Jessica Sede

http://mtblogs.qc.cuny.edu/mt-tb.cgi/3709

The above link is a very interesting post left by Amber. M. Sousa on the Psychology 801 blog. In it she discusses the problem with labeling a person "mentally ill," and how once the label is given, all behavior is then taken as a symptom. She goes on to argue that it then becomes impossible to tell what is part of the persons "normal" personality, and what responses and thoughts are part of their "illness."

For my book review I am reading Girl Interrupted, and Amber's post really connected to this novel. Once a person is committed they cease to be an individual, and simply become an object of study. What would be considered "normal" thoughts and behaviors in a "healthy" person, is now open to scrutiny since the Schizophrenic, Borderline, or Manic Depressive person are experiencing them.

I think this is very unhealthy for the patient, because they will begin to question every thought they have, and may run the risk of acting into their illness. In Girl Interuppted the main character begins to become obsessed with her "illness," and possibly forced herself to seem crazier than she was...if she was ever really was "crazy" at all.

I had a friend in high school that was diagnosed as having a potential "Borderline Personality Disorder," or so she said. All I know is that this girl was on major psychiatric medications, and that she often complained that the Lithium was making her fat. Whenever this girl wanted to get out of a class, or act in an inappropriate way...she would blame her "illness." She couldn't help it...she was "SICK."

My husands little brother has ADHD, I have watched this boy play video games for hours, but then claim he can't concentrate for five minutes on homework. I personally think people try to "live up" to their diagnosis, and use it as a crutch. When we label every thought as a symptom, we encourage this type of behavior.

http://mtblogs.qc.cuny.edu/mt-tb.cgi/3318

Chris wrote a very interesting blog about self awareness and the existence of others. He questions whether we could really be "conscious" if we were raised without other people. Would the lack of other humans cause us to react to environmental changes in a simplistic way, much the way animals do?

Awhile ago I wrote about the connection between consciousness and language. I still feel that part of what we call consciousness would dissipate if we were unable to speak...furthermore...if we were unable to write. A lot of our thoughts are really the thoughts of others...things we have picked up from books...or during class.

I have always felt that we tend to define ourselves by what we are not. I know I am not a man, because I see men, and are different from them. I know I am not an evil person, because we see evil people on the news...and we are nothing like them.

We also create ourselves based on what we see...and like..in other people. Isn't that the way fashion works? We buy magazines to tell us what to wear...to provide us with suggestions on how to look, act, and speak. We watch movies and documentaires, and wish we could experience the things these people have experienced.

Maybe we aren 't self aware, but self molded. We create who we are, based on what we see, and what we like and don't like....would that even be self molded? Aren't other people shaping our thoughts all the time?

Maybe Tarzan would be more self aware then us.....since he wouldn't have other people telling him what to think......maybe he would actually have the ability to be true to himself.

I was soooooooo excited to read this book. I had seen half of the movie The Hours, and really wanted to read something by Virginia Woolf. I could not wait to get my hands on this book.

I did not like the book...

Why do I still not like the book?... What kind of English Major am I to not like this book?

I've been very busy, and I read the book in one night trying to get it out of the way. I guess my brain shut off, because I had a very difficult time following this book. I thought it was brilliant how we are placed in the head of each character, but I found myself losing track of who's head I was in.

The book to me felt realistic in the fact that the face people put on...is not who they really are. I enjoyed that aspect...but as for the characters...I didn't like many of them. I was fondest of Septuimus..but especially disliked Clarissa.

After reading "First Love" by Michael Cunningham...I really wanted to like this book. I especially liked how he described each character in the book as simply visiting from their own story. This is very true to life..and it made me angry that I did not enjoy this reading.

I suppose it is possible that I simply didn't get it, but who knows. I plan on trying to read this story over again when I have more time. Maybe I can find something in it that I missed the first time.

A few entries ago I wrote about language limiting our consciousness. I proposed that we are unable to remember infancy because we did not have language yet. I argued that consciousness is very connected to language.

Dominik wrote a response suggesting that this may not be totally accurate, and the more that I thought about it, the more that I realized he may be right.

