One Semester Left

I wouldn't want to say that this is the most depressed I've ever been, because I've been in some pretty bad spots. But I think it's safe to say that this is the most my depression has ever affected the rest of my life. Somehow in the past, I was always able to function - sort of, at least.

The past few months I've been filling out PhD applications, following my big dream of becoming a professor and doing research forever. Balancing this with general grad school life hasn't been easy, but it also hasn't been impossible. I actually started off this semester feeling pretty strong and confidant.

I finally went to the university counselling center after hearing so many good things about them, and was feeling hopeful. We scheduled an official intake appointment...and then a hurricane hit, so my appointment was cancelled. I couldn't force myself to go back again to try to figure it out. Counselling centers are a huge source of anxiety for me (ironic, I know) because of past experiences, and it's insanely hard for me to take the first step in trying to get help.

Anyway, a few weeks ago as I was struggling to write a paper, I came to a kind of epiphany. I realized that ever since coming to Florida, I had been continually sacrificing the quality of my work in order to cling to shreds of my mental health. Because I knew I was not and had not been turning in quality work and it was starting to feel like I was just getting worse and worse instead of improving (which is what is supposed to happen in school, yes?). Every time I sat down to write something, even a tiny two page response paper, I would get overwhelmed with anxiety. Concepts that I fully understood only moments ago became complete mysteries, I couldn't understand what the words meant anymore, and I certainly couldn't figure out how to form a coherent sentence. Looking at the stuff I've written over the past year and a half is like watching myself slowly go insane and there's nothing I can do to stop it.

It's worse because I know I was a good writer. I got good grades, writing teachers loved me, I loved writing. I was a writing tutor for goodness sake. So I completely recognize how bad my writing is now and yet can't seem to do anything about it.

I wish there were something I could blame it on because then I might be able to fix it. The only thing I can clearly say is that I have been deeply unhappy since moving to Florida. Maybe it's just a coincidence and I was bound to continue spiraling downwards regardless of my location. Maybe it's the weather here. Maybe it's the absolutely insane drivers here.

I mean, it's probably the lack of a support group. That one time I went to the counselling center, one of the things the intake counselor said was most concerning was my isolation. When she asked about my closest friends or emergency contacts, all of them were at least one full state away. But I already knew I was alone, and I know I have a hard time connecting with people, and unfortunately my life is not like a melancholy comic where the solitary depressed protagonist stumbles into a lifelong friendship with a group of quirky individuals.

She was also concerned about how I had no "safe zones." There really isn't anywhere I feel at home here. I'm constantly on edge in my house because my roommates and their dogs, constantly on edge on campus, and too poor to hang out at coffee shops that often. Let me tell you, one of the most depressing thoughts I've had in the past year and a half is sitting at my desk in my bedroom on the verge of tears, desperately wishing I could go "home," and then realizing that I already am where home is supposed to be. Most college students go home for holidays and breaks - I visit my family, but that is no longer my home. There is not a lot of extra space in my mom's house and my home town just brings back a shit load of bad memories that I hate reliving.

During the last two weeks of this semester, I knew that if there were a way for my to drop out of grad school with no repercussions, with a source of income, with a purpose in life, I would absolutely do it and not come back next semester. Campus gives me anxiety, thinking about assignments gives me anxiety. At this point it's too late to go back to therapy and figure out some kind of accommodations for this last semester. I'm not saying therapy wouldn't be helpful and that I'm not going to try to go back, just that at this point it's too late to figure out a way to make my time here less harmful.

I will clarify here that of course I'm going to finish grad school. I would hate myself even more for quitting with only one semester left. I'm not counting on graduating with a high GPA or flying colors, but I will graduate. And if I don't, then, I don't, but at least I tried.

