JB: “That’s not prostitution. That’s fucking the right people.”

New rule: No alcohol, period. Rita, the UHS psychiatrist in charge of deciding my fate (well, my prescription), was not pleased with my weekend visit to Stillman. “How can we accurately assess your condition if you’re using mood-altering substances?”

I didn’t have a good answer for her. “It was the only way I thought I could get through the night,” I explained. She told me I needed better ways to cope. I didn’t disagree but it’s not like she had a better suggestion for working through it.

Rita told me two weeks ago that I should limit myself to “one weak drink” per night. This time, she means it. This time, I need to take her seriously. No one seems to be able to pinpoint exactly what I am, and it’s crucial that I don’t fuck up a diagnosis with substance abuse. After I have a session with my therapist Sarah tomorrow morning, the two are going to “powwow” (actual quote) and determine if I should be a) medicated or b) institutionalized. Hopefully, I escape unscathed and without a recommendation for a dosage of anything but love.

Initially when I started therapy, all I really wanted was a prescription, a quick fix that would keep me productive, prevent me from slipping during all the wrong times. But now? Pills are the last thing I want. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with being on medications; I’d do it in a second if I really believed I needed it. But I’m not so certain anymore. Sure, there are days when I can feel myself losing it, but I almost always recover so I can’t tell if I’m battling depression or angst. Sure, I can be happy without reason at one instance and completely wind down the next, but does that make me bipolar? My symptoms are so imprecise that I bristled at Rita’s suggestion that I begin taking a low dosage of antidepressants. Even she can’t say conclusively what it is I am. And further, I don’t know how these things are prescribed — at the request of the patient or the judgment of the doctor? How much does my own desire for medication influence her decision to give it to me?

“The thing is, I’m a writer,” I told her. And immediately, she understood. Beyond the qualms I have about my vague diagnosis, I’m scared that the pills needed to dull the aches of my heart will be dulling my creativity as well. Sometimes, I feel desperate enough that I’d throw in the towel when it comes to writing if it means getting through another day. It shouldn’t be like that. There has to be a better way. I asked Rita why it was so hard to stay okay, why the normality that other people took for granted was something I had to fight for on a daily basis. To others, it seems like I’m doing just fine but I’m really treading water, barely keeping above the surface, and constantly scared of sinking. This isn’t fair. It shouldn’t be this hard. I’m not even asking to be happy; I just don’t want to be sad.

Today at Urban Outfitters, I bought one of these memo pads (displayed below). Part of cognitive behaviorial therapy involves changing the way I interpret situations. But I ditched the UHS-xeroxed mood charts Sarah gave me after just two days. Following a terrible Harvard-Yale Game (which I left after a mere 20 minutes), I filled out the chart for the first time and immediately decided it was stupid. I don’t have any desire to rationalize my radical thoughts or to create more balanced interpretations of events. I’d much rather talk about how shitty I feel all the time and this kitschy notepad lets me do just that. I know, I know - -I’m self-defeating. But I can’t help the fact that I would sometimes much rather wallow in this sorrow than really work on getting better. The effort seems futile, because I simply don’t know what it’s like to be just normal. Of everything I’ve experienced in life, “normal” has been last on the list.

On Sunday morning, I arrived home to Mather from my UHS stay and decided that living by the River was putting my sanity at risk. I’ve been contemplating a move to the Quad for a while now and I determined that it was time to put my plan in action. I packed my bags, shuttled it to CK’s, and sent off a melodramatic mass email (to Quadlings and River pals) announcing my arrival to my new home.

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

“Sex and the Ivy” writer Lena X. Chen ‘09 has left Mather House after a Tri-House Formal wrought with former beaus caused her to rethink her riverside residence.

After recovering from her .25 blood alcohol level, Chen bid adieu to her dearly loved blockmates and packed a suitcase of essentials: stilettos, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, and her PowerBook. She boarded a Quad-bound shuttle today at 5:10pm with hope for refuge and new source material, a good possibility considering the attractive gentleman who carried her luggage up four flights of stairs. Later in the evening, she made her first public appearance as a Quadling at Cabot House’s Festivus.

With a Cabot-Open subscription request pending and some distance between her and the Charles, Chen hopes that she can finally blog in peace and pick up a few new neighbors who might be suffering from cabin (Cabot?) fever. She plans on spending the rest of the semester and possibly part of the spring term at her new residence in Cabot N-42. On weekend evenings (Thursdays thru Saturdays) however, she will continue to entertain male guests in her Mather 312 single. Visitors (to either room) are welcome.

---

Tonight’s mission is “House Formal Take 2,” also my chance to redeem myself from this weekend’s fiasco. I’m accompanying CK to the Quad Formal. Again, three Houses will be in attendance. This time, let’s keep my blood alcohol level reasonable. Over AIM, CK left me with guidelines for tonight.

CK’s Ground Rules:

1. If I get drunk, she will leave me.

2. Must use “inside voices” (something I’m not good at).

3. Bring coat or jacket. I often misjudge the weather.

Let’s hope my second House formal this term is less eventful than my first.

Because wishful, self-indulgent shopping is second only to sex on my list of preferred procrastination methods.

Kate Spade Chrissy Leather Wristlet in Black

I have recently fallen in love with The Crimson. Specifically, Crimson parties, without which my weekends would be ever so dull. Despite having penned only one article (a FM Endpaper on dating investment banker Summer Guy), I’ve spent more time at 14 Plympton St. this semester than I did all of freshman year. It’s partly because HN and this blog have gotten me acquainted with entirely too many upperclassmen execs. It’s mostly because drinking with journalists is less random than a dorm party but just unfamiliar enough to still meet cute boys.

Unfortunately, most of these cute boys are gay, terrified of me, or roving reporters. As much as I love my new Crimed pals, I’m already a hag to more than enough fags (after Thursday’s jaunt to Embassy, Rody has officially claimed me as his). So after three months of partying with nary a glance from an interested straight male, I was less than expectant at last Friday’s event in the Sanctum. Still, all it takes is one too many shots for renewed hope.

Tipsy from self-made drinks hijacked at a Christmas party, HN and I threw down our coats in the FM office and I threw out my shame as I spent the better part of the evening sipping Oregon Trail-inspired cocktails while making eyes at the attractive guy across the room. After I gave him a full glance-over, got an introduction from our mutual acquaintance, and batted my eyelashes at him a couple more times, I finally asked for a cigarette. He looked like a smoker, and I was right. He directed me to his pal who supplied the three of us with our nicotine hit and supplied me with an excuse to get him alone on the roof. Rude to smoke inside, after all.

Clad in a thin sweater and seersucker skirt, my only saving grace that chilly evening was wearing black tights underneath and even they proved inadequate. Then again, it meant that I didn’t need to pretend when I told Smoker Boy that it was colder than expected. Liquid courage on my side, I leaned in close to him and shivered under his jacket, grazing his back with my fingertips. By the time I finished my cigarette, I was a few coughs from permanent lung damage and a few close calls from throwing myself at him completely.

But that was the extent of my flirtation. Not much later, I exited the party sans HN, sans Smoker Boy, and sans swipe access (the new staff director has got to get on that). Maybe I wasn’t forward enough. Maybe I should’ve offered him a standing invitation to drunkenly text me some time. After all, he was cute up close, sweet from what I could tell, and he wasn’t going to quote me in the morning. What more could you ask for from a guy you meet at The Crimson? Smoker Boy, I should’ve given you my phone number. Facebook me?