So about the whole well-adjusted approach to junior year thing? Yeah, not so much.

I’m beginning to realize that I still have a ton of unresolved anger from the last 365 days and I’m not quite sure how (or if) I should let go of it. So I’m just going to be honest about what is pissing me off, even though nowadays, I’m really vague and impersonal here (obviously, a reason for this, but fuck that). There are two major issues and I’m going to talk about one tonight, leaving the other for another PMS-y evening.

So Sex and the Ivy fucked up my sophomore experience in a lot of ways, but mostly, it came down to the fact that I had little to no privacy even when I was off-line. People were (and still are!) incredibly intrusive, sometimes in extremely disrespectful ways, and I basically broke down from the initial shock of being recognized and approached while going about my daily life at Harvard. I know that it seems like I asked for the attention, putting up a public blog and all, but ask my friends and any reporter who’s ever interviewed me: I already kept an online diary previously and this was just another journal; it wasn’t supposed to blow up the way it did. And though anyone who knows me will agree that I’m totally dramatic, no one will say that I exaggerated the consequences of the website. I definitely wasn’t driven to therapy because it was trendy. I needed it to cope!

Just so you kind of get where I’m coming from, a sampling of what I had to deal with last year:

* Identities of guys being revealed by total strangers who had Facebook-searched them to death.

* Having my personal information repeatedly posted on BoredatLamont.com. Being approached at Lamont. Lacking library-related privacy in general.

* Routinely introducing myself as “Lena” to people who responded with “I know.”

* Getting trash-talked by people who did not know me in front of people who did know me. (Um, hello. I do go to this school. What makes you think I don’t find out about this shit?)

* Being accosted by a drunken idiot at Red Party who followed me and yelled in my face “SEX AND THE IVY. TRUE OR FALSE?” about six times while I tried to escape a post-party mob.

* Being accosted by drunken Yalies at Harvard-Yale.

* Come to think of it, being accosted at parties in general. More or less, every time I went out and was in the presence of alcohol/drunk people.

* Having an actual stalker. (This was basically the low-light of the year.)

* In addition to being called a whore, slut, disgrace to Harvard/Asian/all women; having my family attacked. Like when people make accusations against my father for sexual abuse, because that is clearly the only explanation for my idiosyncrasies.

The fact that I had such a terrible experiences with people disrespecting my privacy means that I became extra paranoid and protective about it. Even now, I still occasionally flip out over privacy issues, though usually no longer my own. As a general rule, I don’t ever use real names on the page, unless the person is a public figure a la Julia or Rachel. I try to treat others’ reputation with as much delicacy as possible, which is why I never “out” anyone, not even the guys who turn out to be assholes deserving of public condemnation. So when I have overzealous readers come up to me and declare that they’ve figured out via random pieces of information that Aidan’s real name is _____ _____, I kind of flip the fuck out. Now granted, Aidan specifically was a lot easier to figure out by virtue of my lack of care in the early blogs, but he’s not the only person whose identity has been compromised. It pisses me off, because I don’t think that who these guys are in real life is that significant. It has no bearing on how people should view my writing or my representation of the relationship. Plus, revealing some identities would actually ruin lives, and it’s ridiculous that there are people curious or malicious enough to dig that deep.

Recently, I was interviewed by a person who I was POSITIVE had an agenda in revealing someone I was previously involved with. It seriously takes something huge to get me riled up nowadays, and this incident left me completely pissed because it wasn’t just my own name on the line. In retrospect, I think I really misjudged the situation, and I probably overreacted (though my friends definitely agreed with me at the time). But I couldn’t help it. We couldn’t help. I’ve been so used to having my privacy routinely disrespected that I automatically assumed the worst.

Along the same lines, I am immediately disinterested in people who are interested in my blog. My social circle has closed in dramatically over the past year because I don’t trust most people, their intentions, or their preconception of me. Considering the number of people I have met from just getting approached, you’d think that I’d be BFFs with a third of the school. The reality is that Rody and a couple sophomores are the only people who have ever made the jump from readers to friends and they happened very early on last fall before the minor breakdown, etc.