Like I said, my big dream was to go to PhD school after graduation. I'm only applying to three programs because I'm poor and don't have a lot of time (or sanity) to spend on a bunch of different applications, but I know my applications have not been stellar. I've received one rejection so far, which came as no surprise. I still have one application left to finish, and it's hard making myself work on it at all. I quite honestly feel embarrassed and ashamed to even try at this point. Asking for letters of recommendation from my professors feels like a waste of their time, not to mention the ever present thought in the back of my head that they think I have no chance anyway and are just doing it out of pity. I honestly think they are better people than that and they wouldn't agree to write a letter if they didn't think it was worth it, but I still think about it every moment of the day.

Plus, this whole time I've been talking about how I'm not good at grad school. So why on earth would I want to continue into more grad school? Part of me is clinging to the hope that maybe it's just Florida and maybe I would be more functional somewhere else. Maybe this time I'd have an idea of how to manage my life. Maybe I'd finally live somewhere I felt safe. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

I still want a PhD, but part of me believes I should try to get my mental (and physical) health in order before continuing. Except, I also doubt I will ever have my mental and physical health in order. I don't have the money for that kind of thing. I feel like I will always be a mess and all I can do is damage control and try to stay out of situations that exacerbate it (i.e., academia).

But then...what am I supposed to do after I graduate?

One option is to stay in Florida until something changes, maybe apply to PhD programs again in another year while I'm not also trying to graduate. I could invest more time into the burlesque troupe I recently joined. I could find some kind of other part time job, I could start doing music jobs again, I could try some other random things and just hope I make enough money for rent. There are a shit load of downsides to this (I'd still be in Florida, I'd still be with my current roommates, I'd still be incredibly alone), but also some positives (I wouldn't have to move, I'd be able to continue with the burlesque troupe).

Another option is moving back to the city where I got my undergrad. It's a tiny little town, but it's one of my favorite places, and I think I'd find some peace there. I still have some friends in the area and potential living options. There's some burlesque opportunities, and I could still do music and probably find some kind of job. There are downsides (having to move, having to join a new burlesque troupe) and positives (a happier environment, friends, there's still burlesque, more dance opportunities).

Or I could move to the opposite side of the country to where all the PhD programs are, even though I wouldn't be in the programs. This sounds like a stupid idea if I'm not actually going to school, and sounds kind of pathetic if my goal is to just keep applying until they ban me or accept me, but that wouldn't be the only reason. I actually have friends in that area too. However, this option is a lot scarier and sounds a lot riskier than the other options, and seems the least feasible. Downsides (incredibly far move, big scary unknown city, who knows what kind of burlesque opportunities, potentially harder to find a job because there's more competition, high rent), positives (brand new city, very good friends, definitely some kind of burlesque, potentially easier to find a job because there are more jobs, would make getting a PhD easier if I ever do decide to try again).

Maybe I'll be out of this funk in another few weeks. Maybe it's pre-period depression. Maybe, somehow, my brain will start working again next semester. Maybe I'll be able to convince myself that I'm not getting dumber, I'm just getting sicker, and that it's not my fault. Maybe that will be enough to give me a little peace and to get through a semester, even if it it doesn't improve my actual work.

Every passing day makes me more and more convinced that I'm just incapable of taking care of myself. I've never been able to envision being able to support myself. I don't know how easy it would be to let myself depend on someone. I can't imagine there being someone who was in a situation where they could help support me, much less that they would actually want to. But I really have become incapable of doing a lot of things that are necessary.

It's kind of ridiculous though. In order to get any kind of help for my mental disorders (or to qualify for disability benefits or anything), you have to somehow surpass your disorder. But also prove you have it? And also have money?

After turning in my last final, I got absorbed in a video game and played it almost nonstop for a few days. Then I beat it. Then I got absorbed in a web comic and read it all day. When I got up to date, I read another one. And then another one. And then another one until 3 am last night, and then cried for a while because I felt so hopeless and exhausted and tired of trying to hide from myself and my thoughts.

Anyway. One day, things will be okay. One way or another.

It helps to write things out and clear my head a little. I feel like all I ever do is complain and vent, so I appreciate you for reading all the way through this. And if you're one of the people I regularly vent too, I appreciate you for listening.

