing, but focusing on that will probably lead me into a spiral of sadness that I don't want to deal with today. (If that doesn't make sense to you, it goes something like this: they don't notice that there's anything wrong because they pay no attention to me because I'm not worth such attention ... That's how your mind works when you're in the midst of this.) Second, I don't have to worry nearly as much as I thought I did about someone finding out, unless of course they read this blog. (Side note on readership: I have no data on how many people read, who they are, or anything else about them. Occasionally (OK, rarely), people might mention something about it to me, and of course there are the comments, but that's all I've got.)
It's a conundrum for me: in some way, people knowing what I'm going through is important to me (or I wouldn't bother to write about it at such length), but at the same time, I am afraid what will happen if they do find out. And that's part of what makes this so hard for me: what I need is support from people, but I cannot even begin to imagine actually sitting down with someone and talking about this. To some extent, I am not even entirely open with my therapist about how I am doing. Yes, this prolongs my suffering, but at some point you start to forget who you are without it, and begin to question whether you even deserve a life without it.
As a child, my parents never ever discussed sex, drug use, drinking, smoking or even dating with me. I'm sure this was because they were uncomfortable discussing it and because they figured I would be fine on my own. When I told Laura about this, she said that not discussing something can imply it's unacceptable. So, for most of the things above, this strategy was successful. I've never even smoked a cigarette, let alone tried drugs. I didn't have more than a sip of alcohol until I moved to Japan, at age 23. I've had an extremely limited number of sexual partners.
As far as an actual relationship with a member of the opposite sex, which I shall define as: committed and caring with both parties interested in a future together, I have had exactly zero. Both Maureen Dowd and Ben Stein have offered advice about this on NYTimes.com this week. (I suspect Stein wrote his column after Dowd's became the number-one-most-emailed and stayed at the top for several days.) My depression-infused brain reads these and assumes the state of my personal life is due to the fact that I am not a "high-quality" person. People don't want me because there is something inherently wrong with me and I am undesirable. Recognize the spiral? Now imagine living your life this way for months or even years at a time.
Sometimes, I feel immense anger at things that are not worthy of such a response. For instance, my neighbor feels free to move things around on my side of our shared balcony, and even tried to throw one item away. The rage I felt over this lasted for at least two days. Part of the reason it lasts so long is because it reminds me of other things I'm angry about, but I think part of it might be because it's a bit of a break from the sadness, which is always waiting for me once I calm down. Sometimes, I even find myself fighting to prolong the anger, just so I can feel something else for a while.
Every once in a while, though (and I hope to God it isn't just wishful thinking or that writing it down won't jinx it), it feels like the pit does have a bottom and that I've probably hit it. This might not sound like good news to you, but for me, it's the best thing ever.
For a long time, I have wondered why no one has ever said anything to me about any of this. How could everyone at work be so callous? Can't anyone see how much pain I am in? Don't they understand that it feels like my life has fallen apart, that there's a bottomless pit inside me? And on top of that, nobody seems to care?
Finding out that I seem perfectly fine to these people has helped me twice over. First, I am much less angry with them for not caring, although I'm still somewhat upset over them not noticing, but focusing on that will probably lead me into a spiral of sadness that I don't want to deal with today. (If that doesn't make sense to you, it goes something like this: they don't notice that there's anything wrong because they pay no attention to me because I'm not worth such attention ... That's how your mind works when you're in the midst of this.) Second, I don't have to worry nearly as much as I thought I did about someone finding out, unless of course they read this blog. (Side note on readership: I have no data on how many people read, who they are, or anything else about them. Occasionally (OK, rarely), people might mention something about it to me, and of course there are the comments, but that's all I've got.)
It's a conundrum for me: in some way, people knowing what I'm going through is important to me (or I wouldn't bother to write about it at such length), but at the same time, I am afraid what will happen if they do find out. And that's part of what makes this so hard for me: what I need is support from people, but I cannot even begin to imagine actually sitting down with someone and talking about this. To some extent, I am not even entirely open with my therapist about how I am doing. Yes, this prolongs my suffering, but at some point you start to forget who you are without it, and begin to question whether you even deserve a life without it.
As a child, my parents never ever discussed sex, drug use, drinking, smoking or even dating with me. I'm sure this was because they were uncomfortable discussing it and because they figured I would be fine on my own. When I told Laura about this, she said that not discussing something can imply it's unacceptable. So, for most of the things above, this strategy was successful. I've never even smoked a cigarette, let alone tried drugs. I didn't have more than a sip of alcohol until I moved to Japan, at age 23. I've had an extremely limited number of sexual partners.