This year, I’m totally fine discussing my website and usually gracious about questions, but depending on my mood, I can be more or less receptive to being approached in public. I can understand why someone might want to strike up a convo about my website, but if they don’t know me (or know a good friend of mine who did an introduction), the appropriate forum is email, not coming up to me while I’m grinding with someone on a Saturday night. That’s just really awkward. For both of us.

An example, from this weekend while I was at a party:

Random Guy: “Hey, you’re Lena Chen!”

Me: “Uh, yeah.”

Random Guy: “You had that discussion with that conservative lady, right?”

[me thinking: if by "conservative lady" you mean my friend Janie Fredell, sure!]

Random Guy: “Well, I want you to know that I’m all for your side!”

Me: “That’s … great.”

Random Guy could’ve meant one of two things: 1) he’s all for sex, or 2) he’s all for me having sex. Both of those things are extremely awkward. I don’t need to know either of those things. Thus, the second he left, I turned to my friend (who I had been grinding prior to this awkward exchange) and said: “Got recognized. Night’s over. Time to go!”

Which is a pretty good reflection of how my entire sophomore social experience worked. Got recognized, declared the night over, and went home. See how this whole blog thing might have been a little intrusive upon my college experience?

Everyone needs to have their defenses broken down sometimes. It’s the only way to figure out what you’re really after, why you’re not happy, and whether you’re running down the path of life in the wrong direction with the wrong company. The problem is that we have defenses for a reason and most of us aren’t comfortable living unprotected. For me, therapy is a safe space where I can be vulnerable, own up to my insecurities, and admit my faults. My hour with Sarah is the only time when I feel normal at Harvard.

I’ve been seeing Sarah since late October. To be honest, I made a snap judgment the second she shook my hand at our pre-screening. I didn’t think we’d click. And at first, we didn’t. Our first meetings consisted of talking on my part and nodding on hers. There wasn’t anything particularly insightful I gleaned from the biweekly sessions. But recently, I’ve realized that what she says about my personality and inclinations makes sense. Maybe it’s because she’s making more accurate assessments with time. Maybe it’s because I’m more willing to listen.

If I were Sarah, I wouldn’t like myself very much. There is absolutely nothing to pity about my situation. No one died. My grades are fine. It’s not even like I can complain that much about my love life. I just can’t get my emotions under control when crisis strikes, boo-fucking-hoo. In my initial sessions with her, I pretty much gave a list of hang-ups and expected her to form an accurate diagnosis. Typical Friday morning inquiries would go something like: “So Sarah, what do you get if you combine an eating disorder, predisposition for addiction, impulsive behavior, alcohol dependency, promiscuity, and unhappy childhood with an overachieving, extroverted Type A personality?” I went in with the attitude that I was overachieving at life — whatever my problems were had to be chemically induced. I wasn’t particularly helpful, just demanding. Pills? Electroshock? Lobotomy? I was game for anything — just fix me in time for recruitng.

Obviously, I’m a handful. I’m no different when it comes to Sarah but that’s okay. With her, I unload all my baggage and I don’t feel guilty about it. My friends don’t have time to deal with my depression, but my therapist? It’s her job. So I let my pals finish their problem sets and let Sarah listen to my problems. Mental Health Services is highly underutilized, and therapy is highly underrated. Not unlike promiscuity, it is at once taboo and trendy. Thus, it’s easy to discount its real value. But even for me — someone whose writing depends on introspection — I find myself making revelations every time I go in.

The morning after I hurled something at Aidan’s head, Sarah asked me about my father. In the midst of my most recent heartbreak, I had never thought to ponder my first. My dad was the first man to disappoint me: divorce, neglect, irresponsibility … I could go on for days about what my father didn’t do and what he screwed up at.

“I know he loves me because he’s my father. And I love him,” I told Sarah. “But he was a man who just wasn’t very good at fatherhood.”

