ugh

so i finished my homework. i read an unquiet mind by kay jamison in two short, albeit rough, days. i say rough because, while kay's experience has gone to farther extremes, i could understand every iota of conflict and pain that she felt. i'm not sure that i "learned a lesson" or got "the moral of the story." trying to boil her memoir down to that would be insulting, i think. i don't even know what to take from it. as i was reading, some of my reactions were so visceral that i wanted to rip the book apart or throw it across the room, preferably (as awful as it sounds) at cecilia or dr. jamison herself. some parts made me want to throw up. others tore me up inside. still others so powerfully evoked particular memories that their accompanying blackness reappeared. one question i do have--how did she remember all of that? i try to think back on what i've been wrestling with for the past ten years, and i can only pinpoint a few specific events, probably no more than three. the rest, while identifiable, lack details and remain somewhat indistinct and elusive in the rear of my brain. it's as if they don't want to be caught.

i know that i'm not completely well. it seems that, in the past three months, so much has come roaring back, and it's taking me awhile to reconstruct a semblance of order. chris is being tough but loving, and i don't know if he realizes it, but he's helping me to reassemble a sense of perspective. i'm trying to remember what it's like to be confident and hopeful and balanced. i have all these pieces in my lap, and i'm not sure what to do with them.