--Dexter

Queer Identity

Welcome to my first semester of my last year in grad school! I can't believe I've made it this far. And I can't really believe I'll make it any further, but I will certainly try.

The summer was, to put it lightly, stressful. I moved, had a few break ups, had a lot of mental break downs and a car break down. But now I'm in my new place, healthier relationships, and I've even gotten comfortable riding the bus. I'm actually feeling rather positive about this semester (but just check back with me tomorrow, I'll probably be back to Dexter the Depressed, whom we all know and don't really love).

Throughout all the crazy madness of summer, I was (theoretically) doing research for my thesis. So now that the semester has actually started, I've started actually doing more work on it, and it's made me realize a couple of things.

My thesis is on asexuality and burlesque. I've been extremely fortunate in all the support I've received from both inside and outside my department. I've even connected with the local burlesque troupe and I may actually get to do burlesque and get some awesome exciting fun experience.

The thesis itself has shifted to focus on performing identity, specifically queer identity, specifically asexual identity. Which I mean, makes sense. I've been an out and proud ace for at least three years now.

But I've never really felt comfortable identifying as queer or lgbtq+. Lots of people don't believe asexuality belongs in the community. Some asexually identifying people don't care and don't feel the need to be part of the community. But I do, and I always have, but have been afraid to say so in regards to myself, especially in something as important as my thesis.

In the School of Dance, being queer is totally fine. But is being ace fine?

Sitting in my into to lgbt studies class, I suddenly wonder if the professor or the students around me will actually be okay with me being there, or if they'll accuse me of being an imposter, a wannabe.

I could go on about acephobia and cite some nasty experiences, but my point is, it's awfully hard to write about performance identity when you're afraid that your identity isn't valid. It's very hard to stake your master's degree on your identity, when you're worried that your identity is invisibilized and ignored and mislabeled time and time again.

My main concern with actually performing an asexual burlesque was that people wouldn't get it, would be angry at it, would dismiss it. At best, they just wouldn't even notice the asexual jokes or themes. So what's the point?

The School of Dance has a guest artist in residency right now, Marjani Forte-Saunders (look her up, she's amazing), and she came to our dance theory class yesterday. We read and discussed a lot of stuff, but what really stuck with me was her response to critics and audience members who couldn't identify or find themselves in her work. "No, not for you. Enjoy." She also showed a clip of an interview with Arthur Jafa (check it out here), who talked about how everyone except white males have had to walk through the world constantly putting themselves in the role of a white male in order to identify with or enjoy entertainment and art, because everything is oriented or aimed at white males.

So you don't need to talk to white males. You don't need to find some way to appeal to the majority. If it's not about them, then it's fine. They have enough stuff about them. They can still listen in and watch, but they do not need to be able to find themselves in the work.

No, this is not about you. Enjoy the show.

--Dexter

PS. But still I kind of feel like in order to write a successful master's thesis, I should probably worry about it. Ugh.

First Year of Graduate School

After my freshman year of undergrad, I wrote a handy first year guide. Looking back at it, it's kind of funny because they all apply to my first year of grad school too.

I'm tempted to say that my first year of grad school was even more of a train wreck than my first year of undergrad, but that might not be true. They may be equal.

First of all, I hate Florida. I hated Mississippi the first year too, but I really just hate Florida. It's hot, it's rainy, there's a ton of half naked undergrads who don't know how to drive (LITERALLY I cannot believe how people drive here), the pollen is awful, and there's no parking anywhere. It does, however, have a lot of cool thrift stores and coffee shops and bars. I can't speak on the public library, BECAUSE THERE'S NO FREE PARKING FOR IT.

Anyway.

School.

There are a lot of parts I do like about school. I love the readings, I love the discussions. I love my thesis (usually), and I'm actually excited about what I'm doing. But there's so much more outside of all of those things that I hate and don't know how to do or just can't do correctly. It feels like everyone expects me to know how to do a lot of things already, but I don't.

Also, suddenly everything is written in Chicago style instead of MLA? Why did I spend four years memorizing every detail of MLA if no one uses it in grad school????

