The Cypress College Library

Our next assignment was to do a 300 word essay about our school library. I was lost at first, because what do you write about a library for 300 words? I'm pretty proud with what I came up with:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One thing came to mind as I wandered through the Cypress College Library this week. I love books. I love the smell, the weight of the book in my hands, the way the spine gives way when you open an older volume. I love the sound of the pages turning and the feel of the ink that sometimes rubs off on your fingers. I chose an aisle to explore and I was not disappointed.

Before walking through the aisle, I stepped back and took in what I was seeing. The bookcases were around fifteen feet long and just over six feet tall. Each case had six shelves, and each shelf was brimming with books. There were tall books and short books; fat books and thin books. There were books that looked and felt centuries old, and some that appeared to have never been opened.

I started down the aisle, but I did not get far. I have no memory of the title or author of the book that I had found, but I was drawn to it like a curator to freshly uncovered artifacts. The work was leather bound, with silver embossment on the cover. I ran my fingers across the front and felt the contours of the volume. I held it to my face and breathed in; I could smell the parchment and I imagined the papyrus of ancient Egypt. I opened to the first page and felt it between my fingers. It was thin and fragile, and had a note written in pencil in the upper corner. The writing appeared to be feminine. I wanted to know about the person who had written the message. Who was it for? What was she feeling when she wrote the inscription? Did the person for whom it was meant ever have a chance to read it?

As I was placing the book back into its place, I caught a glimpse of my watch. I had spent forty-five minutes with my new friend and hadn’t read a word of the text. Smiling to myself, I wondered if others understood the pleasure of simply opening a book. I can only hope so.

An English Essay

I am taking an College Writing course this semester, and our first assignment was to write about a Significant Emotional Event. I only had one that I could possibly write about with any detail and clarity. Warning for those of you who may know me: this is VERY personal. There are things in this short paper that you may not have known; if this surprises you, or hurts you, I am sorry. I have decided to post my writings from class here, mainly to get myself back into posting. So, this one's for me.

When asked to write about a significant event in my life, I found that the event I wanted to write about was not one event, but a series of episodes leading up to one very disturbing incident. My story begins almost fifteen years ago, and will take you up to the present, where I am still trying to recover.

Four and a half years ago, I was diagnosed as bipolar (also referred to as manic depressive). The process of diagnosis was a long one – years before, I had been diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The cause of this was a physically, mentally, and emotionally abusive marriage. I left three years into the marriage, leaving behind my home, my family, and my two year old daughter.

I was scared, and alone. I took a Greyhound bus as far away as I could get, which ended up being California. I met a guy, I fell in love, and slowly I started the healing process. At least, that’s what I thought I was doing. In reality, I was drinking myself into a stupor every night trying to forget who I was, where I had come from, and what I had experienced. As the past started to fade away, I found that I no longer needed the person I was in a relationship with, and we broke up.

The following few months were a blur to me; I had many drunk nights crashed on someone’s couch or floor. Finally, I was to the point where I had given up; it was time for me to go home, face the music, and grow up. I was a week away from moving back to a job and an apartment when I met Jeremy. He took my breath away. We started dating, and eventually we moved in together. In December of 2004 he proposed, and I accepted. I was on my way to having a life without pain. Then my world crashed down. One weekend the next May I received a phone call from my mother; she seemed excited and out of breath. I was a little afraid at first because of the shakiness of her voice. Then she spit out the words, “I spoke to Ron!” Ron is my ex-husband. Ron is who I had been trying to forget the last seven years. Ron is who I was afraid of.

I had my first panic attack about a week after that phone call. I knew I had to talk to him; my daughter had just turned ten, and she was asking questions. She wanted to know about me and why I had left. Yet before I could talk to her, I had to speak to him. My panic attacks grew more frequent, and a week after my wedding that September, I had my first thoughts of suicide.

To understand what was happening, it needs to be explained that I was not thinking of suicide because I thought there was no reason for living. My motive was simple – I wanted to end the panic attacks. I was so frustrated; the panic attacks went from once a week, to a few per week, to a few every day. My days were spent in bed, under the covers, and with the doors locked. While I never actually attempted suicide, the thoughts were frequent enough for me to be scared. One night, I went further than I had before and went to the kitchen, opened a drawer, and pulled out a knife.

I immediately went to my husband. I knew that I wasn’t thinking clearly and needed help. He took me to the local emergency room and after being evaluated by the psychiatrist, it was determined that I needed to be admitted into the hospital. Luckily, I was given the choice to go voluntarily instead of being involuntary admitted. I was in the psychiatric ward of Loma Linda for a week. It was terrifying at first – there were patients there that talked to themselves, that had nervous ticks; some even tried to hurt other patients. I felt so lost. As the week passed, I started going to therapy groups and the doctors started me on medication. They did evaluation after evaluation.

After my release from the hospital, things did not immediately get better. I was still having panic attacks every day, although the medication started to help me sleep at night. Over the next two months I was hospitalized two more times at different facilities. Finally, it seemed the diagnosis was right, the medication was right, and the panic attacks started to subside. I still struggle with my anxiety and panic on a day to day basis, and my medication needs to be adjusted now and then. However, I have made much progress. I am in school, going to classes, being around people I do not know; and I am doing well.

I know that my story doesn’t end here, and that I have years ahead of me to deal with my illness. I know that there will be ups and downs, and there is always the possibility that I will once again need to be hospitalized. There is a difference now, though. I have hope. I know I can make it through and do more than just survive. I can live.