The consciousness that we have now, I still believe is limited to our language. Without language we may not have the "sense" that we have now, but that does not mean that we did not have consciousness before language. Sometimes we lose words, or can't quite define those feelings that we have ( thanks Dominik), and become frustrated much like children.

Did we have a sense of consciousness while in the womb? Who knows! I can't remember, can you? The reason I started thinking about this is because of my dog.

Spooky is a three year old Chichuaua, and he constantly insists upon lying under the covers in the fetal position. It could be 100 degress, and he will crawl under the covers. A few days ago I crawled under the covers with him.

It was warm, but comforting. I curled into a fetal like position, and felt very safe. Something about being wrapped in warmth and closeness felt familiar and wonderful. I stayed under the covers with him for a few minutes, but then the heat got to me, and I had to come out for air.

I wonder if this sense of comfort is a lingering consciousness of being in the womb? This would prove that there was consciousness before birth, and that we do remember the "sense" of things, even if there are no words to define our feelings.

This left me wondering about Deja-Vu again. Are these familiar feelings just remnants of "senses" from the past that never took the shape of full memories?

ToM: A CAR CRASH AWAY?

I used to tutor at QSI, which is a middle school partially funded by Queens College. We had a student I shall call Alex, he was suspected to be autistic. He was very good at math and science, but he had a hard time in English. When you would ask him what he thought the characters were feeling, he would reply: "Nothing...they aren't real." He would frustrate the teachers, but after reading about Autism in Why We Read Fiction, alot of Alex's behavior makes sense.

My mother used to help me create stories when I was little. We would sit at her typewriter together and i'd let my imagination go wild. She would make my rambling coherent, and turn it into 10 page stories about bunnies and tooth fairies.

I was an emotional child...I am an emotional adult. I have always prided myself on my keen sense to read others. I am now grateful that I have this ability. Even though most have ToM, all it would have taken was a few damaged chromosomes, and my life would have been so different...so isolated...

I can't remember if certain accidents can cause a "healthy" adult to lose their ToM...I slightly remember Zunshine mentioning this...but I might be making it up..anyway.. the thought of losing your ToM is scary. It goes back to that Radiolab episode where the guy said "We are a car crash away from being someone else"...or was it in the Damasio book? You get the point...

HE HAS ORANGE EYES...I HAVE A CRAZY NEIGHBOR

A college student lived in my neighbors basement when I was 14. He was 21, and a bit eccentric. He smoked a lot of pot, and believed he would become a famous rapper. He would own his own island, and have 5 Range Rovers in different colors. Each member of his family would have their own mansion. This seemed like harmless fantasies. He was 21...I was 14...it didn't seem that strange.

He eventually was asked to leave the basement after joining the ROTC, and calling the Russian Embassy requesting information on nuclear weapons. This was after he believed he was a prophet, and didn't eat or shower for two days...then he got over it. He was a good student, and graduated from St. Johns with a 3.8 gpa. I still didn't think he was crazy...I was 14...what was wrong with the nearby adults!?!

I saw him three years ago. He sat at my neighbors table telling me that President Bush is sending him messages, and that Catharine Zeta Jones is pregnant with his baby. He also had orange eyes that changed the color of his suit....

"What the hell happened?" I thought, then realized he had been slipping for years.

Lisa Zunshine argues that Schizophrenia usually becomes symptomatic later in life. This was true of my neighbor. After reading "Metarepresentational Ability and Schizophrenia" my neighbors problems began to make more sense...from a scienific point anyway.

He lost the ability to differentiate between his wants...and his reality. His source tags were gone. Maybe he had read an article about George Bush, and didn't realize that the article was addressed to everyone, not just him. If this is the source problem...and it makes a lot of sense...why can't something be done to reverse it? Can schizophrenics be cured? Or do they just learn to fake normality ( whatever that is) like Autistics?

While searching for a blog to respond to, I came across the Beck Institute's Blog Site. As I browsed the blogs, I had a difficult time finding one that related to this class. Then I found this:

http://cttoday.org/?p=231#more-231

The blog basically discusses the problem many couples face because they expect their partner to "read their mind." The article paints an image of a couple fighting over being late to a party. The wife had to work late, and made both of them late. The husband feels she is selfish and does not care about his friends. The wife feels he is insensitive to her career stressors.