I've been thinking that maybe I'm not suited to grad school, but I'm halfway done now and in plenty of debt already so why not just get her done, y'know? My brain can't really handle it, I don't think. I'm constantly confused and I suddenly find it difficult to focus on four different final projects, and I feel like I haven't always had that problem. I used to be able to write twenty pages on something I didn't care about, but now for some reason it feels impossible.

I don't really know who I've become this past year. I've done really shitty work, missing some assignments completely just because I somehow forgot about them or got confused or couldn't keep track of the weekly syllabus changes.

Growing up I hated asking questions in class because I thought I should already know the answer, and usually I could go find the answer myself instead of having to ask. Even in undergrad, I could usually get away with it, though I did get better at asking questions. Now, all the questions I have can't be looked up. I can't google which syllabus is correct, I can't google the exact parameters of an assignment, I can't google how exactly the inner workings of the school function. So I tried asking questions. And it feels like every other question is met with disgust and awe of my ignorance. Or I need to check the syllabus. Which I already have, but am still confused.

It's also very hard to make friends in grad school. I don't know why. I honestly don't know how I made friends in undergrad or at any point in my life. But I don't see anyone outside of classes, so I know virtually no one who isn't an FSU grad dance student. But they all quickly formed friend groups and found besties and now I'm like, awkwardly part of some friend circles but not enough to actually do anything with them.

I'm used to that. But it's still hard.

And it's really really hard to have a shitty year and not have anyone there with you.

At the end of the first semester, my beloved car finally died. I spent several weeks with no mode of transportation and walked a few miles to campus every day. Okay, I know that's not that bad and now I'm really just showing what a wimp I am. But seriously, my body is falling apart. I'm depressed all the time so I'm already exhausted and low on motivation. And it's fucking hot outside. But it wasn't as bad as it could've been.

With an amazing stroke of luck that is absolutely unheard of for me, my grandfather gave me one of their old cars that's just been sitting in the yard for years. It's super old and doesn't run great, but I love it. It's an awesome little car.

Then, I got the stomach flu the last week of classes and felt like I was actually dying. AND THEN the flu left me with an intolerance for lactose.

Guys, I fucking love cheese.

I accidentally had some cream cheese and seriously nearly died.

But that semester did finally end, with an awesome little car and lactose intolerance..

Second semester was an absolute disaster. I almost failed one class and I'm not sure why I didn't fail one of the other ones. It felt like I couldn't do anything right, which just made me lose any motivation to do anything well. I just got more and more depressed and more and more anxious.

No, part of that definitely was my fault. Since moving to Florida, I have been pretty bad at regularly taking my medication. See, one symptom of anxiety is gagging in the morning. Literally every morning, I gag half a dozen times. I also reflexively gag almost every time I enter a bathroom.

Now, one of my daily pills tastes absolutely awful and dissolves really fast, so the taste just gets worse and worse and stays in your mouth for ages if you don't get it down fast. But sometimes I can't, because I start gagging before I even try to swallow. I have to hold my hand over my mouth, and sometimes it still doesn't work and I have to spit it out and at that point I can't face trying another pill and potentially wasting it. So the more anxious I get, the worse I gag, and the harder it is to take my medication, so I get more anxious, etc. etc. It's a great loop I have going.

I could also talk at length about my roommates and everything they do to make my life miserable, but I'll save that for a fun table book or something.

This past semester I did get to go to a conference in Indianapolis and present some of my own research, and that was pretty cool. I do love conferences. Except for the people who said, "Wait, you're a dancer but you don't like people?" and "You can't be a teacher if you don't like people!" and "One day you'll just have to get over it." Like, thanks tech guys who know nothing about me or my area of work. I just asked you to fix my nametag, but thanks for also telling me I'm a failure and can't do anything (I could write another fun table book about all the people who have told me I can't be a dancer and/or a teacher because I'm too shy, anxious, introverted, etc.).

