First off, check out this Sex and the Ivy-related point and counterpoint on Gadfly, a blog written by “a bunch of people who went to Harvard and now have many opinions.” Full disclosure: I am acquainted with both writers and the author of the defense is my very tall and Canadian hubby on Facebook, though I assure you there was no prodding on my part.

Second, I’m too busy with papers and writing projects to write a proper entry, so here is a piece I wrote a little over a year ago about the last time I came apart at the seams. It is very fitting for the current situation, but I dare say that I am doing better this time around than the last. (Well, at least I’m not completely ignoring my friends.)

“At a place where everyone delivers without fail, how do you tell people you just can’t deal?

On Thursday evening, I had my life under control. I went to office hours. I went to makeup sections. All my assignments were done. My TFs didn’t hate me. My iCal was organized. My email had under 100 messages. I changed into a cute outfit to kick off the weekend. I saw Vix for coffee. I made my dinner date with Nate. I met HN and Rody at the Fogg, followed by a gay mixer at the law school with CK. I boozed and schmoozed and met lovely people. Someone called me “fabulous.” Life, around 10pm, was pretty fabulous.

Flash forward several hours to Friday morning. I woke up hungover, topless, and missing a few crucial memories from the previous night — namely, the violent outburst that rocked Mather’s thin walls. By noon, I pulled myself together … mostly because I had to. I saw my therapist. I made it to mentoring. I met my committee at Toscanini. I had dinner with JB. I went to Death Cab. I came home to a party, drank generously, and then called it an early evening after the subject of my aforementioned tirade called it quits for the fifth time in as many weeks.

I was piss drunk and pissed off. By 4 a.m. I was also awake, answering the first text message I paid attention to all night since passing out. I should’ve slept past it, not called back, not answered the door, or for that matter not done a whole series of things leading to a monumental error in judgment.

Since then, I’ve been dropping the ball on basically everything. I have not really left my dorm room at all — not for work or class or meetings. Cumulative time spent outside of Mather since Saturday night? Four hours. Four non-Mather hours in four freaking days.

My goal is to get my life back on track by tomorrow evening. Starting with class today.”

– “Day Four” November 8, 2006

Several of my friends have expressed pretty serious concerns about my, uh, mental state, so here’s an update: I wrote my therapist Anna a very lengthy email last night, basically saying that I only have about a week left at home and I need to stop fixating on everything that’s arisen and concentrate on my work (plenty that I’m behind on) and actually go out with my friends. I think even my mother is a bit alarmed by the fact that I’ve more or less stayed in bed for a week. It’s not crippling depression; I think I’m just really … tired. It takes a lot out of you to get angry at someone, to get over being angry, to get angry all over again at someone else, and then to get over that. And that doesn’t even take into account the horrendous bureaucratic maze I’ve had to make my way through in terms of police and lawyers, etc. All in all, the past few days have been altogether draining (additionally so because of another unexpected, unneeded crisis that erupted on Christmas night).

It’s also really frustrating because the people who best understand the insanity that’s been going on are my friends from school, specifically my blockmates, who are all over the place. I’ve been calling Tiffanie nonstop because we’re in the same time zone (she lives in Irvine) and this isn’t really healthy. Even my ex-boyfriend from high school told me the other night to shift my mindset and pay attention to what’s in front of me, not what’s thousands of miles away. “When you’re home, you should leave everything you have going on in the East Coast on the East Coast,” he told me. And that’s fair, though I feel in this situation, it’s an impossible request to ask of me, since I can’t reasonably divorce my thoughts from the people or the events or the relationships that have all changed quite dramatically over the holidays. The timing sucks. I’m not coming home again until June at the soonest and I can’t even devote myself completely to California.

In any case, I lack the emotional and mental energy to really be productive. On the bright side, I finally have time again, which is nice so I guess I just need to get my mind somewhere peaceful. I am finishing crucial forms at the moment, trying to concentrate on papers, and embarking on a first step toward a potentially great project. I am only beginning now to return all the emails I received last weekend, so if I have yet to get to yours, my apologies.

I don’t know when or if I’ll blog again about anything significant until mid-January nor do I really want to write about any of my current romantic interests. There are a couple guys I’m casually seeing (or like five, haha, depending on who you ask and whether you count non-Bostonians) but I haven’t discussed the blog extensively with any of them nor do I care enough to write about them or even ask if I could write about them. I’ve been going at a snail’s pace with guys lately and been altogether reserved (sexually and definitely emotionally). I’m really excited about one person in particular , but … I don’t know. I don’t think I’m opening up very well for someone who plans on making a career out of introspection. I guess I’m just really caught up in being me and dealing with my issues without anyone’s help. Even writing to my therapist was a HUGE leap and her job is to help. Relationships require that you let the other person in. In a way, having a ton of drama that none of my friends or family can fix for me has made me more determined to forge ahead on my own and it is very hard to revert back to my old mindset. I guess we’ll see.

Ugh, I feel like shit. Last night was the first time I’ve been drunk in the city and the first time I’ve hooked up with anyone here. I woke up hungover with little recollection of where I’d been. I’ve been so good about my drinking habits lately that a hard night out really feels like a hard night out.

Navigating the subway hungover? Never again. This marks the second time I thought I could die on the train. The first was a couple weeks ago when I suffered an allergic reaction, popped two Benadryl, and nearly fainted before I made it to the doctor’s. It was enough to tranquilize a cow.

Anyhow, I just stuffed myself with a sandwich and roasted corn to calm my tummy. Now I’m starting a two-day juice fast, ending at dinner on Monday. I’ve been meaning to do this for a while and now is a good time since the roomie’s out of town and I don’t have to cook. I really have no desire to eat anyway.

