Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Chelsea
She's one of the freshmen I work with at Snyder. Then again, I shouldn't say that I work with her since she doesn't really come in for tutoring. She comes in mostly to talk to me.
She and I happen to love music, which is basically super glue in my world. She, like me, is quite different. I've read her poetry, I've listened to her music and her stories and I can say that at one point, all three of those coincide. I guess you can say that I see a little of myself in her: there is hardly any distinction between my writing, my music and my life. But there's something else about Chelsea that draws me to her. She strikes me, and I say this only because there is no other way to say it, as a deeply disturbed person.
You can say I'm psychoanalyzing her a little too much, that I'm scribbling all of these notes about her when I could be helping her out or something. But the truth is that I don't know where to start. All I know is that when people are deviant, it is because they have lost the concept of the norm. And socialization is the best way to relearn everything.
Professor Veysey said that labeling a person as a deviant never helps. There is a clinical term for Chelsea's condition, but I won't use it, although I am tempted to. I believe that Professor Veysey is right: doing so will only send Chelsea to her doom.
She talks a lot. Half the time, I really have no idea what she's talking about. But I nod, I try to listen and I ask questions. I know it sounds stupid but I believe that people who have different needs don't need to be institutionalized, nor do they need to go through the grieving-seeking help-getting better-relapse process. I think that all Chelsea needs is somebody to talk to. I've said it before and I'll say it again. We all just need somebody to talk to.
Next term is going to be hell, I know it. I really know it. And a part of me is saying Don't be stupid. Quit that tutoring gig. But then a part of me, a really huge part of me is telling me that there are students there who could use my help. Damn superhero complex...
Final thought: Even superheroes have demons.
Reading Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting By in America by Barbara Ehrenreich has opened my eyes to the harsh reality of life everywhere. American dream, my ass. It doesn't matter where you are. It doesn't matter which continent, which country, which city, which street. Strife is a given.
Speaking of my eyes, my left eye slash my left eye socket hurts like crazy. Do we have lymph nodes there? Because the ones under my ears are swollen, I'm guessing the ones around the eye area, if there are any, are swelling up too. It would be a convenient explanation and I'd stop fussing about it. Still, I look like somebody beat me up. Then again, I always look like somebody beat me up.
Oooh, and I thought about taking a picture of my face, but I still have some self-respect left so, yeah, NO. Just take my word for it. It looks bad. All it needs is some black and blue.
kitten posted @ 9:21 PM