This blog made me think about David Lodge's Thinks. Again, we see just how difficult it is to relate to other people. This is made even more difficult when we construct an idea in our head about what the other person is thinking. This made me think of Lisa Zunshine's ToM, where we enjoy fiction because we "relate" to the characters, and construct extra feelings for them (even though these characters couldn't have felt them..because they aren't real)... usually the feelings we construct for them are ones we would have felt in the given situation ourselves.

This doesn't just apply to fiction, but to everyday life. I think we want to believe people feel certain ways... and we just go with it. We construct emotions for others to make sense of the confusion that other people make us feel.

According to the blog Cognitive Therapy can help couples realize when they are over generalizing, and work together to change thinking habits. I guess we do train ourselves to think a certain way.

I had a neighbor who told me never to say "You don't care about me!" when arguing. Rather, he felt that we should tell our partner "I feel like you don't care about me when you...." This way we are sharing our own feelings, instead of telling the other person how they feel. I thought it was great advice, but then again, he has been through three marriages.

This is a story called "Baked Apples" that I originally created for a Short Story Workshop class. I wrote it shortly after reading Pet Cemetery by Stephen King. I liked how the main characters thoughts were italicized, and deceided to try it.

I worked on it this weekend, trying to add more of the characters thoughts, so that the readers could see how what we think and what we say does not always correspond. I also liked the idea of playing around with characters who had thoughts altered by a mind altering substance.

The story still needs a lot of work:

