Sex and the Campus
Have you ever had a really, really shitty week? A week that makes you want to download a horoscope app in search of someone or something to blame? A week where every moment surprises you with just how quickly things can take a turn for the worse? A week that looks, perhaps, a bit like this one: Monday, February 25: I’m from Los Angeles, California. Not surprisingly, February in LA is very different from February in Providence. This particular Monday in Providence was bitter and windy; my footsteps wavered, the gusts pushing my feet slightly off course every time I lifted one off the ground. The wind has always scared me. I’m like a small dog, hiding under the couch, waiting for the strange noises to pass. The wind that day reminded me of the Santa Anas, strong north-to-northeast currents that sweep through Los Angeles in October, bringing bad luck and superstition. In “Los Angeles Notebook,” Californian critic and essayist Joan Didion describes the Santa Anas’ effect on the city: “There is something uneasy in the Los Angeles air this afternoon,” Didion writes, “some unnatural stillness, some tension. [The] wind shows us how close to the edge we are.”Someone once told me that the wind is so unsettling because it brings unfamiliar air. On this eerie Monday afternoon, that same someone broke up with me, and I was plunged into a world that was suddenly, inexplicably unfamiliar. I managed to keep it together until I reached my own room, about a five-minute walk away. Then, I laid on the floor, adding a new voice to the mournful concert outside. Then, I went to class, then, I went to dinner, then, I went to sleep, then, then, then… Tuesday, February 26: I don’t think anything really noteworthy happened on Tuesday, but I did attend the class I have with not one, but now two, of my exes. I tried to seem okay, whatever that means. I did feel better than I had for the previous few weeks, being released from the confusion and uncertainty that had been snowballing. Maybe I had crashed at the bottom of the mountain, but at least I had landed somewhere. I couldn’t tell if it was better to project a false image of confidence or to just be honest with myself; did the “fake it till you make it” aphorism apply here? Was I stronger for moving forward without hesitation or more likely to heal by embracing and accepting the hurt? Wednesday, February 27: Here’s the real kicker. By Wednesday afternoon, my life had resumed its usual rhythm of class, work, and random errands. I had a doctor’s appointment at 3 pm; for the last few years, I’ve developed what I affectionately call my “wonky ankle,” and I was following up on some blood work to see where that wonkiness may be originating from. Just as I was leaving my room, my friend regretfully showed me her phone, a picture of my ex smiling out from a newly-created Tinder profile. The picture, ironically enough, was one that I had approved as his FaceBook profile only days earlier. It took all I had not to cry as I walked into the doctor’s office. Actually, I did tear up and had to wait outside the door, take three deep breaths, and look directly into the bright, blinding ball of the unshaded ceiling light, before opening the door. I sat in the waiting room for about 20 minutes. A woman in a wheelchair, evidently a recent amputee, sat next to me, moaning in pain, for approximately 17 of those minutes. Finally, I was called in; shortly thereafter, I walked out into the cold February afternoon, my only souvenir from the trip a diagnosis of Lupus and a printed-out copy of my blood work results. Thursday, February 27: What is Lupus, you ask? I had the same question. Thursday featured an eclectic series of Google searches, a frenzy that resulted in a quite thematically appropriate definition: “Lupus is a systemic autoimmune disease that occurs when your body's immune system attacks your own tissues and organs.” I called my dad. I called my sister. I went to class from 9am-12pm, and then again from 1pm-5pm. I called my sister again. I went on a run until the sun went down, until I couldn’t feel my legs and my cheeks burned from the cold. Friday, February 28: Friday found me longing for rock bottom. At least then, I thought, things could only go up. I walked across campus, headphones in, Lady Gaga’s “Speechless” blasting at was perhaps a self-sabotaging volume. Of course, I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going; I was thinking about the last few days, laughing a bit at the surreality of it all, and texting a friend from home.
Just met w my prof for an hour
was so nice
Am determined to do research w him
Where am i in life that hypothetical research is superior to sex??/
stop im in lecture and im laughingyou sound like carrie bradshaw’s voiceover in sex and the cityWhat lol how??srsly?listn to yourself My friend’s text got me thinking. Becoming Brown University’s very own Carrie Bradshaw seemed like a good idea, a way to get my thoughts out of my head, where they were causing a lot of trouble, and onto a piece of paper. Maybe I’d form a girl gang and start wearing tutus. Maybe they’d print my face across the RIPTA with a fun slogan, correcting the parallelism of Carrie’s advert: Gemma Brand-Wolf knows good sex**and isn’t afraid to ask (for it) Since then: I’m trying new things. I’m applying to newspapers and clubs. I went to Sunday Night Climbing for the first time, alone and terrified, and was rewarded with unbelievably sore forearms and two new friends. I called health services. I called the rheumatologist my dad googled. I tried not to look up Lupus on WebMD or read Cosmopolitan articles like “Here’s How to Actually Get Over a Broken Heart.” I got too drunk on Saturday night and was reminded that alcohol is a depressant. I’m taking one step at a time, even if the wind has blown my trajectory a bit astray.I have more time now, more time to spend with friends, to spend with myself. More time to walk to the RISD Library or lie in bed watching Weekend Update; to turn the music up really, really loud and dance recklessly in my room; to have a three-hour dinner at Andrews, not including the thirty-minute line. I can neglect my work and eat cake in the lounge with the girls on my floor. I can drink my coffee slowly in the morning and read for pleasure before bed. I have found it easier to listen to myself, to trust myself, and to pay attention to the world around me. Talking to friends—in the Ratty, on the way to class, through spoonfuls of cake—has made me realize just how confusing relationships often are. Of course, it’s not news that relationships are difficult. This is not an emotional revelation or a psychological epiphany. As the new (and, hopefully, improved) Carrie Bradshaw, I’m not suggesting any kind of resolution. The questions could span a lifetime, and I have no authority with which to propose answers. Honestly, I’m beginning to think answers don’t exist, or that they do more harm than good in the long run. But I had a shitty week. A terrible, horrible, no good, very bad week. It’s made me feel better, if only slightly, to talk about it with people, to exchange stories and theories. To vent and laugh and validate our tiniest complaints and point out each other’s mistakes and ask each other questions. It took learning that someone else couldn’t be there for me to realize that I haven’t been taking care of myself. And that’s no one’s fault but my own. The first draft I wrote was not good. I was trying, I think, to mitigate my own vulnerability, worried that the truth wasn’t interesting or relatable. I was impersonating Carrie Bradshaw, who is admittedly not a very good writer. There is one thing, however, that Carrie does very well: she asks a lot of questions. Some of them are truly ridiculous (“Why are we should-ing all over ourselves?” and “Are all men freaks?”), and any more serious inquiries are framed in her melodramatic fictional world (“Can you get to a future if your past is present?” or “Can you ever really forgive if you can’t forget?”). I have a lot of questions. We all do. But actually asking them requires us to acknowledge the fact that we don’t always have answers. Sometimes, I think, it feels good just to admit that we don’t know everything. It feels good to not know and to know that no one else does either. As scary as it is, I’m looking forward to asking myself (and you) questions, whether I find answers or not.