Nerves

When I was six, I remember sitting on the bus next to my then best-friend, Simran, and asking her how we knew what was going on in other people’s minds.  She seemed confused by the question (as any first grader should have been), so I gave her an example.  If you said something true, but your mum told you that you had lied when you had not, how could she prove that you had or had not lied?  If she could not get into your head, what made her claim valid?  I’m sure Simran still did not understand me, so we probably started talking about Spice Girls instead (whaddup, 1997?).  But, even then, I was mystified with the mind and how little we know about it.  It’s why I’d grow so angry when someone said that I had lied when I hadn’t.  One time, I screamed at my mum, “You aren’t in my mind!  You don’t know!”  I was seven.  And it never really occurred to me until recently that children that young shouldn’t be contemplating such strong philosophical and psychological questions.

Sometimes, I think I’m still too young to ponder at the things I do.

– – –

This morning, I woke up before the sun–something I haven’t done in a little while.  As I sat at my desk, reading psychology, I was able to watch the sun rise.  At first, it was a splotch of yellow light on the horizon, breaking the deep darkness that had settled over Kirksville.  Then, stripes of purple and then of pink appeared, with the yellow splotch now a strong, orangey base.  Soon, the entire sky was enveloped in a wash of pink and purple, covering the clouds and glittering off of the eight or so inches of snow.  Beautiful.  It made me happy that I hadn’t slept too much past my snooze alarm.

I had so many weird dreams last night, but I can only access bits and pieces.  Something about a great, glass tower with a mighty telescope on top.  Something about a popular rapper that I made fun of and had no respect for.  Something about a large, green spider that I killed so cautiously with a fly swatter and then buried into the carpet as though it were dirt.  There were so many people, and so much conflict, and I’m still reeling from the impact of what it all means.  Sometimes, my dreams really are tumbles of nothing, and other times they mean cryptic little things about the way I’m feeling.  Something in my mind tells me that this was just a jumble.  A stress jumble.

Last evening, my house was together and sharing a dream dictionary.  Turns out unicorns mean something bad to our Mr Freud.  I think it’s all full of shit.  I don’t buy into a dream interpreter or any other interpreter for that matter who tries to figure me out when not knowing a damned thing about what actually goes on in my mind.  It’s why I like to interpret my own dreams.  It’s why, as much as I love MBTI, I know that it has faults and that everyone is different, even if typed the same.  It’s why I put no store in all of those quizzes that ask “Which Character from [insert show here] Are You?”.  I don’t buy into anything that doesn’t actually know me because, as one of my friends told me, I’m a very cautious person.  Yes.  Yes, I am.

– – –

This past weekend wasn’t the best for me.  I’m still dealing with not knowing the interview results (though I’ll probably know before I can post this blog and will most likely tell you at the end), and I’ve come to realise that I may be depressed.  And not in the sense of the word that I’m just feeling down, but in the actual sense; the sense that means that I’m clinically depressed and should probably be getting some  help for this.  So, I planned out my week and found some free time on Thursday.  Once this slot of free time comes up today, I’m fairly certain that I will march myself over to the university counselling services and sit down with someone.  I don’t really care what happens, but I feel that it’s a big step that I need to take in order to get better.

I ended up looking through my diary to see when I really started getting depressed constantly, and my date landed on 10 December, with trails of unhappiness sinking in at the beginning of November.  I was surprised to see that I was so unhappy in nearly every entry, and it was a little bit frightening to realise that, without that way to keep track of my life, I may not have really realised why I was so upset.  I would have kept blaming it on the nerves of not knowing my SA results, rather than digging to the deeper problem and realising that something was seriously wrong.

So, when I go to UCS today, I’ll tell you how it goes.  I’ll tell you if it helps, and what will be done.  If there’s nothing to say, I won’t say it.  But if there is, expect more on the issue.

– – –

The results for SA were supposed to be email out any time after 23.00 on Wednesday night.  It’s now 7.20 on Thursday morning, and I’m growing more and more excited and nervous.  Last night, as I drifted to sleep, I told myself that it was nothing different from a cast list back in high school.  Stan would promise it to be up on Monday, and you’d end up waiting until Thursday afternoon to see any results.  All the while, your stomach would churn, and you’d feel ridiculously nervous about the entire ordeal.  If you multiplied that reaction by ten, you’d get how I was feeling.  When I think about that email coming through to tell me, well, my chest and stomach and heart tighten until it’s physically painful.  So painful that it causes headaches and puts me to bed, keeping me from studying for a psychology test.  These are serious nerves; I can’t wait until it’s all just over.  Then, I can work on accepting my year to come as it will truly be.