Baked Apples

The shattered pieces of blue and pink glass sparkled against the pavement. Kayla stared at them, and let out a barely audible chuckle. She leaned back against the black railing and stretched her legs across the concrete steps. What the fuck is taking him so long? If he had just let me answer the phone this wouldn’t have happened. She folded her arms. Whatever; the damage is already done. She looked up at the stars sparkling against the dark sky. Kinda looks like broken glass. She looked at the door; after what seemed like an eternity, it opened.
Frank stood in the doorway, hesitant to come out. Kayla watched him, arms folded, her lips spread into a smug smile. He recognized that look. He knew it all too well. Great, she has something to tell me. Every time we see each other, something to tell me. I don’t know why I bother coming here some nights. “What?” he asked carefully closing the door behind him.
“Your not gonna believe this…,” she said.
“Try me,” he leaned against the door. Does she know? Nah…How could she?
“I dropped it.”
“Suuuure,” he said, “now c’mon, don’t play with me, where’s it at?”
“I wish I was playing…but I really dropped it.”
“Where?” he asked.
She could feel his icy blue eyes scan over her. Why is he always scrutinizing me? He’s going to call me stupid now. “Well…some of it is over there,” she pointed to the bottom of the step, “and some of it reached over here somewhere….” Kayla faked a smile. Why can’t I stop smiling? He’s gonna think I did it on purpose. She looked up at Frank. He was still leaning against the door, but his mouth had dropped into a frown, his eyes were set on the scattered pieces of broken glass.
“How the hell did you pull that off?” he yelled at her. Don’t get angry, don’t cause a fight. You didn’t pay for it anyway, just chill.
“Shhhh…,” she scolded, “Do you wanna wake the whole house up? Then we won’t be doing anything tonight.”
Frank pushed her feet out of the way, and sat down beside her. He pulled the hood of his grey sweatshirt over his head. “Do you have another one?” he asked.
“No, I broke it in the bathroom, remember?”
There she goes with that remember. No, I don’t remember, that was that other guy before me. You know, the great looking one who moved away. “I didn’t know you yet…”
“Oh…,” she said
“ So I guess you do this sorta thing a lot, huh?” he asked.
“Not really, this is just the second time,” She said standing up. Of course, all my fault again…always my fault. “I guess we should go pick up the pieces. At least it all fell out in a clump.”
“Wait- so we still have some?” he asked.
“Yea, we just have nothing to smoke it in.”
Kayla made her way down the steps and began picking up the shattered pieces of glass. He’s not even offering to help me. Why do I do this? Why? It’s really a shame. “Such a waste of thirty dollars." That really bothers me more than anything else- thirty fucking dollars- gone so quickly…” And you don’t even offer to help me. You just sit there watching me possibly cut my finger. Her eyes squinted with hatred, but it was too dark for him to see.
“How’d it fall?” Frank walked down the steps, taking the glass from her hands and tossing it in the garbage pail.
“I had it all packed, but then laid it across my lap”
“That was stupid” he sat down on the bottom step, “Your lap is unsteady.”
Stupid, stupid, always so stupid. “Your lap is unsteady!” She whined mockingly, scrunching her nose up and pointing at him. “Anyway… I didn’t think it was gonna fall, but then I burped…”
“Cute.”
“Shut up…I dunno…I guess my leg jerked or something, cause next thing I
know, ‘Bomp’ ‘Bomp’ ‘Bomp,’ down the steps…”
“You’re a fuckin spazz, you know that?” But man your hot, I wonder if that’s why I stick around, great legs, and a great ass.
“Involuntary reaction, it woulda happened to you too.” Kayla sat back down “What we gonna smoke outta now? You know how to roll?”
“Not really…” It wouldn’t happen to me, I’m not retarded.
“I thought you said you smoked all the time in high school?”
“I did,” he said “But it was other peoples, they always rolled for me.”
“Stoner my ass!” Kayla said. “I guess you lied…” she trailed off. Lie, Lie, Lie. Yea, I know, you’re a shithead. Frank didn’t seem to take notice.
That guy with the long hair, what did he do? Damn, what did he use? “I was at this party once” he stood back up and put his hand on the doorknob, “They made a bong out of an apple.”
Yea, ok. “An apple?”
“Yea, an apple…it worked really well too.” Sarcastic bitch.
“I dunno, that sounds so pathetic and desperate....”
You should know pathetic and desperate. “You wanna smoke up tonight?” Frank asked.
“Yea…”
“Then get in there and gimme an apple.” Woman!
Kayla opened the door and slowly walked into the living room. Get this, get that. “Just be quiet alright?” she warned. “I really don’t see how this is gonna work.” She whispered, heading into the dining room and walking up the steps “I’m gonna go upstairs and shut off the computer, ok? And try to pull up your conversation on Dead Aim. The apples are in the bottom drawer in the fridge…”
“Just trust me.” Frank smiled.
“Yea…” she frowned “remember what happened last time I did that…”
Always gotta talk shit, can’t ever leave shit alone. “Just do what you gotta do.” Frank snapped back, and headed into the kitchen.
It was dark, and he stumbled over the edge of Mortie’s rug. Damn dog, Always in the way. Mortie looked up at him, almost as if he had read his mind, let out a huff, and then slowly dropped his head back to the floor. Thank God you didn’t bark buddy…thank God. The apple bong was a lot more difficult to make than he had expected. First, he had tried using a straw to make the hole, but it kept splitting in half. Then he tried a plastic knife, but that wasn’t working either. He was beginning to feel a lot like Goldie Locks. Finally, he remembered that the guy at the party had used a pen. Awesome! The pen slid through. He was almost done setting up the tin foil when his phone went off “Shit!” he said, anxiously looking at Mortie, but his eyes didn’t even open.
“Hello” he whispered “What now? You know I can’t talk to you right now," She never listens, I hope she isn't gonna turn into a drama queen.. "I told you before I’m over at her house tonight.” He was silent for a few seconds. “Yea…I know, but like I said, this ain’t gonna work if you keep calling me on Tuesdays…uh-huh…yea…Saturday is fine, she tutors someone at night anyway…a’ight…lata babe.” That coulda been bad, but it wasn't bad, so just act like nothing happened. Who could be calling now, mom..just tell her it was mom. He hung up the phone and walked back into the dining room. Kayla had just started to make her way down the stairs.