As far as an actual relationship with a member of the opposite sex, which I shall define as: committed and caring with both parties interested in a future together, I have had exactly zero. Both Maureen Dowd and Ben Stein have offered advice about this on NYTimes.com this week. (I suspect Stein wrote his column after Dowd's became the number-one-most-emailed and stayed at the top for several days.) My depression-infused brain reads these and assumes the state of my personal life is due to the fact that I am not a "high-quality" person. People don't want me because there is something inherently wrong with me and I am undesirable. Recognize the spiral? Now imagine living your life this way for months or even years at a time.
Sometimes, I feel immense anger at things that are not worthy of such a response. For instance, my neighbor feels free to move things around on my side of our shared balcony, and even tried to throw one item away. The rage I felt over this lasted for at least two days. Part of the reason it lasts so long is because it reminds me of other things I'm angry about, but I think part of it might be because it's a bit of a break from the sadness, which is always waiting for me once I calm down. Sometimes, I even find myself fighting to prolong the anger, just so I can feel something else for a while.
Every once in a while, though (and I hope to God it isn't just wishful thinking or that writing it down won't jinx it), it feels like the pit does have a bottom and that I've probably hit it. This might not sound like good news to you, but for me, it's the best thing ever.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Dear Tree People: Two Texan Oil-men did more for the environment today than you.
One of them, you will be angry to learn, was George W. Bush. He planted a tree as part of the G-8 summit in Hokkaido, Japan. The other was T. Boone Pickens, who introduced his plans to reduce the U.S.'s dependence on foreign oil. He is serious about this. He is paying for his multi-million dollar campaign, which includes setting up a huge wind farm in Texas, himself.
I have been thinking a lot about the tree sitters lately, especially about their claims that they are trying to save these 44 trees because they are so important to the environment. They have also claimed that the trees are part of an ancient burial ground for Native Americans.
The first claim can be easily dealt with: yes, these trees, like all trees, are important to the environment, but there are only 44 of them. An article on sfgate.com earlier this week stated that the university has already spent at least $350,000 on security alone for the tree sitters. That made me curious, and spurred me to take 30 seconds out of my workday to search with google. The result? The Nature Conservancy's campaign to plant a billion trees in a Brazilian coastal rain forest. One dollar plants one tree. So, in theory, the university could have paid for the planting of 350,000 trees and we still would be better off as a society.
Or, one of the tree sitters could have, oh, I don't know, gotten a job, and worked for one full week at California's $8.00/hour minimum wage. Assuming this person camped in People's Park (obviously, living conditions are not a huge concern here), and relied on others for food, and assuming taxes of about 17% (for federal, FICA and state), take home pay for the week would amount to about $265. So this one person would have had to work for just 6 hours and 40 minutes to plant as many trees as the whole lot of them are trying to "save". Just think of how many trees they could have gotten planted if they had all gotten jobs for just that one week. Or, better yet, for the entire 19-month period they've been up there!
Actually, I'll save you the trouble. Let's assume there are 20 of them, and that each of the 19 months had only 4 weeks (to be conservative). All of them working at minimum wage for all 19 months would have brought home a total of $403,712. Now, let's assume they need to blow off some steam and so they "need" to get some weed, and maybe they get all uppity and decide they want to have a fancy indoor-place to live, so they can only devote about 10% of their take home pay to this project. That's still more than forty thousand dollars and forty thousand trees! 40,371 trees, in fact!
So no, I do not believe that they are truly committed to this as an environmental cause. Not for a moment.
On to the second claim: I have no idea whether this is an ancient burial ground, but the newspapers tell me that archaeologists have found no evidence of that. Also, the trees were planted in 1923 as part of a landscaping project. Whenever I go down there, all their chalkings and rantings and signs are related to the environment, so I think this was a convenient excuse when the Native Americans decided to offer some tobacco to the trees last year.
I think that it is really about two things: 1. These kids think it's cool to be homeless, like so many people in the Bay Area. (Don't get me wrong — I believe everyone should have a place to live. I know that too many people are homeless because they are mentally ill, indigent, or have been ignored by the system. However, living here has taught me that there are plenty of people living on the streets, and in trees, who have all the skills and abilities necessary to support themselves and yet they choose to be homeless.) 2. Neighbors who don't want their view obscured by a building. These people are wealthy, and can more than afford to donate a few dollars to the Nature Conservancy. Believe me — two-bedroom condos around here can go for as much as $620K.
So, in honor of the tree people, I am going to donate $10 a month to the Plant a Billion Campaign for the rest of 2008, which works out to be $60. That will plant 16 more trees than they have spent all that time trying to save. That's about .11% of my take home pay. And I get this apartment with a view, and a bed, and a bathroom, too!