By the way, Happy Pride Weekend, everyone! I wish I knew more gay kids (or queer enthusiasts) in the city. I can’t think of anyone off the top of my head, but I desperately need a pal to go to things like this with me. If I were in school, CK would be a sure thing. Alas, she is currently in Colorado.

See ya at the March tomorrow.

I’ve been bedridden and ailing since this weekend, so I’m incredibly behind on schoolwork and freelance assignments. No time to blog — nothing besides summer plans to blog about, anyway — so I dug up an old entry I never posted, because I feel guilty for slacking on the website. I wrote the following wayyy back in October. You can totally tell it’s dated: the guy, the newfound celebrity, the pre-meltdown indicators. Also, Kay makes an appearance, and when’s the last time I saw this girl? Oh yeah, last semester.

So here’s an oldie (but a goodie!) from when Lena was slightly unbalanced, still alcoholic, and actually sexually active …

Quite the weekend it’s been. Friday was basically a bust.

Kay and I parted ways on the corner of Mt. Auburn and Dunster with cheek kisses and assurances to do lunch. The soundtrack to my walk back home was Counting Crows’ “Mr. Jones,” blaring from inside the Fly and stuck in my mind the rest of the night.

Already, I was in no mood to deal with men. Friday had not been friendly to Kay and I. We called it quits early and made our way to Flat Patties at 1am. But the night wasn’t a complete loss. Over chili cheese fries, I caught her up on the entirety of October. I love the girl for sober moments like those.

Saturday was more eventful. I woke up the next morning dizzy and next to someone else. The standard issue college twin definitely does not facilitate premarital sex. Thank goodness I’m petite or Aidan and I would be subject to very dangerous sleeping scenarios. I remember crawling over him in in a semi-drunken stupor, stating indignantly, “I NEVER SLEEP ON THE INSIDE!” I think what I meant to convey was, “I think I’m going to roll off in the middle of the night, please help prevent this.”

The previous morning I nudged him awake, opened up his curtains, and made numerous threats to write unflattering blog entries if he didn’t get up. It was all to no avail. On Sunday morning, it was his turn to prod me relentlessly until I finally gave up all hope of sleeping in. How completely unfair, and obviously a result of territorial advantage. From now on, I will only hook up in my suite so I can sleep in as I please and the guy can trek it to his room at 2pm in his clothes from the night before. Boys have no shame.

Speaking of regrettable morning wardrobes, I made the very unwise decision to attend brunch in the same tiny top and skirt I donned hours ago at a party. Of course, I conveniently bumped into my sophomore adviser. She has the unfortunate luck of being assigned to me. Really, she couldn’t have asked for more of a handful. After she gently reminded me to see our Allston Burr Head Tutor, I reassured her that I would not sleep past yet another appointment, and would, in fact, make a personal visit to his office to assure him that I am not completely insane. Apparently, Mather House tutors have expressed concern for my well-being. I’m not surprised. In a school where everyone delivers, how do you tell people that you just can’t deal?

During brunch, a couple girls sitting in the table next to mine were discussing “Sex and the Ivy,” but promptly ceased their conversation when they realized my friend had alerted me. My life has devolved into something of a television show, at once comedic and dramatic. A dramedy, if you will.

I was telling someone just yesterday that my blog can be summed up by the following: “Hey guys, something really weird happened to me. Has this ever happened to you? No? Okay, then. I’m just a total fuckup. Thanks for the confirmation.”

This weekend was as low-key as they come, and still, I feel like life doesn’t quite turn out this way for anyone but me.

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.

There’s something inherently fucked up with your life if you wake up Friday morning naked and still drunk. This is the tipsiest I’ve been while composing a blog entry.

I spent last night partying post-Fogg with CK and Rody. Four and a half glasses of wine at a grad school mixer. Another solo cupful at a Crimson Happy Hour. It is 8:30 a.m. and I have trouble standing. I am 5′2″, Asian, and the perfect target for sexual assault.

Last night’s chronologically coherent set of memories is limited to everything that occurred before I walked through Leverett Courtyard. I remember that because the swipe access actually works from the towers’ side now (someone finally fixed it) and I didn’t have to do that awkward reach-around.

Once in Mather House, I came home to an empty room, went to Aidan’s, got pissed off (can’t remember why but I’m pretty sure he did something terribly guyish), and stormed out — more or less not steadily on my stilettos. Back in my room, I discovered his cell phone in my purse (we have the same phones), informed him via Gmail chat, and he came down to retrieve it.

This is the part where it gets good. In my not-so-soundproof common room, I completely went off. I told him everything I thought was wrong with him but would never say to his face — at least not without some major tempering of language. I literally informed him that he was a fuck up, that there were serious revisions he needed to make to his life. I can’t remember exactly what I said but it epitomized drunken tirades. Even though drunk people say things they wouldn’t say sober, I like to think that I still self-censor to a semi-acceptable degree. Last night, I was too drunk to censor and too angry to shut up.

I also probably threw things I shouldn’t have thrown and lost one half of my awesome stilettos. I think Allie was home. My clothes somehow came off. I ended up in bed. I answered a phone call from a 301 area code I don’t recognize now. I should reveal that I only know all this happened thanks to the archived and drunken Gmail chat that more or less sums up the insanity. And though it appears that I had issues with punctuation and train of thought, I displayed a surprising ability to remain articulate.

In conclusion, I was a shit show last night, I am hungover right now, but the writer in me always prevails.