The Road to Stanford

According to the American Psychiatric Association’s fourth edition of its Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-IV-TR), six diagnostic criteria are assessed to determine a positive diagnosis of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD):

Criterion A:stressor

The person has been exposed to a traumatic event in which both of the following have been present:

A1. The person has experienced, witnessed, or been confronted with an event or events that involve actual or threatened death or serious injury, or a treat to the physical integrity of oneself or others.

A2: The person’s response involved intense fear, helplessness or horror.

Criterion B:intrusive recollection

The traumatic event is persistently re-experienced in at least one of the following ways:

B1. Recurrent and intrusive distressing recollections of the events, including images, thoughts or perceptions.

B2. Recurrent distressing dreams of the event.

B3. Acting or feeling as if the traumatic event were recurring (includes a sense of reliving the experience, illusions, hallucinations and dissociative flashback episodes, including those that occur upon awakening or when intoxicated.

B4. Intense psychological distress at exposure to internal or external cues that symbolize or resemble an aspect of the traumatic event.

B5. Physiologic reactivity upon exposure to internal or external cues that symbolize or resemble an aspect of the traumatic event.

Criterion C:avoidant/numbing

Persistent avoidance of stimuli associated with the trauma and numbing of general responsiveness (not present before the trauma), as indicated by at least three of the following:

C1. Efforts to avoid thoughts, feelings or conversations associated with the trauma.

C2. Efforts to avoid activities, places or people that arouse recollections of the trauma.

C3. Inability to recall an important aspect of the trauma.

C4. Markedly diminished interest or participation in significant activities.

C5. Feeling of detachment of estrangement from others.

C6. Restricted range of affect (e.g. unable to have loving feelings).

C7. Sense of foreshortened future (e.g. does not expect to have a career, marriage, children or a normal life span)

Criterion D:hyper-arousal

Persistent symptoms of increasing arousal (not present before the trauma, indicated by at least two of the following:

D1. Difficulty falling or staying asleep.

D2. Irritability or outbursts of anger.

D3. Difficulty concentrating.

D4. Hypervigilance.

D5. Exaggerated startle response.

Criterion E:duration

Duration of the disturbance (symptoms in B, C and D) is more than one month.

Criterion F:functional significance

The disturbance causes clinically significant distress or impairment in social, occupational or other important areas of functioning.

Acute: if duration of symptoms is less than three months.

Chronic: if duration of symptoms is three months or more.

Delayed onset: Onset of symptoms at least six months after the stressor.¹

¹ American Psychiatric Association. Diagnostic and statistical manual of mental disorders DSM-IV-TR, 4^th edn. American Psychiatric Association, Washington DC, 2000.

I was officially diagnosed with PTSD in 2008, when the first symptoms started to emerge. It blessed me in its full-blown state within this past year. As you can see by the criteria marked in red above, I now fulfill all the criteria necessary for this diagnosis.

I have been seeing my current therapist, a trauma specialist, for almost 3 years, and we have been working with two specific modalities--Eye Movement and Desensitization Reprocessing (EMDR) and Dialectical Behavioral Therapy (DBT). Him alone worked until about a year ago, when it became apparent that I would need additional assistance. So, when a guardian angel emailed information about a study on PTSD taking place at Stanford University/VA Palo Alto, I immediately applied for it, and was quickly accepted.

I have made it through the initial 4.5-hr intake (full cognitive evaluation, psychiatric interview, and complete retelling of traumatic event), first sleep study, and first set off fMRI scans. The next set of fMRI scans is next week. Then the 9-12 sessions of Prolonged Exposure Therapy (a treatment increasingly popular with returning soldiers) will begin. It will end with another sleep study, follow up fMRI scans, and exit interview.

I am especially intrigued by the Prolonged Exposure modality. It will entail the recall of the specific traumatic memory as vividly as possible in first person (as if it was happening immediately in the present moment). Over and over. Basically, talking through the trauma, not avoiding it. I have the tendency to shove the intrusive memories of 9/11 down, and they pop up later as flashbacks, panic attacks, and the nightly barrage of terrifying dreams. The opportunity to desensitize myself to the trauma, and the memories, and make them just a part of my past experience that does not bring about a complete meltdown of emotions, sounds like freedom.

I look upon my initial fMRI scans in complete wonder. I have never seen the entire inside of my head before, only the right ear encompassing the canal, eardrum, labyrinth and cochlea. Indeed, on one of the scans I received, you can visibly see the healthy left labyrinth. Yet, on the right side, the right labyrinth is decimated by disease, now scar tissue that is no longer holding its form. The resulting injury from being in Lower Manhattan on 9/11, and another reminder of why I am here, and what I am doing.

It’s funny how looking at one’s brain does evoke those trite existential questions. What am I? Who am I? Is this body just a vessel for a traveling soul? Are my soul and mind connected? What is this mind, but a mass of tissue and electrical impulses? And, as a practicing Buddhist, it brings into sharp focus the idea of emptiness, ego, and samsara.

