in which I begin to personify my blog and thereby confirm suspicions of insanity

So, like, last week I supposedly had this big breakthrough, see, and I was all dedicated and doing all this work with no problem.

I finished a big piece of my unfinished work—a lesson plan on the Palestine/Israel conflict—and thought to myself, "I'll just get started on the next thing and then I'll blog about how I'm doing so great and everything!"

I was really looking forward to that post. I even had the illustrations picked out & everything.

But, somehow then things sorta slowed down...I finished that thing, oh, Saturday I guess...and somehow not much has happened since...

...and today it was back to the old pattern, where everything seemed optimistic in the morning but now it's 6:08 pm and I haven't accomplished anything, besides eating the last piece of pecan pie from Thanksgiving, and doing some impressive tricks with my magic wand. Not at the same time.

It seems like it's been a while since I blogged, but when I thought about posting, I felt like the blog itself was almost a reminder of my failure, for not being able to post that highly-anticipated "I'm doing so great!" post.

Which is ridiculous, obviously. I did finish a lesson plan, after all—a forty-seven page lesson plan.

Forty-seven pages? Gee, birdfarm, doesn't a lesson plan usually take, oh, eight or ten pages, fifteen at most? Who the hell writes forty-seven-page lesson plans?

Yeah, I know, I know, that's my whole problem, you think I don't know that?

Anyway. So since I don't have that post to post, here is a different post.

Check out the dogs in their Hallowe'en costumes! Whee!

See, Jackie is a spider. Gracie is laughing at her. But just wait... Gracie will have her turn.		Gracie is a pumpkin. She doesn't like it. We took it off after the photo. But she was very cute!

There. Ya got yer post. I hope you're satisfied.

Not you, gentle reader. The damn blog. Hmph.

what is THAT? and can it please, please go away?

One day, in elementary school band class, where I "played" the clarinet, something went seriously wrong with the piece we were mangling.

Who knows how that happens—maybe one person screwed up, maybe the whole trumpet section skipped a page (they seemed to all be boys who just liked loud noises)—but suddenly the whole band descended into total cacophony.

For some reason I felt completely liberated and just started playing notes at random, trying to somehow harmonize with the rest of the din.

"Stop! Stop! Stop!" the band teacher howled, waving his hands furiously. When we had all stopped, more or less, he looked at us all in utter disbelief. "What was THAT?"

A word to the wise—if you ask a roomful of children a question in a certain way, they will all answer at once, and we did. It's a good thing, too, or my classmates might still be mocking me for my answer, which fortunately was lost amid their own responses.

"I was improvising!" I said defensively.

I remember distinctly that I was actually mildly wounded that the teacher hadn't recognized my brilliant prowess in using that moment to liberate myself from mere sheet music and take flight into instinctive virtuosity. God, I hate students like me.

What is the point of this story? The point is that P@ner@ Bre@d has decent coffee, a variety of yummy food, and free parking mere steps from the door, but if they don't stop playing "jazz" that sounds exactly like that moment in band class,* I am going to have to start going elsewhere for my free wi-fi.

---

Yes, I have an iPod. But the offending noises are piped over the speakers loudly enough to mingle irritatingly with the music on my iPod, unless I turn the iPod up so loud that I can't concentrate. It's a no-win situation.

in which Rachmaninoff inspires me, but not in the usual manner

Today I did something that was strenuous, time-consuming, and utterly pointless. It was also fun. This will seem even more completely bizarre to you when I tell you what it was: I wrote an article for Wikipedia on Tibetan funerary practices. Here it is. Warning: it's not for the faint of heart.

The reason this came up was that my mother wrote an email to all her living relatives asking if anyone was paying the annual upkeep fee to take care of the burial plot of all her dead relatives, which is on Long Island. (She mentioned her own first cousin repeatedly and spelled her name wrong every time, but that's beside the point). At the end of this lengthy missive, she concluded with the following exhortation:

Attention to respectful burial is one of the marks of Neanderthals etc
becoming homo sapiens & civilized beings so I hope our family doesn't
abandon this civility.

