In the two years that I have been a college student, I have had only three mental breakdowns.
The first one occurred in my very first semester, when I was trying to get into the swing of things. I had had this complete and utter fucktwit of an English professor who loved it when people gave the wrong answers because for him, that was a perfect excuse for him to rip into those people like they were one of those pig corpses on Deadliest Warrior. Anyway, the day after that, I remember being so overwhelmed by the pressure that I ended up missing my last class of the day.
The second mental breakdown I had was last semester, when I was taking a Photojournalism class (it was only a month in when I realized that my talents were in writing, not pictures, but I digress). The professor who taught that particular class was a total dick as well, but it was his last semester teaching, so I guess I could understand where he came from. He was such a dick that he spent an hour and a half giving a lesson on the iPad and all the fancy-schmancy shit it came with. But what really rates him high on the dick scale was the way he ripped into people's pictures as well, like they didn't meet his standards of photography. Needless to say, I relinquished my mother's camera to her the last day of classes and devoted myself to writing from here on out.
The third mental breakdown took place last summer, when I took this class called "Human and the Divine." How the fuck was I supposed to know that "the divine" meant "the divine Lord?" Anyway, this professor was attentive and precise, but the way he graded was so harsh! I remember having the worst crying jags during class time, all because I wasn't as religiously insightful (if that's even a phrase). How I passed that class with a C-, I will never know.
These mental breakdowns taught me one lesson: stay away from teachers who are in their last semesters of teaching. They may be douches when it comes to grading.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
My Totally Mind-Blowing Epiphany, Part 2
*To my two loyal fans, I apologize for the lateness of this post. Life has decided to suck me into its gaping maw with its flailing tentacles, thus rendering me unable to post.*
In my last post, I shared with you all some details about the uncertainties I experienced during my work at my school's newspaper. And now I'm going to talk about the aftermath of my father's death.
After my father died (he was 41 years old), I was in a state that could only be described as a combination of three things: shock, relief, and acceptance.
I was shocked that he had passed so early because, for one, we (my mom, brother, and I) had done everything we could to ensure he stayed alive for as long as he could, and this year was the moment he decided to give up the ghost?
The relief came after realizing that I no longer had to center my life around him anymore. I could finally go out and do things people my age could do, like get hammered beyond belief and stay out till all hours of the night and shake what my crazy mom gave me.
And finally, the acceptance came after the relief. You see, from the time I was 12 years old up until February 4 of this year, my family and I were already going through Elisabeth Kubler-Ross' Five Stages of Grief, and the stage I was more focused on was the anger stage, because I was so pissed that my dad, of all people, had to be stricken with multiple frickin' sclerosis. So when my mom knocked frantically on my door and told me the heart-wrenching news, I was indeed shocked and horrified, but I was relieved and ready to move on, because that is, in fact, what my dad would have wanted.
Of course, this was all short-listed because I did some reflective thinking for a month, and I realized that my father was the cause of my paranoia and self-criticism. It wasn't enough that he had an intelligent daughter who was capable of spelling words most adults couldn't (at the tender age of 6). No, he had to make sure that I shared the same interests he did, which included Stephen King, Japanese programming, and a shitload of depressing 'fairy tale' stories (thanks a lot, Hans Christian Andersen). And if I didn't, he would just belittle the things I liked and accuse me of becoming a shallow little girl.
Even worse was my grandmother, who had her own plans for me. Because big breasts tend to skip a generation on my mother's side of the family, my mother and grandmother assumed I would be a member of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee. Lo and behold, right after I turn 11, I get boobies.
From the ages of 14 to 17, I busted my ass to make my grandparents happy. I sang in the choir, went to rehearsals, I even tried to pay attention to the sermons. But it was never. Fucking. Enough. Not a Sunday went by that they wouldn't pull me over about some minor detail, like my clothes (that they picked out for me, no less) or my hair or the way I talked to the elders of the church. They would even talk shit about the younger members, and expect me not to follow their example.
You could only imagine their shock when I called them one Sunday morning in January 2008 and told them I was leaving church. Naturally, their responses included gems such as "you're being possessed by Satan" and "God wants you to come to church faithfully" and shit like that.
So, to wrap this up, my father's death was my mind-blowing epiphany. And from here on out, I make the decisions in my life that I deem best for me.
Anyone who doesn't like it can suck it dry.
-- Lissa.
In my last post, I shared with you all some details about the uncertainties I experienced during my work at my school's newspaper. And now I'm going to talk about the aftermath of my father's death.
After my father died (he was 41 years old), I was in a state that could only be described as a combination of three things: shock, relief, and acceptance.
I was shocked that he had passed so early because, for one, we (my mom, brother, and I) had done everything we could to ensure he stayed alive for as long as he could, and this year was the moment he decided to give up the ghost?
The relief came after realizing that I no longer had to center my life around him anymore. I could finally go out and do things people my age could do, like get hammered beyond belief and stay out till all hours of the night and shake what my crazy mom gave me.
