(Got back from Vegas last night. I started this entry a few days ago and I’m finally posting it. It’s a monster of an explanation and VERY stream of consciousness, but basically, it’s going to be quiet around here for the next few weeks.)

I’m finally making good on a promise I made myself.

I’m currently in my third night in Vegas and I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about the future. I take these trips with my friends from home twice a year, once during late summer and once during the holidays. Right now, it’s just me and ten of my high school friends getting drunk and high, having a surprising number of intense conversations, and taking long, hard looks at each other and ourselves. We don’t really look the same as we did at 17, and this is the first time I’ve noticed. These are the friends I count on to stay the same, to freeze frame while I run off to my East Coast life, but the wheels keep moving when I’m not watching and sometime in between, things changed. We got older.

Whenever I doubt myself, coming home always brings me back. It was like that last Christmas, when I flew back after a season of discontent and confusion. I had just started therapy in October for the blog I began writing in September and I was convinced that I was bipolar. Two weeks prior to boarding my flight for the holidays, I landed in Stillman Infirmary after drinking myself half to death, puking within the first hour of the Tri-House Formal, and passing out on a random couch in the Faculty Club. After that, I moved to the Quad to live with Kennedy because I couldn’t handle seeing Aidan in Mather after he broke my heart and I couldn’t shake the constant feeling of being watched by strangers who read my blog. And even after I relocated to Cabot and ditched partying in final clubs, my classmates would still report on BoredatLamont that they saw me on the shuttles and in Quad dining halls and they would speculate about who I was with and what I was like in bed. I was paranoid and crying all the time and just so far from okay.

Being home for the holidays in 2006 was the first time I felt normal for months. When I recounted to my California friends the unlikely events of the school year thus far, I was given no reaction whatsoever. All people did at Harvard was meet me with gaping mouths and questions and fascination. I expected shock or disbelief or something from the friends who had known me since adolescence, but to them, I hadn’t changed even if the circumstances of my life had. And that was when things started to get better.

California is the one thing that consistently keeps me grounded, and I have always felt that my trips here are deeply important because they remind me of where I came from. This is the first time I’ve come home since leaving for Harvard that I feel like things are in flux, that people and feelings and relationships are evolving. Maybe this is change for the better, maybe this is growth, but I whatever it is, I know I didn’t expect anything like this when I returned. Most of my high school friends stayed here for college and live at home when they’re not in school, so there is a world we have built around each other that has stayed still and stable for years. But now half of them are graduating in June and the rest in a year and a half and suddenly even the trips I’ve come to take granted as sure things are going to be harder to plan as we get jobs and real lives. My best friend Joanna is leaving for a semester in Shanghai in February. It’ll be the longest time she’s been apart from her boyfriend of 5+ years. There is a lot I have always counted on to stay the same here, but I can’t depend on sameness anymore.

I am sure that everyone goes through this, that there is always a jarring moment of realization that childhood is over and your friends stopped being kids a long time ago. But for me, this clarity is all the scarier because their changing means that I’m changing, except I don’t know what I’m changing into or who I want to be. I don’t even know who I am right now. Kennedy told me last spring that she was terrified of me losing track of my own identity. She could feel me slipping away. I don’t remember what I told her, but I’m sure it was defensive. No one wants to admit that they’re not in control who of they’re turning into and that they can’t even decipher for themselves who they are anymore. Every now and then, I blink and I can no longer differentiate between my public persona and my private self. Everything I write is the truth but taken together, it rings perfectly false. This sounds ridiculous but I’ll write an entry that is completely honest and by morning, I won’t be able to recognize the girl who chose those words so carefully the night before. Depending on my mood, my blog is at times entirely too truthful and simultaneously not frank enough. It’s a piece of me, a very imperfect piece that has recently only displayed the frivolous and flighty and sexually flamboyant part of myself. And it is far, far from enough, but I just don’t remember how to voice anything else anymore. That’s why this is all very troubling. Being home is the only time I really feel like I’m just “me” with no footnotes or explanations but if my friends aren’t “them” anymore, well then who the hell am I?