To which I was forced to respond,

Since I just did a unit on ancient humans last year, I thought you
might be interested to know that this isn't quite true, in three ways.
(1) Neanderthals seem to have buried their dead, more or less—laid
them out in caves in specific positions with specific objects. (2)
Neanderthals died out, they never became homo sapiens. (3) As I'm sure
you know, not all humans bury their dead—some burn them, some grind
them to bits mix with barley and feed to the birds. But maybe you
didn't know that not everyone even does anything with their dead. Some
just leave them by the wayside.

Mom asked about the "feed them to birds" reference (noting that she wouldn't want to be the funeral director there!), so I did some fact-checking and discovered, horror of horrors, that Wikipedia had only two sentences about Tibetan funerary practices, both of which were only partially accurate. (I also discovered that yes, she would definitely not want to be the funeral director there). Five hours later, this sad state of affairs had been remedied, making the world a better place. OK, not really, but humor me. Maybe it will become a decent 3 to 5 page undergraduate paper for some future plagiarizer.

When I asked Loopy, Autumn & Shamus to guess what I had done today, Loopy immediately took all the fun out of it by suggesting that perhaps I had, on a whim, paid my 2004 taxes? Which of course is only the tip of the massive iceberg of things I haven't done.

The other day in a big chain store I picked up a five dollar CD with a Rachmaninoff piano concerto that I used to love (#2). (This may seem like a non sequitur but bear with me for a moment). So tonight in the car on the way home from seeing Harry Pothead (entertaining by the way) I listened to it and remembered why I used to turn up my nose at five dollar CDs. I also read the liner notes (not while driving) and discovered an interesting story.

Apparently Rachmaninoff experienced a horrendous critical failure in 1897 and was paralyzed by despair. He was unable to compose any more music for three years. Finally in desperation he turned to a skilled hypnotherapist who implanted the suggestion that he would soon compose a wonderful piano concerto. Then he did. Not only was it wonderful, it was much more uninhibited and confident than his previous efforts and attained a genuinely personal, unique voice that blossomed throughout his career.

In case it's not blindingly obvious, the point of this story is, maybe there's hope for me yet.

pied-à-terre

So Loopy and another grad student are both gonna be in Chicago a lot doing research this year. Loopy especially will want to be there in the evening so she can go to 12-step meetings (that's what her dissertation is about). So they decided to get an apartment to stay in and today they went down to look, look, look.

I just heard from Loopy a few minutes ago and they have selected an apartment just a few blocks from !!! That means it's also a few blocks from Vosges chocolates... yay!

Of course the dissertation research has first dibs, but I hope to get some fun out of it as well. Hopefully, you will too, depending on what they decide the "rules" will be for using it. (It's supposed to be a place for dissertation research after all!).

Anyway, don't you just love the phrase/concept "pied-à-terre"? I know, I know, it's very snotty, but c'mon.

chicago part 4: dinner at Salpicón!

I never finish what I start, including here on my blog, so I'm just gonna finish this one little thing, the Chicago travelog—even though it's now almost two weeks ago and I've been to Detroit & back in between!

So here are some pix of our incredible dinner at Salpicón in Chicago. It was one of the best I've ever eaten. And I been around the block a couple times, as you know.

First, appetizers...I think we took pix of all the appetizers, but Shamus's is the only one that actually looks appetizing in the photo. So, pictured at left you see ostiones con chipotle - which according to the website is "fresh Blue Point oysters topped with spinach and Chihuahua cheese; sauced with a chipotle cream and baked."

These were possibly the best oysters I ever tasted. Like Oysters Rockefeller but better—the cheese didn't overwhelm the luscious oyster flavor.