And finally, the acceptance came after the relief. You see, from the time I was 12 years old up until February 4 of this year, my family and I were already going through Elisabeth Kubler-Ross' Five Stages of Grief, and the stage I was more focused on was the anger stage, because I was so pissed that my dad, of all people, had to be stricken with multiple frickin' sclerosis. So when my mom knocked frantically on my door and told me the heart-wrenching news, I was indeed shocked and horrified, but I was relieved and ready to move on, because that is, in fact, what my dad would have wanted.
Of course, this was all short-listed because I did some reflective thinking for a month, and I realized that my father was the cause of my paranoia and self-criticism. It wasn't enough that he had an intelligent daughter who was capable of spelling words most adults couldn't (at the tender age of 6). No, he had to make sure that I shared the same interests he did, which included Stephen King, Japanese programming, and a shitload of depressing 'fairy tale' stories (thanks a lot, Hans Christian Andersen). And if I didn't, he would just belittle the things I liked and accuse me of becoming a shallow little girl.
Even worse was my grandmother, who had her own plans for me. Because big breasts tend to skip a generation on my mother's side of the family, my mother and grandmother assumed I would be a member of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee. Lo and behold, right after I turn 11, I get boobies.
From the ages of 14 to 17, I busted my ass to make my grandparents happy. I sang in the choir, went to rehearsals, I even tried to pay attention to the sermons. But it was never. Fucking. Enough. Not a Sunday went by that they wouldn't pull me over about some minor detail, like my clothes (that they picked out for me, no less) or my hair or the way I talked to the elders of the church. They would even talk shit about the younger members, and expect me not to follow their example.
You could only imagine their shock when I called them one Sunday morning in January 2008 and told them I was leaving church. Naturally, their responses included gems such as "you're being possessed by Satan" and "God wants you to come to church faithfully" and shit like that.
So, to wrap this up, my father's death was my mind-blowing epiphany. And from here on out, I make the decisions in my life that I deem best for me.
Anyone who doesn't like it can suck it dry.
-- Lissa.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
My Totally Mind-Blowing Epiphany, Part 1
I usually don't share much information about myself, but in this case, I'll make an exception for the two people following this blog.
When I started working for my school's newspaper last year, I was totally unsure of what beat I wanted to follow. I just wrote whatever article was assigned to me, and it was published in the paper the next day. I didn't care what type of reaction I got from people, as long as it had the byline "By Melissa Wray" underneath the headline.
That first semester was pretty cool for me. I got a bunch of rumblings of approval and I felt like I was on top of the fucking world. I assumed that glow would last forever and ever and ever...
...until I returned from winter break last year and began my second semester.
It seemed like no matter what I put out each week, I elicited no response from anybody. Not even a letter to the editor about what a good/crappy job I did on whatever article I wrote.
Not to mention, every idea I pitched for a potential story wasn't good enough or interesting enough in the eyes of the managing editors.
Naturally, I felt like I was losing my ever-loving mind over a few paragraphs. What the hell was I thinking, taking on this job? Why should I even continue working here if I'm not even worth mentioning to random strangers?
These were all many different thoughts that swirled around in my head, occupying every corner of my mind. My paranoia had escalated to the point where I started having crying jags every other day because of my inability to come up with an idea for a story.
As I continued working at the paper, I held out hope that someday, someone would praise me for doing a good job, and maybe, just maybe, I could feel like an integral part of the news team.
Oddly enough, I did get praised by two people I interviewed on two separate stories I did over the last two semesters. It uplifted my spirits for a minute, and then I was back to being miserable. Miserable about the fact that I was invisible.
I don't deserve to be amongst all these people, I would think whenever I was in the news room. They've got every aspect of their lives planned out, and they've even gotten the chance to do cool stuff normal college students do.
When I started working for my school's newspaper last year, I was totally unsure of what beat I wanted to follow. I just wrote whatever article was assigned to me, and it was published in the paper the next day. I didn't care what type of reaction I got from people, as long as it had the byline "By Melissa Wray" underneath the headline.
That first semester was pretty cool for me. I got a bunch of rumblings of approval and I felt like I was on top of the fucking world. I assumed that glow would last forever and ever and ever...
...until I returned from winter break last year and began my second semester.
It seemed like no matter what I put out each week, I elicited no response from anybody. Not even a letter to the editor about what a good/crappy job I did on whatever article I wrote.
Not to mention, every idea I pitched for a potential story wasn't good enough or interesting enough in the eyes of the managing editors.
Naturally, I felt like I was losing my ever-loving mind over a few paragraphs. What the hell was I thinking, taking on this job? Why should I even continue working here if I'm not even worth mentioning to random strangers?
These were all many different thoughts that swirled around in my head, occupying every corner of my mind. My paranoia had escalated to the point where I started having crying jags every other day because of my inability to come up with an idea for a story.
As I continued working at the paper, I held out hope that someday, someone would praise me for doing a good job, and maybe, just maybe, I could feel like an integral part of the news team.
Oddly enough, I did get praised by two people I interviewed on two separate stories I did over the last two semesters. It uplifted my spirits for a minute, and then I was back to being miserable. Miserable about the fact that I was invisible.
