Wednesday, June 20, 2007


All the depression is now turning into frustration and i am getting frustrated at no one else but myself.

Yea sure there is one other person that is going through the same situation that i am but at least she has people that are supporting her, that includes me. But there is no one that i can tell them about whats going on with me. Really i just can't explain the situation at home without them being at a total lost.

These days there is nothing that makes me happy. Seriously nothing. When i shop, my reason for buying something would that it would be useful. I have begun to supress my own wants because i have realised that wishing is something that only gives you hope.

The reason, that has surfaced recently, to explain the situation at home lies on a basis that i used to believe in its existence but have never experienced it before. It is this reason that has gotten my mind so messed up that leads me to being so frustrated at myself that i have to tell myself to calm down and not to lash at anyone.

The amazing thing is that i have not lashed at anyone, not a single person and that includes those absolutely irritating call centre people advertising their non existent products. But the frustration that builds up is really weird, it makes me mumb and the person who asks nicely if i am fine, gets a blank reply of i am fine and nothings wrong.

Being frustrated at others can be gotten rid off by rationalising but being frustrated at your ownself is being plain silly and nonsensical because it does not achieve anything.

Tuesday, June 05, 2007

When Celebs Abuse Rehab - By Patti Davis

May 30, 2007 - Lindsay Lohan is back in rehab. Back? Wasn’t she just there? Fellow bad girl Britney Spears wasn’t in long enough for her hair to grow back. Meanwhile, Paris Hilton zipped right by rehab and picked up the GO DIRECTLY TO JAIL card.

In the last year or so, rehab has become the ultimate publicity tool, a brief break from the glitzy life, a chance to burnish one’s reputation. (The bad girls aren’t alone in this regard; see Mel Gibson, Isaiah Washington.) What we’ve forgotten is that rehab is supposed to result in rehabilitation. Hence the name. Rehabilitating one’s life, when it’s broken and damaged, is not just a weekend stay.

I never went to rehab. I should have. I plunged willingly, desperately, into addiction at the pliable age of 15. My poison, my love, was speed. It came in pretty colored tablets called amphetamines. Over the years it changed to capsules—some clear with orange and black granules inside, some pure black. Like the devil. Like hell.

Like the hell I lived in well into my 20s. Cocaine replaced pills at some point. But that wasn’t a big change. I was on the same rushing road—the road that too often leads to a fiery blinding end, way before your years would justify death by anything other than a speeding car or a bullet.
I quit because I decided not to die. I quit all alone—the same way I started. I quit in spite of long nights when the taste of cocaine would come up in my throat—drifting up out of my cells, I guess—and I wanted it so badly my nails dug into my palms until they drew blood. I quit by trying to live inside a body that was so much older than my years—I could actually feel my blood, my organs lurching along, almost like they were asking what they were supposed to do without the jacked up jolt of the drugs they’d gotten used to for so many years. My thoughts, my head, my dreams … black doesn’t even begin to describe that territory. For over a decade, I’d only known the world through the blur of speed.

It was the late '70s. There probably was rehab in some form, but I didn’t know, and I didn’t search. I wish so badly now that I had been able to go into a facility like the ones that abound now. An environment dedicated to pushing me into wellness. An environment with people who had already stumbled down the road that was before me, people who could teach me, console me, shake me up. People who knew my excuses, my rationalizations, my manipulations even before they came out of my mouth.

It makes me angry when I see how the opportunity of being in rehab can be abused as nothing more than a slick PR move. A brief retreat from the paparazzi. How lucky these celebrities are to be able to go to one of these facilities (which are not cheap) and to benefit from the wisdom and help that waits behind the gates.

I struggled for years to learn on my own what someone like Lohan could learn in months, if she were willing to do so. Of course, that learning also has to be followed by practice. Every day. Forever. But it can start in rehab.

Abusing ourselves with any kind of substance abuse is a violation of the gift of life—it isn’t what any of us were put here for. And treating rehab like it’s just a strategic career move is practically blasphemous.

I imagine the other people in these rehab facilities, watching a celebrity breeze in for a week or so, then leave. I imagine their anger—actually, I don’t have to imagine it, I feel it, too. It’s hard to fix the places where you’re broken, hard to wrestle with your demons. If you don’t take the help that’s available along the way, there will come a day when you are left all alone with demons that have grown so big and so vicious that you can’t defeat them. A lot of people know that and commit themselves to the hard and serious work of rehab. They're the ones who won't have to face the bleak dark road that waits for those celebrities who believe bright lights define them.

Davis, the daughter of Nancy and Ronald Reagan, is a writer based in Los Angeles.

© 2007 Newsweek, Inc.

Whats up - the ceiling

Well life has been mundane - hope that explains the lack of posts.

The stint was done and over on the 24th of May and its time to revel it. (drum roll is of no need) I was working as a relief teacher at Saint Patrick's School teaching English and Literature. I know, i have said that i would never be a teacher but well i jumped into this because i thought i should go for it since i have the time to afford. Its a great experience really. I never thought that i could teach to a class of 40 boys who can barely sit still.

The truth is, the first week wasn't great as i had to scream at the guys to settle down - thanks to all the stuff that i was told in the stuffroom. But as time passed, i wasn't strict. I played hangman with the guys, teased them about their girlfriends and rubbed it in when Man U lost. Yea well since i wasn't there long enough, clearly they didn't get to know me that well, even though some of the midgets have found my friendster. I have heard from others if i feel appreciated considering how much i actually did for them - i never gave them a bad remark or left them with any yellow form, well the truth is Not really but it really doesn't matter as long as those that listened during my class passed and did well in their exams.

With the stint done and over with, i will definately not mind if they address me by my name - to think about it, i am only about 5 - 6 years older then them (depending on which class i was in).

So thats done and i am glad that i took the chance.

Moving on, life is monotonous. So am definately not interested in commenting on it.

I still have to watch Pirates 3 and re-read HP 6. Goodness i feel like a sloth these days - considering i just finished the 3/4 KitKat Chunky i had left in the fridge and i still feel like eating.

Ta ya'll as i raid my kitchen.