The last week of classes, I was seriously considering taking myself to the emergency room. I was beyond stressed, super anxious, super depressed, and I had no one to talk to. However, my roommates were downstairs having a party, so I wasn't about to walk by them in hysterics to go to the emergency room, with no idea of what would happen if I got there.

When school finally ended (half a week after finals), a huge weight passed of my shoulders.

This last semester definitely turned me into someone I don't want to be. I don't want to turn in shitty work and I don't want to miss assignments and I don't want to disappoint professors or anyone. The stress also made me a really shitty partner to my boyfriend, and our relationship got super strained for a while. I was constantly having a crisis (which, let's be honest, isn't that unusual for me), and it was affecting more than just my schoolwork.

So... now what? I'll be working on my thesis all summer and would like to get some kind of job, but I don't have a lot of expectations there. Grad school has severely lowered my self esteem when it comes to me being capable of doing any kind of job.

But then school will start back in the fall. Will this whole cycle start over? I like to think it won't, because I'll be taking different classes and should be spending more time on my thesis and on stuff I care about. But I think I said that about grad school in general. That's what people told me about grad school.

I'm going to try to see FSU's student counselling, which is apparently free. Maybe I can get that sorted out of the summer or something. But I really, really hate therapists. I have had incredibly bad experiences with them.

I originally wanted to go straight to PhD land after grad school, but now I don't know. For one thing, I don't think I could do all the applications and take the GRE while still finishing my MA. Plus, I just don't know if I can do PhD school anymore. I still want to teach at a university level, so I'm required to have a PhD (not just an MA), but I really just don't think I'm good enough anymore.

I felt very supported and loved during undergrad. Maybe I'm romanticizing it, but it's at least partly true. I had professors who supported me, other people who supported me, an actually decent roommate. At FSU, it feels like I have...nothing. That's one reason why I want a job, to just get out of FSU.

I'm not trying to shit on FSU or anything. It's a great school and a great dance department. I'm just not so sure that I fit in or belong.

Sorry for the crazy long post, but oh well.
--Dexter

Panic! Attack

I was gonna write a post about some conference shit or something but then I just keep having panic and anxiety attacks every day so I thought I'd write about that instead.

Typically my anxiety attacks involve more and more frenzied snapchats to like, two or three people. I guess if you want to pretend I'm a decent person and not just an annoying whinypants, you could say this is me trying to reach out for help when I know I need it. Except in reality I'm just an annoying whiny bitch let's be honest.

I have a bad history with panic attacks. They didn't start in full force until after my assault freshman year of undergrad, when they quickly took over my life. I'm no stranger to anxiety attacks either, which come on slower but are just as devastating.

Well the past few weeks I've been really stressed from school and this conference thing, and the bullying of my two roommates has gotten worse. So after in general feeling shitty and exhausted from traveling and being told that I can't be a dancer OR a teacher if I don't like people (another story for another time), I came back to school to almost immediately be told that I'm behind in everything and am basically a failure and don't have my shit together and please tell me something I don't know.

It all culminated on Thursday where it was just too much and I had a bad anxiety attack.

Now here's my dark past of anxiety attacks: pretty much every single time I've had one, whoever has been around has gotten frustrated or angry with me because I can't tell them what's wrong. I will be tense, curled up in a ball, rocking, twitching, crying, whatever, but they'll keep insisting that I have to tell them what's going on and why I'm acting that way.

Okay, yeah, lemme just put this attack on pause so I can explain it to you real quick.

My favorite example is when my real life therapist got mad at me for having a panic attack during a session. He kept saying that if I refused to talk to him I was wasting the money of the people who were paying for the session, that he couldn't do anything if I kept "refusing" to talk.

I stopped seeing him.

But the response to my attacks is saddeningly consistent. Is my inability to communicate really that out of place in a panic attack? Am I really just that fucked up?

The internet tells me to call the suicide hotline but like, I won't be able to talk to them either so that's kind of pointless. People don't have patience for people who can't talk.