---

Next, "platos fuertes" (I hadn't heard this term before but I like it... strong dishes!) Clockwise from upper left, again, menu descriptions from the website:

Mixiote de Borrego* - marinated lamb shank in a classic Oaxacan red mole; served with frijoles charros [ = pinto beans, bacon and rajas - a side dish - not in picture]

Pato en Salsa de Frambueza* - Grimaud Farms Muscovy duck breast grilled rare and duck leg confit served in a chipotle-raspberry sauce with butternut squash purée, diced chayote, beets and spicy walnuts

Pescado al Carbón - Fresh fillet of seasonal fish [tilapia], charcoal-grilled and served with salsa fresca (fresh tomatoes, onions, cilantro and serrano chiles); white rice [in a little pyramid!]

Chiles Doña Queta - two chiles - one poblano chile stuffed with huitlacoche (earthy corn mushrooms), fresh corn and zucchini, served in a roasted poblano cream sauce; and one ancho chile filled with potatoes, Chihuahua and cotija cheese with a sweet-spiced roasted tomato sauce [huitlacoche = an odd-looking fungus that grows on corn—sounds strange, tastes divine].

*these two were specials

I had the duck. I was ecstatic.

---

Finally, the desserts.

Or, Finally! The desserts!

I couldn't find descriptions on the website, so I'll just improvise.

On the left: pineapple three ways (cake, ice cream, and cookie); berry cobbler with some kind of ice cream; and fruit crepe with goat milk caramel sauce.

On the right: you can see two desserts whose luscious centers required a "before and after" photo set. There's a chocolate thingy (I think there was espresso involved somehow as well) and a tres leches cake with some kind of scrumptious sauce. (Aren't the website descriptions better? Sorry)

The more astute and mathematically inclined among you will have noticed that there are five desserts. We told the server that the fifth one was "for Elijah."

Sometime during the dessert course I actually entered Nirvana. Seriously.

---

Chicago postscript: !

While Shamus & I were at the concert, Loopy & Ang went shopping. This is the kind of thing that makes for a perfect trip—everybody gets to do what they want and nobody ends up feeling like they missed out or got dragged along.

On top of that, I scored bigtime because lovely Loopy got me all my favorite things—and then some! Apparently, now has a counter in, um, Marshall Fields is it? Anyway, here is my LOOT:

In the center is the Fairy Jasmine fairy, and left to right around her, Youkihi (already used that one! yummy!!), Blue Skies & Fluffy White Clouds, Butterball, Avobath, Waving Not Drowning, and Sex Bomb.

Get yer own stuff here!

love is four stitches to the inch on a #8

What I'm wearing today

Woke up to a brisk 10-degree morning. Bright moon in the clear dawn sky amid snowy branches...dogs' water dishes frozen solid.

I like a hard freeze because everything's so clean. I know, that's a little neurotic. But you just might develop the same neurosis if your yard was mined with various doggy surprises.

Anyway, so Loopy went to the basement to break out the heated dog dishes, while I went to the upstairs closet for the warmest-ever hat and mittens.

I don't know how Loopy felt about the dog dishes, but was sooooo happy to see my wonderful purple things.

I believe I love my hat/mitten set more than any other inanimate objects... both are knit by my lovely Loopy, from my favorite wool, Manos del Uruguay, in some of my favorite colors to match my purple coat.

Best of all, they are lined with angora (on the left you can see them inside out, revealing the lovely lining...).

Mmmmm, so soft, so warm!

When I wear them I feel all wrapped up loooooove. And when I notice/remember the various sweet, thoughtful little customized details, it's always like getting a little surprise love note in the middle of an ordinary day.

They are so warm that I was able to walk for almost two hours this morning on Picnic Point, wind howling off the lake, without my face or hands getting the slightest bit cold (other than the tip of my nose!). Before these, I have never had gloves or mittens made from any material—natural or artificial—that actually kept my hands warm.

We once wondered why such lovely items are never sold in stores...but then we figured out that the materials & labor for the hat alone would cost close to $200, so that answered that question!