I started talking abeout my family dynamics and was in the middle of ranting when she cut me off to ask the obvious question of what this meant for my romantic interactions. Sarah wanted to know what I was looking for in my relationships with men. Though mid-tirade just moments earlier, I suddenly found myself at a loss for words. It was the first time since I started therapy that there was silence in the office. Several seconds after my prose broke off, I finally managed to speak.

“I just want to be loved.”

I said it quite simply and half-shrugged, shaking my head, my eyes welling up. It was a moment of clarity, and I was almost shocked. I didn’t expect to make any revelations — certainly not one as seemingly simple as this one. It was the closest I ever came to crying with Sarah.

Two nights later, I finished in my dorm room what I started in her office and cried in front of Aidan. It was appropriate. He was the only person other than Sarah that I’d been as honest with this fall. At the moment, I couldn’t stop sobbing and I thought that it was because he hurt me. In retrospect, it was 19 years in the making.

I am so far from perfect in a place where perfection is the minimal expectation. Yet I get the feeling that very few people ever meet that self-imposed standard and that perfection is a poor substitute for happiness. I don’t think I will ever quite be good enough, but for the first time since just about ever, academic performance and professional success are not what matters.

It was in therapy that I finally realized neither made me happy. It was in therapy that the void in my life stopped being something I thought Harvard could fill. And it was Sarah who stripped me down to the most vulnerable I’d ever been. It was her who saw that at the core of this ambitious young woman was really a girl who just wanted to be loved.

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.

The best part of being infamous is that there’s not much more I can do to ruin my own reputation. Last night was a shitshow that ended in the hospital, but mortified I am not — even if I did get wheeled off on a stretcher in the middle of the Tri-House Formal. In my eagerness to become as intoxicated as possible, I counted on my dear friend Nate (also known as NS on this blog) to keep my liver in check. He even brought his roommate Hamilton along for the ride. Between two strapping six-foot tall gentlemen, how much trouble could one petite (albeit excitable) Asian gal be? Apparently, plenty. Especially if all parties are equally blitzed.

After attending the Mather champagne toast, my blockmates and I split up to meet our individual dates. Upon rendezvouing with Nate and Hamilton, I pulled aside the former (my official escort for the evening) and told him that I wouldn’t even set foot in the formal if not for his company. He was a pillar of support. Besides opening my doors, his job for the night was to keep me from drinking too much or in lieu of that, embarassing myself while drunk. We made a mutual promise — I stopped at five drinks and he took care of me. It was on the fourth room of the seven-room Mather pregame that we mutually broke that agreement over group tequila shots (my sixth drink of the evening and the first indication that events would soon spiral out of control).

Happily intoxicated, we somehow found our way to the formal. But for my dates and I, the Mather pre-game was the game, as we recalled very little after entering the Faculty Club. The last thing I remember before having my feet and shoulders lifted onto a strecher was flirting with Hamilton over cheese and crackers. My former freshman fall fuck buddy, Hamilton and I jumped into bed again just a couple weeks ago like an unofficial one-year anniversary celebration of no-strings-attached sex. In my drunken stupor, I thought a repeat encounter would be preferable to sleeping without company, especially considering my strictly platonic relationship with Nate.

It was not to be. Shortly after losing sight of my two boys, the eight or so drinks I had hit me hard. I puked and passed out on Faculty Club furniture while hundreds of my peers dined and danced in close proximity. Then there was a stretcher, an ambulance, and a hospital room at Mt. Auburn where I vaguely recall a nurse saying that my blood alcohol level was at .25, three times the legal limit. This morning, I was driven by HUPD to UHS where I slept away at Stillman until waking at 9:00 a.m. to sunshine and a nasty hangover.

Allie picked me up after the doctor conducted a mandatory interview. A year ago, I might’ve paid attention, but this time, I was impatient to leave and I knew there was nothing that could be said that would induce startling rethinking of my life — I was already in therapy, after all. The doctor asked me what happened, to which I responded flatly, “I had too much to drink.” She asked me how often this happened and as I recounted my drinking habits, I already knew where this was headed. “Listen, I don’t have a drinking problem,” I said. “I have a much bigger problem than that. I think I have a mood disorder.” After explaining that last night was the exception to otherwise responsible sophomore year behavior, I assured her that the mental health professionals at UHS had me covered. She assured me that she’d alert my therapist — how thoughtful.