I had two emergency pills left and now I have one. Took a while to kick in but then I was just numb and depressed and crazy rather than frantic and depressed and crazy. I mean, i certainly prefer the numb part. Part of me keeps trying to say that it's not much better, but at least it doesn't feel like my insides are tearing out of my body and ripping my skin open in their attempts to get lost. At least I don't care as much about all the things that upset me or hurt me.

Sometimes I'd take a crazy pill to avoid cutting, to escape the desperate panicky feeling that required pain in order to find release. But then the numbness makes it easier to cut, because the initial urge and pain is still there, just not as frantic.

I feel like I have no home because of the way I'm treated when I am home. I feel like I just can't be good enough because sometimes the best I can do is honestly just shitty when it comes to academic work. I feel like a useless human being because I just hate sex and the problems it creates and I wish I could just be normal and like it as much as other people. I feel like I really won't ever feel any better because of my inability to communicate verbally and my inability to believe all the things that I know logically are probably true.

Like, come on. I remember most everything therapists and counselors have told me. I remember all the inspirational things they say. I remember all the activities we did in the psych ward. I remember being surrounded by older men and women who had been living with depression and mental illness for decades.

I remember some who had shock therapy treatment, or whatever the official name is now. I remember what they looked like afterwards, how one of them would swear it helped but just felt awful right after, while the other patient would just shrug and say he really didn't know if it helped or not.

What's the point in having to fight so hard just to exist? Having to be so brave just to exist? When you can't even do anything that contributes to society because of how fucked up you are? When all the "success" stories come from people who are now all like, "but now I have a beautiful husband and a baby boy and I love myself," but for one thing you don't want no baby boy but also what are the chances of finding a husband when you don't like sex (and have irritating panic attacks)?

It's like, there's just no redeeming qualities here. There's nothing that has potential for a success story. I used to daydream about it and being able to tell people that I made it through some really tough times but ultimately found some semblance of success, or stability, or achieved some lifelong goal. I wanted to be able to tell people that I did it, so that they could do it too.

I still think other people can do it, don't get me wrong.

Sometimes I tried to end these posts motivationally because I start to think of all the things I would say to someone who said what I had just said. I know all the answers. I know what all are lies being told to me by my brain and I know that some situations are temporary, yadda yadda yadda. I mean, guys, I was in the psych ward. Hopefully I learned something in there.

But I don't believe any of it, you see.

Maybe if I were just asexual or just chronically mentally ill. But being both is just...impossible. There really are no redeeming qualities or areas of potential there.

Invisible. Wrong. Whiny.

I have one emergency pill left. I have to call the doctor to ask for a refill, which I mean, he'll probably give me cause I got the prescription a super long time ago so it's fairly obvious I'm not like, popping them every day. Buuuut you know, I don't do phone calls or talk to people or anything so the odds of me actually calling to ask are low.

I already took one emergency pill tonight. Once it finally kicked in, it helped. Sort of. I mean, obviously I'm still not in a good state of mind. But I'm not shaking and crying and desperately trying both good and bad coping methods.

But I also want to take another pill just to totally wipe out the chaos and misery in my head right now.

I don't want to be alone, but there's really no one here in Tallahassee I can randomly call. I realize that I don't really have a "support group" here, because I have no real friends. I have friends, but no friends. No friends who would probably like, y'know, be okay with me having panic attacks involving no communication and being a whiny bitch.

Hopefully I'll pass out soon. Unfortunately not before I actually publish this post, though, because heeeey what's the point of being a whiny bitch if no one hears you.

In all serious though, THIS IS WHAT MENTAL ILLNESS CAN BE.

I don't know how this post could help anyone, but maybe if anything it could just give you an idea of what goes on in the mind of someone who lives with mental illness.

That's my futile attempt to make this post a little less self-centered and whiny.

What's the point in doing anything public if it's not going to help someone in some way.

Even if it's an internal chuckle. A brief smile. An idea of what their friends might be dealing with. A scathing commentary on social issues.

I lost track of this post.

I'm on (prescribed) drugs.

Bye.

--Dexter