I have been thinking a lot about the tree sitters lately, especially about their claims that they are trying to save these 44 trees because they are so important to the environment. They have also claimed that the trees are part of an ancient burial ground for Native Americans.
The first claim can be easily dealt with: yes, these trees, like all trees, are important to the environment, but there are only 44 of them. An article on sfgate.com earlier this week stated that the university has already spent at least $350,000 on security alone for the tree sitters. That made me curious, and spurred me to take 30 seconds out of my workday to search with google. The result? The Nature Conservancy's campaign to plant a billion trees in a Brazilian coastal rain forest. One dollar plants one tree. So, in theory, the university could have paid for the planting of 350,000 trees and we still would be better off as a society.
Or, one of the tree sitters could have, oh, I don't know, gotten a job, and worked for one full week at California's $8.00/hour minimum wage. Assuming this person camped in People's Park (obviously, living conditions are not a huge concern here), and relied on others for food, and assuming taxes of about 17% (for federal, FICA and state), take home pay for the week would amount to about $265. So this one person would have had to work for just 6 hours and 40 minutes to plant as many trees as the whole lot of them are trying to "save". Just think of how many trees they could have gotten planted if they had all gotten jobs for just that one week. Or, better yet, for the entire 19-month period they've been up there!
Actually, I'll save you the trouble. Let's assume there are 20 of them, and that each of the 19 months had only 4 weeks (to be conservative). All of them working at minimum wage for all 19 months would have brought home a total of $403,712. Now, let's assume they need to blow off some steam and so they "need" to get some weed, and maybe they get all uppity and decide they want to have a fancy indoor-place to live, so they can only devote about 10% of their take home pay to this project. That's still more than forty thousand dollars and forty thousand trees! 40,371 trees, in fact!
So no, I do not believe that they are truly committed to this as an environmental cause. Not for a moment.
On to the second claim: I have no idea whether this is an ancient burial ground, but the newspapers tell me that archaeologists have found no evidence of that. Also, the trees were planted in 1923 as part of a landscaping project. Whenever I go down there, all their chalkings and rantings and signs are related to the environment, so I think this was a convenient excuse when the Native Americans decided to offer some tobacco to the trees last year.
I think that it is really about two things: 1. These kids think it's cool to be homeless, like so many people in the Bay Area. (Don't get me wrong — I believe everyone should have a place to live. I know that too many people are homeless because they are mentally ill, indigent, or have been ignored by the system. However, living here has taught me that there are plenty of people living on the streets, and in trees, who have all the skills and abilities necessary to support themselves and yet they choose to be homeless.) 2. Neighbors who don't want their view obscured by a building. These people are wealthy, and can more than afford to donate a few dollars to the Nature Conservancy. Believe me — two-bedroom condos around here can go for as much as $620K.
So, in honor of the tree people, I am going to donate $10 a month to the Plant a Billion Campaign for the rest of 2008, which works out to be $60. That will plant 16 more trees than they have spent all that time trying to save. That's about .11% of my take home pay. And I get this apartment with a view, and a bed, and a bathroom, too!
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Before I forget ...
One other thing I found striking about the first article I mention below that ran on NYTimes.com: the idea that people who had survived suicide attempts felt like they then became completely different people afterwards. Since I didn't actually go through with my attempt, the process has been less of a distinct-before-and-after for me than for them, but I don't feel much like the person I used to be.
I don't laugh nearly as much. This is not because I don't think things are funny, but because I used to laugh at a lot of things that weren't funny. I suppose it was nervous laughter. I've heard it called the "shadow" laugh, because your psychological "shadow" is laughing at you.
I sleep much better, and generally much more.
I feel more relaxed most of the time, because I'm not trying to avoid my emotions as much.
I used to always be on the go, doing something, planning my next move, thinking ahead. Now, I spend a good amount of my free time doing nothing at all.
I let myself feel whatever it is that I'm feeling (at least some of the time).
I worry less.
I engage in much less emotional eating.
I might still think that doing X will make guy Y want me, but now, I at least restrain myself from actually doing it, because I remind myself I deserve someone who wants me just the way I am, and who wants to do things that will make me want him.
When people say or do things that hurt my feelings, I'm more likely than I ever was before to tell them or show them that I'm upset.
I rarely do things I don't want to do because I think I "have to". There are still things in my life I do that I don't necessarily want to do: go to work every day (seriously, when is the independently wealthy stage going to hit??), live in Berkeley (that's another entire post, which I'm working on), and pay $4.60/gallon for gas (thankfully, I don't have to drive much). But there are so many things that I thought I "had to" do for so long, that I've given up, that what's left is manageable, at least for now.