In more public places (i.e. Flickr), they are modeled by Aleida Guevara....but in reality, I probably wouldn't even loan them to Che's daughter....unless she really, really needed them of course....and promised to give them back...........

ooooh, ok, you got me, what the hell kind of socialist am I if I won't part with warm winter clothes????

Dear Aleida, if you really, really, REALLY need them....maybe Loopy will knit you some in your favorite color!

war is over...

Photo by ohnothimagen

happiness is...

first snowfall of the season.

shoveling.

the sounds—the shovel scraping and sliding, the snow crunching and plopping—just make me feel happy. it seems to have the same effect on the dogs, who start jumping around and then running and playing like crazy.

it feels good to be outdoors, to laugh at the dogs, to have the cold seeping into my fingers through my gloves, to use my muscles and smell the air and see the beautiful white snow everywhere, trimming each branch.

finally a hard freeze—the end, or the beginning of the end, of the drab muddy half-alive late autumn.

must mulch the iris.

chicago part 3: lah-di-dah, I'm off to play the grand pi-ah-no

So the whole reason for the trip was that Shamus had free tix to a concert series. I seem to be the only one around here who likes "classical" music, so I went.

It was at the beautiful Chicago Symphony Center, shown below in someone else's photo:


I wasn't allowed to take photos in the concert hall, but here is a view of the rotunda (at right) and two views from the window up by our nosebleed section seats (as usual, click the photos for a larger view).

That's the Art Institute across the street—click here for the largest version of the left picture, and maybe you'll be able to make out the White Sox cap on the lion out front.

We heard a program of Debussy, Kurtág, Ravel and Schumann played by Pierre-Laurent Aimard, described by the Chicago Tribune as "the thinking-man's virtuoso," whatever that means (details on the pianist and program can be found here ). He was definitely some kind of virtuoso—these were incredibly difficult pieces. I don't know the correct musical terms but there were a lot of notes all over the keyboard in very quick succession. I was impressed that he managed not only technical perfection but beautiful expression, if that's the right term.

It's been a really, really long time since I've been to hear classical music. Not since we moved here from New York, when I had tix to a spring series at the Brooklyn Academy of Music with my friend John.

It was interesting to be back in that atmosphere. As a kid I went with my parents—they got me a season ticket to the opera from the time I was eight (The Magic Flute was my first opera), and to the symphony starting just a few years later. (Yeah, yeah, I know, I'm getting to that.)

In high school and college I had friends who were accomplished musicians, so I also went to hear their concerts and events. In college I also sometimes managed to take advantage of the immense smorgasbord of musical offerings in Boston... (hey, Ame, remember going to the Handel & Haydn society stuff with what's-his-face? remember that damn red sweater I wore to every single friggin' thing? remember the Laura Ashley dress?) I also used to listen to classical quite a lot as background music around the house or whatever.

Then there were all those fun/silly traditions in college, such as the midnight concert in Adams House, where all these incredible musicians sight-read an old war horse (Dvorak's 9th was the one I went to hear). Every spring in the courtyard of Lowell House, a random assemblage of musicians played the 1812 Overture (probably sight-reading as well), with dramatic sound effects—the bells in the bell tower were rung and balloons filled with hydrogen were torched for the cannon shots.

And, hey, kids, remember Noam the brilliant musical prodigy (http://www.math.harvard.edu/~elkies/ !!) playing Handel's messiah on the piano for a sing-along in the LoHo Masters' Residence? (While waiting for people to assemble he would amuse himself by transposing it—on the fly—into any key the audience called out).

I have really mixed feelings about all that. Of course I know now that this is all about cultural capital, oppression, elitism, etc. I know that one sort of person goes just to feel superior to others, and many sorts of person feel out of place, intimidated, excluded etc. at such events.

But I really enjoy it. And on top of that, it just feels like home to me. There are so many layers of happy memories—getting all dressed up to go out with my parents, or seeing/hearing so many beloved friends performing.