Right now, I am not only removed from Harvard but also removed from everyone I’m involved with. It brings a lot of clarity to the table. I’m beginning to get sick of how one-dimensional I seem online. I was much more honest when I first began writing this thing. I reveal a hell of a lot less about my personal life nowadays and when I do address relationships, I talk about guys I couldn’t give a damn about. It is a world’s difference from last fall when I blogged my heartache and panic practically in real time. But I got sick fast of letting everyone witness the shit show that was my life and when I’m honest, everyone looks ugly, most of all myself, so I stopped painting such thorough portraits. Lorna, my friend from California, told me that the ugly parts of my blog are what keeps it real. “This isn’t a fairy tale,” she said. But how can I help it? I didn’t like the weak, teary, helpless mess I was when I started this blog so when I stopped caring about the criticism or Aidan and grew stronger and prouder, I moved on. I don’t cry anymore. And the rare times when I do, I don’t write about it.

The tears came at a price I don’t want to pay ever again and right now, I’m doing so well that I don’t want to fuck it up. By “so well” I don’t even really mean that well; I’m fine, just fine but it is a state that was formerly unimaginable. So I’m sorry that I no longer take risks, because breaking down scares me and I don’t want to think hard about the things that hurt. I’m sorry to my readers, even more sorry to myself, because despite the divisive attitudes about my blog, what everyone seems to agree with is that it does take a high degree of vulnerability to do this well. I don’t think I’m doing this well anymore. I can barely admit nowadays that someone’s hurt me and I am too scared of screwing up other people’s lives to write honestly about mine.It’s easy to judge people based on filtered information so trust me when I say that this is not the whole story. The truth? This is part of it: I spent my Christmas night telling Mark’s girlfriend what happened between us in July. He met me my freshman spring and we’ve hooked up sporadically since, except she’s been around for over a year and I didn’t have any idea she existed.

Here’s another part: the only person in my family who knows about my blog is my little sister and I’m terrified that she hates me for the reputation I left behind in high school. It kills me when people ask whether she looks up to me, her big sister who goes to Harvard, and I know that she is probably more embarrassed than anything else.

More truth: My friends have known for months how uncomfortable I am about Sam, the ex who posted naked photographs on me online. He spent the past eight months leaving harassing comments on my blogs and trying to contact me through email, IMs, text messages, and phone calls. I realized at the end of our relationship that he was a compulsive liar and emotional manipulator, but I never wrote about that part of him because I wanted to forget as quickly as possible that he existed. Sam left such a bad taste in my mouth that it was only recently that I stopped changing the subject whenever my friends mentioned him.

But not even that experience fucked me up as much as Riley, the guy I went out with briefly last April only to discover he had been dating an old friend of mine for almost three months. Riley was my year at Harvard and as well-adjusted as you could get for the Ivy League.A mutual pal introduced him to me as the nicest guy he knew. He was refreshingly laidback and had a great sense of humor. He made my heart race before he kissed me even though I had stopped getting excited about this sort of thing a long time ago. When I found out that he was screwing around another girl’s back with me and when I found out just who she was, that was when things really changed, when I really changed. I started to think that there was something wrong with me.

It’s not that I don’t believe in love anymore. I just don’t believe in love for myself. I’ve started to think of it as something for other people, for my best friend Joanna who’s probably marrying her boyfriend someday, for CeCe who found it in Hanover, New Hampshire of all places, for my beautiful blockmates, for Jason, for Kennedy. Actually, all of my best friends — the pair in college and the pair back home — are in love at this moment. And the fact that I’m not even close to it, that I have such bad luck that I have ended more relationships this year as the other woman than I’ve started in all of college … well, it’s a little hard to believe that there isn’t a curse over my head.