I don't deserve to be amongst all these people, I would think whenever I was in the news room. They've got every aspect of their lives planned out, and they've even gotten the chance to do cool stuff normal college students do.
What do I have to look forward to? Oh nothing, except taking care of my wheelchair-bound father and entertain his crazy-ass theories about things I don't give a flying fuck about, like politics.
Oh yeah, did I mention that I have no fucking clue about where I wanna work after I leave this university?
Not a day went by that I didn't have any of these thoughts in my head. I thought I would be destined to be caught up in a sea of doubt and uncertainty...
...until the day my father died.
To be continued...
Oh yeah, did I mention that I have no fucking clue about where I wanna work after I leave this university?
Not a day went by that I didn't have any of these thoughts in my head. I thought I would be destined to be caught up in a sea of doubt and uncertainty...
...until the day my father died.
To be continued...
Thursday, January 19, 2012
This Post May Or May Not Piss You Off.
Check the article out here:
http://bossip.com/528635/mom-arrested-for-making-son-look-like-lil-wayne-and-giving-him-a-tattoo-video69691/#disqus_thread
Just when you think that people can't get any more ignorant, here comes another ignoramus trying to fuck their kid's future up:
I was on Bossip.com satisfying my need to see ignoramuses get pwned when I came across this article that reads, and I quote: "Mom Arrested For Letting 10-yr-old Son Get A Tattoo Emulating Lil Wayne And That Culture."
Now, the first thing that popped into my head was, "Please, dear God, let it be a temp. PLEASE let it be a temp." But unfortunately, as I continued to read this article, I was proven wrong as the mother, Chuntera Napier, boasted in her own hoodrat language that when her son, Gaquan (holy fuck I can't with those names) told her that he wanted a tattoo to commemorate his late older brother, she said the following statement:
"What do I say to a child who wants to remember his brother? It’s not like he’s asking me if can I get him a Sponge Bob. He’s asking me for something that’s in remembrance of his brother. Well, how do I tell a child no?"
Simple: HELL. NO.
Nothing more, nothing less.
Oh, but wait, my friends. See, Ms. Napier believes that if a parent gives consent for their child to be tatted up, then that makes it all okay. After all, he's HER son, so why should anyone tell her what's right for him?
****insert facepalm with the intensity of a thousand suns here****
Let's see. With the risks that a tattoo bring to a person's skin (sepsis, skin disfiguration, distorting of the image as the person gets older, etc.), wouldn't it be smart to wait until the kid reaches the age of legal consent? I don't know, that's what I would've done if I had a kid.
And why the fuck hasn't the tattoo artist been arrested? I mean, I'm no expert on the ways of tattoos, but shouldn't the last thing any credible tattoo artist do is ink a minor, ESPECIALLY a fucking 10-year-old?
I understand the importance of memorializing a lost loved one. Hell, I'm all for it. How-fucking-ever, common sense should play a vital role in remembrance of said lost loved one. And that includes not getting something that will probably stereotype you as a criminal for the rest of your life.
On a side note: It's good to be back in the saddle, bitches.
-- Lissa.
http://bossip.com/528635/mom-arrested-for-making-son-look-like-lil-wayne-and-giving-him-a-tattoo-video69691/#disqus_thread
Just when you think that people can't get any more ignorant, here comes another ignoramus trying to fuck their kid's future up:
I was on Bossip.com satisfying my need to see ignoramuses get pwned when I came across this article that reads, and I quote: "Mom Arrested For Letting 10-yr-old Son Get A Tattoo Emulating Lil Wayne And That Culture."
Now, the first thing that popped into my head was, "Please, dear God, let it be a temp. PLEASE let it be a temp." But unfortunately, as I continued to read this article, I was proven wrong as the mother, Chuntera Napier, boasted in her own hoodrat language that when her son, Gaquan (holy fuck I can't with those names) told her that he wanted a tattoo to commemorate his late older brother, she said the following statement:
"What do I say to a child who wants to remember his brother? It’s not like he’s asking me if can I get him a Sponge Bob. He’s asking me for something that’s in remembrance of his brother. Well, how do I tell a child no?"
Simple: HELL. NO.
Nothing more, nothing less.
Oh, but wait, my friends. See, Ms. Napier believes that if a parent gives consent for their child to be tatted up, then that makes it all okay. After all, he's HER son, so why should anyone tell her what's right for him?
****insert facepalm with the intensity of a thousand suns here****
Let's see. With the risks that a tattoo bring to a person's skin (sepsis, skin disfiguration, distorting of the image as the person gets older, etc.), wouldn't it be smart to wait until the kid reaches the age of legal consent? I don't know, that's what I would've done if I had a kid.
And why the fuck hasn't the tattoo artist been arrested? I mean, I'm no expert on the ways of tattoos, but shouldn't the last thing any credible tattoo artist do is ink a minor, ESPECIALLY a fucking 10-year-old?
I understand the importance of memorializing a lost loved one. Hell, I'm all for it. How-fucking-ever, common sense should play a vital role in remembrance of said lost loved one. And that includes not getting something that will probably stereotype you as a criminal for the rest of your life.
On a side note: It's good to be back in the saddle, bitches.
-- Lissa.
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