I mean, I know that's all just life, and there's nothing I can do about it. I just...I don't want to whine about privilege and all that, but I do just wish I could enjoy those memories without having it be all contaminated with knowing what that means to the rest of the world—the things I experienced that other people couldn't get access to, things that qualify me in some people's eyes for some higher status that I don't believe in, but that "comes with the package" anyway. Things I know that supposedly make me smart, that are like keys that open doors. Even though that has nothing to do with "smart" and it shouldn't be that way.

The only thing I can do about it is keep doing what I'm doing—I see my teaching as a form of dedicated treason to my class.

I have to go pick up Loopy, so I'll have to finish that thought another time.

---

Check out these music jokes. They're categorized by instrument—how wonderfully geeky is that?

chicago part 2: Lincoln Park - continued

More animals...

Two pix of the mom & baby gorilla. The baby was soooooo tiny and the way it was cuddled up looked almost human.


Loopy was right. The animals were all pretty active on this pleasant fall day. The lion got up from his nap, stretched, went over to another rock, roared randomly for a bit (shown here), lay down and went back to sleep. We enjoyed the show.

Speaking of random roaring, did you see the New Yorker cartoon that showed two dogs, one saying to the other, "yeah, I had a blog for a while, but then I just went back to random, pointless barking." I thought it was hilarious even though I resent the implications.

chicago part 2: Lincoln Park

We moved on to Lincoln Park, where we enjoyed the zoo (click for larger)...

pygmy hippo walking/swimming underwater	tall guy & short wimmin visit polar bear

...and the Chrysanthemum Show...



...and the fall colors of the park.

chicago part 1: dim sum

I made "before & after" pix:


On the left is the tabula rasa...or tabulae rasae (???) since both the table and the record of our food (the first word I thought of was "scorecard," ha ha) are blank and clean.

On the right, you see the table and, uh, scorecard—twenty-three dishes later.

Yes, twenty-three.

They're small dishes.

Here are seventeen of them (click for larger image).



And here are Ang & Shamus enjoying them.



Jessica, Franklin, and Chris, we missed you. And if you wish, we will go here again next time. We promise.

two of us sunday driving

(that's a Beatles song that was playing in the car on our way home)(actually there were four of us, but I love that song)

What a great day. Gorgeous fall weather, blue sky...dim sum, then the Lincoln Park Zoo and chrysanthemum show (who knew how many kinds of mums there are in the world?), then an unexpectedly spectacular piano performance (during which Loopy bought me lovely stuff from Lush!!), an unexpectedly spectacular dinner (during which I entered nirvana, specifically during the dessert course), and chocolate and music in the car.

Chicago = best anti-depressant ever.

Pix tomorrow.

stunning pix!

I don't know why I didn't visit Nina's Flickr site before, but Loopy directed me to it. WOW!!!

Whether you know Nina from her blog or not, you should really check out her photos. It looks like she went on a wonderful walk today and took some particularly amazing shots. Here is a tantalizing taste—click on any photo to see a larger version, and to see some other equally gorgeous pix from today (& other days too!).

roll with it

I don't want people to worry too much about me here. As I said to one of our friends lately, I feel like this depression thing has been stalking me for years. I feel like I'm always going to be running away from the depression unless I turn around and actually deal with it. Even though it's tough going, I feel like I'm moving through it instead of sinking into it.

I mean, I never really dealt with it after I hit that low point back in New York. It was more like I just got sick of it and started suppressing it, whereupon I became perennially anxious and high-strung instead. And ever since, fear of depression has kept me from dealing with the anxiety or anything else. So it stands to reason that when I managed to calm down my anxiety, here we find depression underneath it.

I've even accepted that maybe I'll have depressed periods throughout my life and it really doesn't have to be the end of the world. I've started referring to depression as something that happens to/for/with me from time to time, instead of just as this Big Scary Thing That Almost Killed Me in 1995. The less I dramatize it, the stronger I feel about working through it. I don't know if that makes any sense, but I hope it's reassuring if anyone was worried about me.