“Wa-Lah!” Frank held out the apple bong for her to see.
“You’re freakin amazing!” she giggled and wrapped her arms carefully around his neck. She brushed her lips gently against his cheek before resting them momentarily on his lips, and then led him out the door.
She held the green skin up to her lips. Against the torn flesh Kayla inhaled as Frank held the little orange flame closer to the hole. He smiled, as swirls of haze sparkled and then slowly phased into the sky. Kayla held her breath; the smoke swam down her throat and slowly danced into her lungs. It floated out of her mouth and spiraled back into the atmosphere, leaving light gray traces in the air. She carefully passed the apple to Frank and watched as he held it crookedly with one hand while trying to gain control of the lighter with the other.
“I don’t wanna say I told you so” he said, “but I did tell you...”
“Alright, you were right!” Kayla could already feel her body begin to tingle. She smiled and leaned back against the railing. Are apple's dangerous? Aren't some things dangerous once they... “What do you think it’s gonna do to us?”
“What you mean?” he asked.
“Well …ya know, from the apple. Like….when it changes…its phases…”
“Huh?”
“You know..ummmm…Solid, Liquid…and … Fuck...” Kayla closed her fist and lightly hit her forhead “Vapor! What do you think the apple vapor does?”
“Vapor? You mean Gas?” Frank asked.
“Same shit…”
“No…Gas is Gas” he replied.
“You know what I mean Smart Ass! When it evaporates into the air…is it harmful?” Kayla took the apple from the Frank and held it to her lips again.
“You ever notice” Frank asked, ignoring her previous question, “that the building over there, the one with the smoke…it looks like one of those boats.”
“What building?” I hate it when he does this.
“That one right there” he pointed across the street, “it looks like it’s one of those boats. Shit, I can’t remember what they were called…those 1820’s boats, sailing on down the Eerie Canal...”
“I don’t see it Hun.” Kayla said.
That guy looks like an idiot. “Hey…look over there! Look at Smoking Cigarette guy over there.” Frank said abruptly, “he thinks he’s so cool… making sounds with his feet.” Frank shook his head disapprovingly. Kayla lived across the street from a college, and drunken college students made their way up and down her block year round.
She took another deep pull from the apple and placed it back onto the porch step. She lightly shuddered under the weight of the smoke, and then gently released it. I wish he would stop seeing her. I wish he cared enough to stop. “Heh Heh…Did you notice that smoking cigarette dude has socks on with his sandals? He’s soooo cool!”
“Yea…I know. LOSER!” Frank shouted.
“Hey ..You leave cool cigarette guy alone!” Kayla laughed.
“Oh look at this one” Frank pointed to a pretty blonde stumbling down the street. The strap to her dress fell off her right shoulder, and she was walking backwards while shouting “Don’t forget the Rubber Ducky!!” to her friends who lagged behind.
“Hey Sexy!” Frank shouted, “I’ll rub your ducky!” he picked up the apple and inhaled again. He let out little circles of smoke and laughed, then looked at Kayla. She was leaning against the railing staring at him, a blank, cold, expression on her face. She’s always fucking staring, always watching…One day I’ll give you something to watch. “What?” he asked.
“Why do you have to say stupid shit like that all the time?” Kayla asked.
Here we go every time. “Oh God…are we gonna start that paranoid shit again?” Frank laughed holding the lighter to the apple. Doesn’t she understand that I was just trying to be funny? Just a little joke…but no…everything must be a personal attack. He took a strong pull, and then stirred the ashes in the tin foil.
“Well…I mean…its bad enough you did what you did. Then you gotta going saying stupid shit in front of me.” Kayla could feel her stomach sink. Her brain whizzed with a million different thoughts. She giggled sardonically. Go ahead, fucking laugh it up. Go rub her ducky. I’m stupid….
Kayla sat silent for a few seconds. She looked at Frank. Say something asshole! Just say something. Come over here and kiss me, kiss me. Aren’t those song lyrics? Who sings that? The Cure? Maybe? Errrr…just tell me that it’s over with her…just tell me that I’m crazy and I’m wrong. Please Frank…
Frank did nothing. He sat on the steps and continued to stare at the building across the street. He watched the smoke as it swirled and then folded away into the atmosphere. Fuking boat! What are you called? Had a big paddle wheel thingie, what the hell are they called?
“Was it her before?” Kayla broke the silence. Just don’t cry in front of him. She took the apple from the step, but it was all ash. She placed it back down beside Frank, and moved a little closer to him. “Is that why you didn’t want me to answer the phone?” Say no, even if you’re lying. Do I mean that? I don’t know what I mean anymore. I want to hit him; I could really hit him right now.
“You don’t wanna believe me?” he said. “Then don’t fucking believe me. It’s not like anything I’ve been telling you for the past month makes any difference. You wanna check my phone calls? That shows no trust…then just leave Kay. Better yet, I’ll just leave.” His eyes squinted and his head felt heavy. He rested it against the house. Why do I do it? He could hear Kay mumbling in the background. Is she crying?I hate it when she cries. Why can’t this just be simple? He focused on the smoke coming out of the building again.
Kay sat with her head down and her hands shaking in the pockets of her sweatshirt. Every so often she looked up, but Frank was too busy zoning into whatever he was staring at to even notice that she was still upset.
The boat. What is it called? Mickey Mouse rode one…what was it’s name? Steamboat Willy. “Steamboat?” she asked.
“Huh”
“Steamboat? Is that the kinda boat it reminds you of?”
“Yea” he smiled, “that’s it. Sometimes, I see that steam, and I think of a steamboat. Man… how I’d like to get on it, whenever, wherever it’s going, just sail away. You know what I mean, Kay?” he closed his eyes.
“Yea, maybe I do” she whispered, “maybe I do.”]