– – –

In Time Updates:

7.35: I’ve probably pressed the refresh button over thirty times since 23.00 last night.  Every five minutes, and I’m checking that email again.  And every five minutes, I’m once again left with no information.

7.42: Still nothing.  I’m reduced to scrounging Facebook and reading psychology texts.

7.51: Time to give up for a while and read even more psych.  Today’s exam is going to kill me.  I’m really sorry if you’re still reading this.

8.03: Again, really sorry if you’re still reading this; nothing has happened.

8.40: And still nothing.  I might as well start studying for my physics lab.

9.00: And still nothing, again.  I might as well just post all of this up and make a second post with the results when they come.  Sorry for making you read this; then again, it was your own doing.

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Analysis of the Mind and Soul

I fully realise that no one looks at what I’m writing, and that doesn’t necessarily bother me. I write for me, for my own personal enjoyment and well-being, and because there are so many things to write. It’s why I’ve kept a diary since freshman year of high school and have filled thousands of pages. No one will ever read those stories and traumas and ideas, but they’re noted down because they represent a portion of who I was and who I am. That’s why blogging for an empty audience is appealing. I can type, which is much faster than my detailed cursive, and I can still write for me.

When writing for an audience, you don’t tell the truth, either. It’s like how, when psychologists are doing studies on people, they try to make everything blind, including themselves. That way, they don’t look for things that aren’t there or try unconsciously influence their study subjects. Well, writing for an audience is similar. You change styles and try to make things different in order to be better liked or received. And that just doesn’t seem very fair to myself, and I like being fair to myself since I feel that I have a very unique and amazing relationship with me.

I don’t necessarily mind if people read this. Truly. I just prefer to write as though there is no audience, even if the style and talking sounds as if I’m speaking to an audience of the like-minded. And let me clear that. I write as if speaking to a great audience (and it’s the same way as in my diaries), but I like to think that the subject matter is uninfluenced by an actual, watching audience. It makes little sense outside of my head; terribly sorry. Just another example of the connection I have with myself that doesn’t quite translate into the material world.

Sometimes I wonder if everyone has that kind of relationship with themselves. If everyone learns about themselves and works with it. Or, if other people are just shells, walking along, following, moving through the steps. Yes, I don’t doubt that we all think and have conversations with ourselves in our heads, but I sometimes wonder just how strong of a relationship we have between soul and mind. Or between mind and mind. I don’t always know which is correct when talking about this subject. But maybe this is all the psychologist in me.

I’m outside right now, sitting in the middle of the quad, under the cover of an oak tree and a maple. Truman’s campus is beautiful, as is the weather of Kirksville during the fall, and other students are taking the same opportunity as I am to enjoy the last moments of sun before the infamous midwest winter comes to play. They’re sitting on blankets, tapping their pens on notebooks, reading, talking, typing. I start to wonder what makes them… them.

There’s a girl lying next to her friend about one hundred feet from me. She’s a hard-core lesbian and makes it known to everyone on campus. I don’t mind this; I admire her strength. One doesn’t have to share a similar view-point to find something amiable about another. The girl beside her is chatting. She is very liberal. Again, I don’t mind this. I like people to believe in something, even if it’s not exactly the same as me. A young man walks passed holding his art supplies and a cigarette. My eyes squint and nose wrinkles at the smell, but it’s not my right to think ill of him. There’s a girl sitting beneath a tree and staring off into space. I start to wonder if she’s thinking the same things that I am. Or who she is. I wonder why she stares as opposed to the four people on cell phones who move their heads but don’t see anything. And, all the while, I can’t help but analyse people. Why does she sit with that posture? Why did he look awkward while sitting on that bench? Why does he turn his head to look behind him every couple of seconds? What are we and why are we? Are we all vast minds, trapped in shells. Or are only some people trapped? Or are only some people empty?

These are too many questions for a Thursday afternoon. But, if they aren’t asked now, when?

And, for the record, when I analyse people, it’s not judging. Judging people for what they like or how they do things is backwards. Judge character. Judge kindness. Judge who they really are, not just reputation. You’ll find it much easier to get along with people who are different from you.

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