And then there is this ridiculous perfectionism that has me thinking what I’ve written is not good enough or honest enough, that I can do better and all in all, life is just peachy in the sense that I am still standing but it is not quite what it should be, not yet. 2007 has been pretty incredible, but at the end of it all, I’m not sure I like who I’ve become and I’m not sure that I can be the writer I want to be if I keep plowing on ignorantly and without focus or introspection. Things have changed so much in 12 months and I have accomplished a lot but I am not happy with myself and I’m terrified something is going to go wrong. I can’t help but wonder what will happen if I ever fall in love, if my mom finds out about this blog, if one day I fuck up in even greater proportions than I already have multiple times over the past year. There is a lot about my life that is not normal and not okay and simply not healthy; and no matter how much I insist that it’s not because I write this blog, some portion of the blame — probably the larger portion — does fall on it. I am scared that I am changing for the worse, that I am losing my focus when it comes to writing, and most of all, that the incredible progress I’ve made in terms of my mental and emotional health has its costs. A year’s time. And what’s the difference? I don’t cry over guys, I don’t waste my time, and I don’t give a damn about what people think. I really don’t. Harder, better, faster, stronger just like Kanye says. Criticism doesn’t affect me; nothing hurts anymore. I’m unapologetic about my actions and I consider all men taken until proven single.

So there you have it. My truly fucked up relationships? My fear of never being loved? My overwhelming cynicism and dissatisfaction with myself? That’s the truth. And there’s more. The whole story is a lot sadder, a lot angrier, and a lot more surprising than you might expect. But I can’t tell it all, not yet at least, because as much as people say that they admire me for my honesty, the truth is that there are plenty of things even I am too scared to acknowledge with words.

I’ll be in San Francisco by Saturday morning. I’ll want to write something on my blog about the places I go or the people I meet. I’ll want to treat this trip as an adventure. But I’m going to resist the urge and save my words rather than waste them on something unworthy. I’m going to take a break, figure out if what I want to write and who I want to be are reconcilable goals. I’m going to live life blogless for a little while, indefinitely. I’ll keep on writing but not here, not publicly. Maybe I’ll resurrect this thing after Switzerland at the end of January. Maybe I’ll wait for an appropriate occasion (Valentine’s?) for a dramatic comeback. I don’t know. I really don’t want to do this, but what I want to do even less is to keep writing and living without consequence. I’ve changed a lot in a year, for the better, for the worse. I’m no longer afraid of being hated and I don’t even think I’m scared of never being loved, but if someone is going to hate me or love me, then they might as well do so for who I really am. If I’m going to defend this thing to death, then I better damn well know what I’m defending. I owe myself that much.

Good luck on your resolutions (I’ll be working on mine),

Lena

If you want to get in touch in the meantime, all the resources you need are on the sidebar or under contact. Pictures, quotes, inspirations will be here, but no original writing.

Before I left Los Angeles for Cambridge over a year ago, my best friend told me that Harvard might finally be my chance to get help. I have struggled on-and-off with bouts of depression all my life, but I never deemed these occasional periods of discontent serious enough to warrant medical attention. I never thought my family needed to know how badly I needed help. I never believed that others should get involved. Besides, even though some days of my early adolescence were impossible to get through, I was for the most part okay. According to my transcript, I was better than okay. These intermittent rough patches were but momentary lapses in an otherwise flawless existence.

It wasn’t until recently that I finally sought help for an ailment a lifetime in the making. I was a decade late but I had to start somewhere. The Bureau of Study Counsel was as good a place as any. So a few weeks ago, I booked an appointment with the only name I knew there. He came with the recommendation of two friends.

At the time, I was doing wonderfully – at least on paper. I was taking five classes, working three internships, and comping two organizations while heavily involved in two others. It was overambitious, but I had the time and energy to do it all. I even went to office hours twice a week. I was on top of things. I was in control.

It was a much better start to the year than the disconnect that dominated my freshman fall. My lack of academic direction then was only exacerbated by a major heartbreak which left me unable to concentrate on anything remotely productive for the rest of the year. I spent the next nine months drinking, fucking, and partying as much as possible. Academics were just an excuse to be in college. Weekends were an excuse to forget the other five days.