But thank you. For worrying, if you did. I am so lucky to have such friends. The best thing about my life is the people I love who love me too.

---

Anyway, today two things happened that lightened the gloom a bit.

First, I went to a seminar at the meditation center. I asked about the difference between passivity and acceptance—between "roll with it" and having it roll over you and flatten you.

A couple of people had helpful comments, but what really struck me was one woman who said that after she first "became Buddhist" (I'm not Buddhist, I'll just repeat for the record) she had this same confusion. At one point she was letting her young son hit her and not resisting because she thought that was the "Buddhist thing to do."

Friends pointed out that that was insane. And eventually she could see that it just made her son more anxious, more angry and more aggressive. She realized that the loving thing to do was to observe and accept her son's anger with empathy and compassion, but also not to let him hurt her. Both of them feel better that way. So she encouraged me to look at the outcome and learn from that...

This is kinda what I was trying to get at yesterday, but having the metaphor of a child helps me to visualize how to handle that angry part of my brain. I mean, there's no point in getting angry at an angry child—the situation just escalates. Similarly, getting angry at myself for being angry at myself just creates this never-ending spiral of fury.

But passively letting that voice berate me just makes things worse too. But if I can relax and just take that step back and just observe it, be kind to it in a firm but gentle way... just as one would (ideally!) do with a difficult child.

Easier said than done, but like I said, that child metaphor helps me connect with some compassion and detachment and empathy. Some space and openness instead of this narrow, dark intensity.

---

The other good thing that happened today was that I actually did finish the task I promised to do for the Black students' advocacy group, and I presented my work at their meeting (I snuck out of the meditation retreat in the middle of the day to attend part of it). I could see that my work was useful and constructive to the group and people thanked me for it. It contributed to everyone there feeling that the group is making progress, that "we're getting things done." It felt really good to be a part of that.

---

Tomorrow we're going to Chicago. We were supposed to see Franklin but he seems to have vanished under a mountain of work, or something like that. Maybe it will yet happen..... anyway, we plan to eat a lot (us? eat a lot? I bet you can't imagine!) so it should be fun and I should have something to blog about besides the inside of my head. Yay!

not exactly

Continuing the thought from the post below... It's not exactly just self-criticism. The sensation of pain in the chest, that is. It also feels like wanting to do something, wanting to take some kind of action, and feeling helpless.

In the whole "chakra" worldview (which I file in the category of "take what you need and leave the rest"), the head is intellectual thought, the chest is willpower, and the stomach is emotions (that's an approximation from a non-believer—sorry if it's sloppy).

So maybe the pain in my chest is like a mass of willpower, that is so strong in so many directions that it cancels itself out and ends up stuck.

The book on depression I was just reading talks about how depression isn't actually low energy, although it seems that way when you feel like you can't move—depression is actually an overload of energy and emotions that just, like, short-circuits you.

Which does make sense. People who've known me a long time know that I've never been lacking in willpower and determination, and sometimes that leads to bursts of intense activity with impressive results (people who've only known me since I moved to Madison may find this impossible to imagine).

But when I have trouble channeling all this intensity into effective action, it's like, it all builds up and overloads me.

love it or shoot it?

Yesterday I commented to "our little Italian friend" that "I feel like I can't prevent people from hurting me. It feels like they just reach right in my head and do whatever they want."

But, now that I've identified that intense throbbing pain in my chest as a steady stream of inchoate self-abuse (that was the "final piece" that fell into place yesterday—I hadn't previously realized that I could be mean to myself without actually using words), I've realized that other people don't reach in my head and hurt me. Not at all.

Other people say and do things, and then I use that to hurt myself.

It's tempting to berate myself for berating myself. But I read in a book that I should try to love myself for it instead.