What a pity to lose who you are, but what if your life was hell? Then isn't losing a part of you like a blessing. Then again, you don't realize you even exist anymore, it's like being dead...being nothing. I've thought a lot about life after death, and if you can lose who you are while being alive...what makes people think you are aware of anything after death?

I had a relative who was in his eighties. He forgot who his wife was. He would call his sister, my grandmother, and ask who this strange woman was in his house. He remembered my grandmother, myself, my mother, and all his kids, but he had forgotten his wife. He knew he was married to Lucy, but this old woman in the house could not possibly be Lucy.

Do we have a choice in what we forget?

He died over eight years ago, he never had a drinking problem, and was not diagnosed with Alzheimers.

"The Lost Mariner" made me think of him. Jimmie had forgotten the bad parts of his life. He had held onto the happier memories...which were also the older memories. My great uncle married a very cold and annoying woman. Was she better when she was younger? Is that the memory of her he chose to keep?

Maybe certain memories make a deeper imprint in our brains...or does this go against the idea of the constant recreation of memory that we learned about in RadioLab?

My parents were divorced when I was three. I rarely remember seeing my father, but I do remember him taking me Trick or Treating on my third halloween. I was a ballerina. I wore a blue outfit, and had white leggings underneath my TuTu.

My headpiece kept falling off my head. He made me sit down on the small white potty, that for some reason was in the living room. He adjusted the headpiece. We went outside. I remember running up my neighbors steps with him and ringing the doorbell...my mom taking a picture.

This never happened
Here is what actually happened:

After waiting over an hour for my father to take me trick or treating I went with my mom. I was upset because he had never showed up, and she promised that I could wear my costume the next time he came over. He showed up the next day, and we couldn't get my headpiece back on. I sat on the potty, and he fixed it. My mom took a picture of us together in the living room.

I guess I had wanted him to be there so badly that I created a memory that never happened. I'm guessing that I saw the picture of us together, and assumed that he was with me on Halloween. Memory is faulty, and it makes me wonder what else I am remembering incorrectly.

I loved Lauren Slater's Lying

It shows just how much we are willing to believe, even when we are told that there is a good chance we are being told lies. I wanted to believe the narrator. If you can't believe the narrator, who can you believe?

We are trained to take everything the narrator says at face value. We rarely question the narrator of a story, because really, what other option do we have? Especially because...in reality..a fictional narrator can't lie...there are no other sides of the story...unless the writer chooses to create one ( think The Vampire Chronicles by Anne Rice and how each character has his or her own book)

This is what made reading this novel both enjoyable and frustrating. It was a new technique, and a breath of fresh air...a narrator who tells us she lies...but is she lying about lying? Ah Ha! We have no way of knowing...and we will never find out! We read the book, and begin to believe her, but then she reminds us that she is dishonest. Silly us for forgetting! We can't unravel her lies...we only have to go by what she tells us...which is that we shouldn't trust her!

I plan on using parts of this book with Catcher in the Rye, when I discuss how much of an unreliable narrator Holden is...(even thought he isn't unreliable...because he isn't real)