But this summer, I changed. I dated a guy who was remarkably good at being a boyfriend. I started talking to my mother about everything. I became fascinated by finance, discovered a knack for PR, and started compiling writing opportunities. I was more focused, more stable, and more self-sufficient than I had been in over a year, than I had been possibly my whole life. In the days before I left California, I was never more confident in my newfound ability to keep it together. This year, I promised myself, I would not fall apart.

And at first, I didn’t. My personality remained the same — as fun-loving and outrageous as ever — but I acted with much more responsibility. Though I went out every Thursday through Saturday, I didn’t drink for the wrong reasons, entertain random hookups, or skip classes. My friends took notice of the new me almost immediately. The difference was palpable.

What didn’t change was my apparent predisposition for depression. For all the progress I had made, biology and learned response remained unaltered by a summer at home. The trigger came three weeks into school after a rough night followed by a rougher morning. The blog was exploding just as my personal life was imploding. For a tense 24-hour period, I was certain that there would be no end to the profound hopelessness that consumed me. It was then that this newly put-together Lena decided it was time to seek solutions to the problem that plagued her entire life.

I went to the Bureau of Study Counsel once before switching over to a therapist at Mental Health Services on the recommendation of my sophomore adviser. My problems are not academic and the concept of exam anxiety is laughable when compared to my life anxiety. I realize these biweekly therapy sessions can only do so much, but for me I think it might just be enough. All year, I have found myself unable to cry, too scared to succumb to emotion. On Friday morning, my voice cracked in front of my therapist and though I swallowed back my tears, I didn’t feel unsafe for the first time in a long while.

I am writing this entry now because I lost part of that safety yesterday morning when I woke up certain that a trigger had gone off. The entire day, I skimmed the surface of sanity, wondering when it would okay to let myself cry, whether I would ever be able to let my guard down and experience sadness without letting it consume me.

I explained to my blockmates that I couldn’t bring myself to write last night because I was afraid I’d break down in the process. Just as I expected, they said, “It’s okay to break down sometimes.” These girls, my best friends here, mean well but they cannot even begin to understand that for me, “breaking down” is a scary, intense, and crippling process. A good cry could lead to consequences I am not prepared to deal with. In the midst of all my commitments and responsibilities, I cannot afford to let myself fall apart. I don’t know how long it would take to put myself back together again.

This is a journey that will take many more morning sessions on the fourth floor of UHS. Despite the productive weeks that past without incident, there are moments that surface in between, that make living almost unbearable. There are times when I feel myself slipping, days like yesterday when I can hardly get out of bed and venturing beyond Mather might as well be a pipe dream. On these occasions, just getting by takes too much effort. On these occasions, mornings are lost to oversleeping, afternoons to sluggishness, and evenings to plots of mischief meant solely to distract from the nagging discomfort at the back of my head. I screen phone calls from my closest friends and leave text messages unanswered. Lifting my head to acknowledge my roommates is itself an exhausting task. On these occasions, I feel so utterly alone and yet there is nothing more I’d like than to be left alone. On these occasions, I am so incapable of tackling even simple conversation that life seems like an impossibly ambitious endeavor.

I don’t know if what I need is a pill. I don’t know if what I need is a conversation. What I do know is that the waiting game I’ve played for 19 years has been largely ineffective. I will never be happy if I keep deluding myself into believing that my problems can be fixed by chick flicks and ice cream. I am not feeling blue. I didn’t wake up on the wrong side of the bed. I am not having a bad day. My whole life has been one long series of bad days. I am struggling with depression — a case less devastating than Plath’s, less medicated than Wurtzel’s, but every bit as intimidating and debilitating.