So I suppose that, in a sense, I am in the midst of committing suicide, just of a different sort. I am killing off the "old" Lisa that was really just a jumble of behaviors that I thought would get me what I wanted from other people and behaviors that would make me feel "better". The Lisa that has probably always been in there somewhere is starting to emerge. I just wish it were an easier process, but I would rather do it this way than in a wheelchair or with a hole in my brain the way people who actually went through with it and survived have done.
I don't laugh nearly as much. This is not because I don't think things are funny, but because I used to laugh at a lot of things that weren't funny. I suppose it was nervous laughter. I've heard it called the "shadow" laugh, because your psychological "shadow" is laughing at you.
I sleep much better, and generally much more.
I feel more relaxed most of the time, because I'm not trying to avoid my emotions as much.
I used to always be on the go, doing something, planning my next move, thinking ahead. Now, I spend a good amount of my free time doing nothing at all.
I let myself feel whatever it is that I'm feeling (at least some of the time).
I worry less.
I engage in much less emotional eating.
I might still think that doing X will make guy Y want me, but now, I at least restrain myself from actually doing it, because I remind myself I deserve someone who wants me just the way I am, and who wants to do things that will make me want him.
When people say or do things that hurt my feelings, I'm more likely than I ever was before to tell them or show them that I'm upset.
I rarely do things I don't want to do because I think I "have to". There are still things in my life I do that I don't necessarily want to do: go to work every day (seriously, when is the independently wealthy stage going to hit??), live in Berkeley (that's another entire post, which I'm working on), and pay $4.60/gallon for gas (thankfully, I don't have to drive much). But there are so many things that I thought I "had to" do for so long, that I've given up, that what's left is manageable, at least for now.
So I suppose that, in a sense, I am in the midst of committing suicide, just of a different sort. I am killing off the "old" Lisa that was really just a jumble of behaviors that I thought would get me what I wanted from other people and behaviors that would make me feel "better". The Lisa that has probably always been in there somewhere is starting to emerge. I just wish it were an easier process, but I would rather do it this way than in a wheelchair or with a hole in my brain the way people who actually went through with it and survived have done.
I swear, I read stuff other than NYTimes.com
Two very different articles are on NYTimes.com this weekend about suicide.
The first one is about preventing ways for people to do it, which surprised me, and which makes me even more of a proponent of gun control AND a barrier on the Golden Gate Bridge. Far fewer people commit suicide off the Bay Bridge than the Golden Gate. Part of this, I'm sure, is because the Golden Gate is a "prettier" bridge. But part of it is most definitely because trying to jump off the Bay Bridge is really difficult because of the barrier. Several years ago, The New Yorker ran a story about the Golden Gate Bridge suicides, which I stumbled across sometime during my first year of graduate school.
The second is by a mother whose daughter suffered through serious depression. The mother is agnostic; the daughter is Jewish and is majoring in religion in college. It seems like the mother has blamed herself, in some way at least, for her daughter's struggles, despite the fact that she appears to have tried her best to raise emotionally healthy children.
Now that I know a little bit more about how the brain works, I am hesitant to agree with this mother who thinks she's done something wrong. Yes, in my own experience, I would probably have a much different life if I'd had different parents. (Whether it would have been better or worse, who knows?) No, I'm not certain that I would have avoided being clinically depressed or wanting to throw myself in front of that BART train back in October if I'd had different parents.
Yes, if my father had been calmer, kinder, less critical and less abusive, I would probably trust men instead of always being afraid — consciously or not — that they're going to hurt me. Yes, if my mother had been more accepting of me and not tried to force me into being someone I was most definitely never going to be (the perfect, skinny, cheerful ballerina who obeyed her parents and had no strong beliefs at all), I would probably be more accepting of myself and I would probably believe that I deserve to be happy even though I'm not perfect.
But trusting men and accepting myself are no guarantee against feeling this way. It's easy to blame my parents for doing a bad job and "making" me this way. It's easy to blame my brother for angrily yelling at me, "What is your DEAL?!" when I told him that I'd wanted to kill myself. It's easy to blame people who fail to call/email/whatever I think they "should" be doing for me that day. Even if everyone around me did exactly what they were "supposed to", I doubt it would make this go away. I like to believe that it would make it easier, but who knows if that's true?
In the end, I have to make sure I take care of myself no matter what anyone around me, or related to me, does. It's certainly not easy, but I'm beginning to realize that I don't have a choice.
