lesslucid (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} lesslucid) wrote,@ 2007-04-18 11:51:00 |
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Someone I love died. The things I worry about seem so trivial right now. I look at the routine of my life and see almost nothing that I care about. I don't want to teach today.
I lost my temper at some students in a lecture on monday. I don't like losing control.
Mostly I think I feel numb. This isn't how...
Jane was an art teacher. I went to her house and drew and painted things, and she would also draw and paint, and we would talk about what I was doing and she would encourage me to try different things. At the time she was the only person in the world that I trusted. I felt that my parents hated me and wanted to destroy me, ditto my school teachers, dittto the other kids at school, ditto ditto. I would sit on the floor of her studio and draw and it seemed as though the world was good, that there was a place it in for me, that there was refuge from the awfulness of life... in an interview for my supervisor's book I said that Jane taught me to be a human being. To whatever extent I am not the emotionally stunted caricature of rage and resentment I was then on track to become, I really believe I owe it to her.
I feel... something far off. It is so muted and distant that I can't really call it grief. I am anxious that I have sacrificed so much to this stupid fucking thesis that I don't even know... how much I have lost of myself. I want to be able to talk to her again. I keep remembering the way I felt in her studio, the conversation we had the last time I saw her, talking about meditation and healing and religion... she had breast cancer, which she decided not to have treated. My mother's letter said that the doctor frightened and intimidated her and that she didn't want to put her trust someone like that. It made me think of me, angry in the lecture, almost certainly intimidating the poor kids who were... probably just... oh.
I think perhaps in the process of writing that I am realising that this nothingness I feel is the numbness of shock rather than that other numbness.
The last time I saw Jane she talked to me about a trip she had taken to Hawaii, about how beautiful it was there, about the religious ceremonies she had seen there... I was thinking last night that perhaps that is where I should go if I want to... I don't know. Say thankyou.
Here, take a look at one of her paintings.
Last night I was helping a friend with some marking. She was anxious about today - she had to give a lecture - and I tried to comfort her but I felt so distant... from what, I don't know.
Someone I love died. The things I worry about seem so trivial right now. I look at the routine of my life and see almost nothing that I care about. I don't want to teach today.
I lost my temper at some students in a lecture on monday. I don't like losing control.
Mostly I think I feel numb. This isn't how...
Jane was an art teacher. I went to her house and drew and painted things, and she would also draw and paint, and we would talk about what I was doing and she would encourage me to try different things. At the time she was the only person in the world that I trusted. I felt that my parents hated me and wanted to destroy me, ditto my school teachers, dittto the other kids at school, ditto ditto. I would sit on the floor of her studio and draw and it seemed as though the world was good, that there was a place it in for me, that there was refuge from the awfulness of life... in an interview for my supervisor's book I said that Jane taught me to be a human being. To whatever extent I am not the emotionally stunted caricature of rage and resentment I was then on track to become, I really believe I owe it to her.
I feel... something far off. It is so muted and distant that I can't really call it grief. I am anxious that I have sacrificed so much to this stupid fucking thesis that I don't even know... how much I have lost of myself. I want to be able to talk to her again. I keep remembering the way I felt in her studio, the conversation we had the last time I saw her, talking about meditation and healing and religion... she had breast cancer, which she decided not to have treated. My mother's letter said that the doctor frightened and intimidated her and that she didn't want to put her trust someone like that. It made me think of me, angry in the lecture, almost certainly intimidating the poor kids who were... probably just... oh.
I think perhaps in the process of writing that I am realising that this nothingness I feel is the numbness of shock rather than that other numbness.
The last time I saw Jane she talked to me about a trip she had taken to Hawaii, about how beautiful it was there, about the religious ceremonies she had seen there... I was thinking last night that perhaps that is where I should go if I want to... I don't know. Say thankyou.
Here, take a look at one of her paintings.
Last night I was helping a friend with some marking. She was anxious about today - she had to give a lecture - and I tried to comfort her but I felt so distant... from what, I don't know.