The truth is that I have never loved writing frivolous things. Sex blogs and dating columns are entertaining endeavors but what I have wanted most is to make a difference by putting into words what some people are unable or afraid to express for themselves. I read “The Bell Jar” at age 14 and felt like this woman, dead and buried decades ago, was the first person who ever understood me. I read “Prozac Nation” at 15 and I cried as much for Wurtzel as I did for myself. These are the women I admire and relate to, not Carrie Bradshaw. This blog may not be a literary masterpiece but I like to think that there are moments when I write something that resonates with others in a similar manner.

People believe because of this website that my sense of self is so overinflated that I am unable to see beyond bedroom mishaps and therapy of the retail variety. They believe I have the luxury of being vain and superficial, that courting fame is akin to a carefree existence, that stilettos and flings must make life damn charming. What they don’t understand is that I am trying so hard to keep it together, that I have only recently begun to seek help, that I consider my appointments at Mental Health Services to be monumental and possibly lifesaving. Sometimes, people surprise me with their own history of depression, and maybe I’m surprising you. Or maybe I’m not. I don’t wear a sign around my neck that says I am depressed, that informs others of a past eating disorder, that reveals my resentment toward my father … and even my mother. Unless people dig hard, it is easy to overlook the fact that I have my own problems and issues, that I am just as or even more susceptible to stress and pain as the next person, that life — though often portrayed as a constant party — is also difficult and challenging and just plain depressing sometimes.

Last week at Winthrop Stein Club, someone I met called me a “sex goddess.” Quite the compliment considering that he’s never so much as seen the inside of my bedroom. But I suppose he was making an educated remark, considering that I do write a sex blog after all. Unfortunately, he and most other people have no idea just how stale my sex life is. Other than my roommates, who are privy to what (and who) goes down, no one knows that I’m gunning for Santa’s nice list this year.

The common perception among readers seems to be that I have an uncommonly active and satisfying sex life, that I’m a tiger in the sack, and that I’m always up for more action. If only. While freshman girls have called me their “hero,” “idol,” and “role model” (actual quotes!), the truth is that my sophomore self really hasn’t done anything — or anyone — worth emulating. Believe it or not, my sex life is actually really boring.

I have had sex maybe five times in the past two months, possibly less but definitely not more. The number of partners? A grand total of two, one of whom is Berklee (an ex who really shouldn’t count because we slept together in the most platonic manner ever). Promiscuous? Hardly. Everyone seems to think that my hypothetical bedpost has been whittled down to nothing when it is actually several notches short of scandalous.

What’s even more unbelievable is that I haven’t even indulged in the occasional casual hookup. Apparently, kissing with tongue has became a huge deal to me, because I can no longer handle friendly lip-to-lip action, even when drunk. I’ve turned down every single guy who’s tried to hook up with me this semester, Aidan included. Call me a control freak, but I only let things happen on my own terms. This wasn’t last year’s mindset. Making out with someone never caused such a fuss before, yet the only person I’ve kissed without hesitation so far is the ever-sexy Miss Sue and I don’t think she counts.

Public hookups were my freshman forte, but kissing someone mid-dance floor now seems inconceivable. I don’t even grind with guys anymore. The only dance partners I’m comfortable getting dirty with are either gay (Rody), platonic (ZAP), or so-not-an-option (one of Aidan’s roommates) that my vagina doesn’t feel threatened. In fact, I’ve noticed that I purposely avoid situations where someone might try to hook up with me. Alone with a boy in his bedroom? Rare. Alone with a boy in mine? Never. When did I become such a prude?

Just about the only nights I do have sex are weekends, and usually I’m several sheets to the wind (i.e. drunk). Alcohol is my aphrodisiac, sad to say. Without it, I’d be hopeless. Maybe I have performance anxiety, but I’m just not particularly confident in my sexual prowess when sober, nor am I keen on initiating. But thanks to the liberating effects of liquid courage, I pounce without shame. I’m also much louder than usual — great for my partner, not so great for his roommates or my red-faced self come morning. I never had problems with summoning my inner minx before. Could it be that I’ve actually developed a sense of modesty? It’s a shame.