I stopped reading The Bonfire of the Vanities; I couldn't take it anymore, and I figure the ending can't be too hard to guess, considering the name of the last chapter. I started reading a book that I bought when I was in Alice Springs, Australia. (So far, I've bought books in Japan, France, England and Australia — it's kind of fun to have a library that's from such far-flung places.) A Town Like Alice by Nevil Shute is a simple story that somehow manages to fill 435 pages. AND, the men in it have never cheated on their wives and actually respect women.
My belief that any man I let get close to me is going to hit me is just that — a belief. It's A Truth, but not The Truth. So, I figure, why spend my time and energy reinforcing my truth and start spending some time embracing a truth that feels so much better?
In completely unrelated news, I watched most of the men's final match at Wimbledon today, and it was amazing. I used to love watching Grand Slam tennis, and Wimbledon was always my favorite. I loved the Agassi-Sampras era, and when it ended, I stopped watching tennis for several years. I am not emotionally attached to today's players, but I was cheering for Federer. Even though Nadal won, it was still one of the most satisfying tennis matches I've ever seen. Afterward, John McEnroe said it was one of the best matches he'd seen in his life, and that in matches like that, there are no losers. Judging by McEnroe's post-match interview of Federer, though, the runner-up doesn't believe that, at least not yet.
The first one is about preventing ways for people to do it, which surprised me, and which makes me even more of a proponent of gun control AND a barrier on the Golden Gate Bridge. Far fewer people commit suicide off the Bay Bridge than the Golden Gate. Part of this, I'm sure, is because the Golden Gate is a "prettier" bridge. But part of it is most definitely because trying to jump off the Bay Bridge is really difficult because of the barrier. Several years ago, The New Yorker ran a story about the Golden Gate Bridge suicides, which I stumbled across sometime during my first year of graduate school.
The second is by a mother whose daughter suffered through serious depression. The mother is agnostic; the daughter is Jewish and is majoring in religion in college. It seems like the mother has blamed herself, in some way at least, for her daughter's struggles, despite the fact that she appears to have tried her best to raise emotionally healthy children.
Now that I know a little bit more about how the brain works, I am hesitant to agree with this mother who thinks she's done something wrong. Yes, in my own experience, I would probably have a much different life if I'd had different parents. (Whether it would have been better or worse, who knows?) No, I'm not certain that I would have avoided being clinically depressed or wanting to throw myself in front of that BART train back in October if I'd had different parents.
Yes, if my father had been calmer, kinder, less critical and less abusive, I would probably trust men instead of always being afraid — consciously or not — that they're going to hurt me. Yes, if my mother had been more accepting of me and not tried to force me into being someone I was most definitely never going to be (the perfect, skinny, cheerful ballerina who obeyed her parents and had no strong beliefs at all), I would probably be more accepting of myself and I would probably believe that I deserve to be happy even though I'm not perfect.
But trusting men and accepting myself are no guarantee against feeling this way. It's easy to blame my parents for doing a bad job and "making" me this way. It's easy to blame my brother for angrily yelling at me, "What is your DEAL?!" when I told him that I'd wanted to kill myself. It's easy to blame people who fail to call/email/whatever I think they "should" be doing for me that day. Even if everyone around me did exactly what they were "supposed to", I doubt it would make this go away. I like to believe that it would make it easier, but who knows if that's true?
In the end, I have to make sure I take care of myself no matter what anyone around me, or related to me, does. It's certainly not easy, but I'm beginning to realize that I don't have a choice.
I stopped reading The Bonfire of the Vanities; I couldn't take it anymore, and I figure the ending can't be too hard to guess, considering the name of the last chapter. I started reading a book that I bought when I was in Alice Springs, Australia. (So far, I've bought books in Japan, France, England and Australia — it's kind of fun to have a library that's from such far-flung places.) A Town Like Alice by Nevil Shute is a simple story that somehow manages to fill 435 pages. AND, the men in it have never cheated on their wives and actually respect women.
My belief that any man I let get close to me is going to hit me is just that — a belief. It's A Truth, but not The Truth. So, I figure, why spend my time and energy reinforcing my truth and start spending some time embracing a truth that feels so much better?
In completely unrelated news, I watched most of the men's final match at Wimbledon today, and it was amazing. I used to love watching Grand Slam tennis, and Wimbledon was always my favorite. I loved the Agassi-Sampras era, and when it ended, I stopped watching tennis for several years. I am not emotionally attached to today's players, but I was cheering for Federer. Even though Nadal won, it was still one of the most satisfying tennis matches I've ever seen. Afterward, John McEnroe said it was one of the best matches he'd seen in his life, and that in matches like that, there are no losers. Judging by McEnroe's post-match interview of Federer, though, the runner-up doesn't believe that, at least not yet.
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