This is not easy. But I thought of a way. I can appreciate that this berating voice just wants things to change.

I want to be a teacher. Or at least to get out of this slow-burning purgatory of sitting in cafes not working.

So, look, the part of me that is screaming "what the hell is wrong with you????" 24/7 just wants these things, too. I love this voice for wanting to help, wanting me to achieve my dreams and be happy. Really.

It's not working. I don't love it. Instead, I have a growing the desire to shoot it. That can't be good.

I'm sorry for posting this stuff that isn't very interesting and is probably sort of self-indulgent. I'm just getting sorta desperate and I hope if I post it I won't forget it. But maybe I'm just making things worse with all this introspection.

Don't feel you have to read it. Really.

Speaking of self-indulgent, remind me to post what the book says about "how to tell the difference between taking care of yourself and being self-indulgent." That was useful.

Useful, useful, blah blah blah. It feels like I'm going nowhere. Don't bother to suggest anything, I promise you, I've tried it. Or it feels that way.

Maybe I should get a job. It would at least get me out of my own head. But then I'd never have time to finish my work.

speaking of baked Alaska...

It's November in Wisconsin, and it was sixty fucking degrees today. Also yesterday.

At right is a map of Florida—the red bits will be underwater after sea level rises twenty feet. Won't that be fun?

Read more here.

three mysteries solved...now what?

sorry this is so long...random illustrations provided for your enjoyment

So for a while now Loopy has been saying to me, "I'm worried you're getting depressed." I've been saying, "no, no, I'm fine, really."

But for the last couple days, starting Sunday, I have had intervals of feeling genuinely depressed by my definition. (My definition = you don't want to move because everything hurts, and you feel hopeless). I have been depressed intermittently in my life and never been completely sure why, or how to cure it.

All things considered it's not unreasonable for me to feel depressed right now. I have accumulated what I may, without fear of hyperbole, describe as a mountain of incomplete schoolwork, which I spend all day every day avoiding. I can't graduate, be certified, and achieve my dream of becoming a teacher until I get through all of that.

On top of that, I have also volunteered to spend all day every day avoiding work for the Black students' advocacy group I've joined, AND for the socialist organization you've heard me mention before. (No, my problem isn't that I "can't say no"--the two tasks I've volunteered to avoid are things I could easily polish off in a couple of hours).

For a long time I couldn't understand why I didn't do any of this work. It's all stuff I enjoy, think is valuable, and want to do. And I really, really want to be done with the school stuff and become a teacher. Yet, the aforementioned ongoing avoidance continues. Mystery #1.

I also noticed that whenever anyone suggests a useful and effective strategy for solving my problems, I *might* try it briefly, but if it shows any signs of being effective, I immediately refuse to ever do it again.

I feel that I want to "get better," but my behavior clearly demonstrates that I am refusing to "get better." Mystery #2.

Last is the mystery of my intervals of depression. Why does everything feel so painful and difficult? Why does the smallest obstacle seem insurmountable? Especially when I haven't been doing anything to make myself feel so tired out and used up! Mystery #3.

Over the last, say, six weeks, these mysteries have gradually unraveled and I've come to understand their interconnection. Today a final piece fell into place.

Mystery #1: I avoid things because everything seems painful.

Mystery #3: Everything seems painful because when I approach any of my "failures," (i.e. my incomplete work)—or anything that might potential become a fresh failure (i.e. anything at all)—I berate myself mercilessly and incessantly for being lazy, selfish, and spoiled. (I do? Oh, look at that).

Mystery #2: And I don't want to "get better" because if I can do that, then it PROVES that there was nothing stopping me from doing work/getting better—in other words, it PROVES I'm lazy, selfish, and spoiled.

Well, that only took me thirteen years to figure out. Think I'll figure out what to do about it before another thirteen have passed?

Or should I just give up and devote the rest of my life to a nice soothing hobby like, oh, I dunno, heroin maybe?