It was at that point that she leaned in and asked, “So what do you think of the state of mental health at Harvard? I’m always curious to see what people have to say.” In no mood to mince my words, I responded, “Let me put it this way: I don’t think people come to Harvard to be happy or to feel good about themselves. But as banking careers indicate, we sign up knowing that this insanely difficult lifestyle is the one we choose to lead. We’re all masochists.”

I hope she appreciated the honesty, because I couldn’t appreciate the educational handouts less. As a freshman, I never took them seriously. As a sophomore, I finally sought help — not because some authority figure or piece of paper told me to, but because a friend did. As other compulsive behavior surfaced — an eating disorder, a shopping addiction, serial monogamy — I determined the real cause of the rampant drinking that took place all last year: a desire to avoid life. It wasn’t until entering therapy that I pinpointed what I used all this unhealthy behavior to escape. It wasn’t until last night became the exception and not the rule that I discovered my flirtation with alcohol dependency had ended. I hadn’t drunken for the wrong reasons all term, and perhaps I needed to do it once more in order to realize that I was finally over it. Last night will remain an isolated incident. For all that can be said of my other bad habits, alcohol abuse is not one I plan on slipping back into.

Not feeling upset right now makes me awfully suspicious. I feel like maybe I finally caffeinated myself enough to numb everything out, but there must be some sort of tension boiling beneath the surface. There’s got to be.

For the past week, I’ve been fixing up my life. About two weeks ago, I dropped off the face of the earth, huddled up in my Mather single for five straight days, and ignored all obligations — work, class, friends, everything. You could say that I finally crashed and burned as expected. Since then, I’ve been reborn not unlike a phoenix, was kicked out of a club bearing the same name, and have attempted to undo the damage of my depression-induced sloth. I have also drank and slept a lot.

So far, my strategy of being too busy to mope is working. I write to-do lists I never check off. I owe IvyGate a blog entry, the Crimson a short article, and H-Bomb a book proposal. I have two papers due in less than a week. I am supposed to launch two PR campaigns by year’s end. Who has time to worry? I don’t have time for makeup.

I have also been self-medicating with coffee, boys, and shopping. I never drank so much coffee in my life. I started this year. The past week has brought seven cups of joe, two and a half hookups, and $650 in shopping expenses. I don’t know if I really needed any of the preceding to stay sane. Was it necessary to rack up hundreds in charges or to artificially induce a Ritalin-high? Would I be any worse off if I didn’t? And in order to self-medicate, don’t I need to be sick? Right now, I’m neither sad nor happy so I find myself with a perplexing problem — I don’t know if I actually need a cure.

But I shouldn’t speak too soon. After all, the weekend is here and I am fully prepared for late week depression. Over dinner Tuesday night, I told my sophomore adviser (coincidentally, a psychiatrist at Massachusetts General Hospital) that I go through ups and downs during the week. From Monday through Thursday, I am too busy to be sad. But come Thursday evening, the drinking begins and my mood takes a dip. Inevitably, I wake up a bit sadder for each of the next three mornings.

I am trying to finish all my work so I can go to New York next week. Ideally, I take off Sunday evening. I don’t care what it takes, I don’t care if I spend Thanksgiving alone, I need to get out of here.

And before someone beats me to the punch, I acknowledge that I have given into blogging before my self-declared hiatus ends. I can’t help it. I crave it like a drug. There’s a constant hunger to be understood, and I’m convinced that I can’t find that understanding at Harvard. I’ve been feeling disconnected lately and I spent last night missing writing, the only thing that has ever made me feel close to being understood. Lately, it has kept me functioning even as my sanity has unraveled. How do I turn my back on something like that?

Dinner now with Vix. Long overdue. Then Happy Hour with my frosh and HN. This weekend has possibilities I don’t want to face.