My blockmates are the ones who should really be writing a sex blog. They’re doing far better in bed than I am. One pal’s still in the honeymoon period with her new boyfriend so I can only imagine the ferocity with which they hook up. JB’s informed me that his sex sessions with the BU beau are quite … vocal. Hell, even Terra’s pulled crazier shit than I have this year. The Brit’s publicly made out with not one but two young gents from a certain club that will remain nameless.

What’s worse than my lack of activity is my lack of desire. Usually, I’m not horny at all. My sexual appetite has been crushed under the heavy weight of my extracurricular commitments. Sleep, not sex, is the prevailing desire nowadays. Even if I’ve got company in bed, I’m more apt to cuddle than I am to fuck. At the end of the night, who has the energy to engage in multi-hour romps when last-minute reading awaits in the morning?

So I guess my point is that my sex life is more myth than truth. To the girls out there: you’re probably better off looking up to one of my blockmates. And to the guys: sorry, I’m afraid I have an early section.

UPDATE 10/27 3:05 a.m. — NEW PROPOSED TITLE FOR THIS PHOTO: WINKING NIPPLES!

UPDATE 10/26 1:17 p.m. — I think LPZ said it best over AIM last night.

LPZ: Your entire most recent post on Sex and the Ivy
LPZ: … is a debate joke.
LPZ: Well done.

___

Reader Q & A

Q: What are your standards?
A: Currently, I dig boys in need of personal assistants and haircuts. They could also use more efficient wake-up systems than phone calls from their parents. What can I say? I like works-in-progress.

Q: Is there any validity to the title of this post?
A: Probably not. If I’m interested, I tend to deliver. And then they stop calling. Assholes.

Q: What’s the debate joke?
A: Ask a debater.

Q: Do the Deans know what’s going on in their Harvard dorms?
A: My roommates don’t know what’s going on in their dorm.

Q: Where’s the right nipple?
A: Didn’t get along with the left one.

This entry was written five days ago. I pulled it because I didn’t want people to be too concerned, but I think it’s worth posting. If nothing else, I don’t believe in censorship, self-inflicted or not.

I think the problem is that no one quite understands — not Maggie, not JB, probably not even CK. I spend so much time scrolling through my phonebook in search of the right person to call, hoping that I’ll come across a name I’ve missed before, that I’ll find the number to the one who can make things better. But I don’t think that a phone call can fix me and I don’t know if what I need is another lunch date.

Maybe I lied. Life is really not as crazy as I make it out to be. I have spent the past week telling various people who I know in various capacities (friends, mentors, advisers, TFs) that it is my schedule driving me insane, but it’s not. It can’t be. I could give up an activity or a class or one of my three internships or even this website and I feel like I’d be every bit as troubled as I am now. I don’t know what or who it is I’m looking for. I just know that something is missing. Something is off.

I quoted from a journal entry I wrote last year because I think I go through phases. I have periods not unlike this one. I fluctuate. Except right now, I have no reason to be sad or upset or angry. Right now, I have wonderful roommates, a full social life, great classes, and interesting extracurricular commitments. I shouldn’t feel disconnected. I shouldn’t feel alone. But nothing, not the empathetic emails I’ve received from readers, not the understanding of my friends, not physical affection, can make it any better.

Everyone thinks I can do everything, that I can do anything. There is so much trust and responsibility placed in my hands. I’ve got it together. But it doesn’t mean shit because the one thing I can’t get a handle on is myself.

“I start to feel like I can’t maintain the facade any longer, that I may just start to show through. And I wish I knew what was wrong. Maybe something about how stupid my whole life is. I don’t know. Why does the rest of the world put up with the hypocrisy, the need to put a happy face on sorrow, the need to keep on keeping on?… I don’t know the answer, I know only that I can’t. I don’t want any more vicissitudes, I don’t want any more of this try, try again stuff. I just want out. I’ve had it. I am so tired. I am twenty and I am already exhausted.” –Elizabeth Wurtzel, Prozac Nation