This mind of mine has also been the container for vast amounts of fear, anxiety, panic, 10-year-old memories parading as the present moment, and nightmares terrorizing my sleep. Half of the time, I have been determined to escape this daily suffering through addiction and sleep. More recently, I have been increasingly fascinated with the mind’s capacity to heal, and our capacity to learn new ways of coping. It is this line of inquiry that keeps me buoyant and optimistic about my future.

Stuck at Cortlandt Street Station

Two weeks ago, while in NYC, I was on the subway traveling from Brooklyn to Manhattan. I found myself riding into and stopping at Cortlandt Street station on an R train, in Lower Manhattan. It is located just underneath the World Trade Center site, now heavily under construction. Seems innocuous enough, unless you lived through 9/11, and have not been back to NYC in a couple of years, like myself. On the last NYC subway map I own, ca. 2004, it still shows parts of Cortlandt Street station “temporarily closed,” while trains rushed through on a rapidly-repaired center track. On the R line, the southbound station was hastily restored within the first months after 9/11, to quickly reinstate service. Northbound service was diverted. Since I lived in Astoria, Queens, the N and R was directly affected from day 1, and impacted daily life for 3 years.

After I left NYC in 2004, major work was done on Cortlandt Street station. The northbound platform was completely refurbished and reopened. The southbound side is now closed, and is in the midst of reconstruction. Everything was stripped down, and now shows the injuries of 2001.

As I was standing in the train and looking out onto the southbound side, I was looking out on destruction. Buckled metal beams, collapsed walls, boarded up entrances and exits, heavy moving equipment—evidence that work was indeed being carried out. I became thoroughly confused, suddenly agitated. I forgot what day and time it was. Memories came flooding back once again. I thought I could smell dust. Panic paralyzed me, and I could not breathe.

This has been my life for almost 2 years.

I freak out at planes, particularly military jets. I freak out at cops with machine guns and dogs on trains and in stations. If I now see images of 9/11, the memories are too overwhelming and I risk flashbacks. I dissociate from the present moment a good part of the day, trying not to feel into the fear, panic and anger. It’s like someone needs to sew my mind and body back together. I lose track of time; I commonly lose track of the day. Events during the day move in slow motion, yet it’s still difficult for me to keep up with what’s going on. The panic and depression has been severe enough to send me into a psychiatric outpatient program. My sleep is rarely peaceful, as I have come to expect the nightly barrage of 9/11-related nightmares.

A couple of theories are being floated for the cause of the delayed onset of the severe PTSD that now runs my life. There are studies out there showing that many New Yorkers have experienced this phenomenon of delayed onset PTSD (http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/08/04/study-finds-post-traumatic-stress-from-911-increasing/?scp=1&sq=ptsd%209/11&st=cse). However, in my specific case, the more likely theory is the preoccupation with the injury and rehabilitation within the first 3 years, combined with eight years of self-medication, that feasibly numbed me out enough to also numb out any and all PTSD symptoms. Then I decided to get sober. Sobriety=functioning brain. Functioning brain=active PTSD.

I remember when the symptoms first started emerging. I thought I was going insane. Luckily I had the right people around me, to assure me that, no, it’s not insanity per se. I’m just starting to experience something that I probably would have gone through almost 8-10 years ago, had the circumstances been different. But no, God has chosen now.

Next stop, Stanford University.

SEEKING A LITTLE GUIDANCE: FROM CAA 2011 CONFERENCE BLOG

Originally published February 13, 2011: http://conference.collegeart.org/2011/blog/page/3/

Seeking a Little Guidance

Posted on February 13, 2011 by Patricia Flores

At 10:30 Friday morning, I attended my Career Development mentoring session. Unlike previous mentoring appointments I’ve had at past conferences, I arrived at this one a bit more apprehensive. It was not going to be a simple check in with a colleague, to verify that I was moving along on the right and steady path. No, I was about to discuss a major left turn in my career trajectory, and needed serious advice.

As I’ve previously mentioned in posts here, I’m currently unemployed. Two years ago, I was laid off from a prominent managerial position at a leading art school. After 7 months, I cobbled together two adjunct teaching gigs, and survived the ensuing year prepping and teaching 11 classes between 2 institutions (one on semester; one on quarter), before being pink-slipped from both just 2 months apart. So here I am, another 7 months later. Yet, my decision to change things up goes a little deeper than just lack of jobs.

To make a long story short (and not too personal): I was in lower Manhattan on 9/11/01. The dust settled in my right ear, became an infection, killed my labyrinth. The 24/7 vertigo sent me to the NYU Medical Center/Rusk Institute for Rehabilitation Medicine for almost 2 years. I still have 24/7 vertigo, and now I’m almost deaf, but at least I can walk and read. Pretty important for the everyday, and for the academic.

Fast-forward 7 years: My priorities shifted for awhile, especially for the Ph.D. Now I’m 39, only have an MA in art history—not the terminal degree, and have a stalled out career. I am back in the studio for the first in many years. One of the interesting things I have learned, both in research and in experience, is that many survivors of 9/11 are suffering PTSD years later. So here I am, with panic attacks, flashbacks, and nightmares—almost 10 years later.

For the most part, I have put away the paint, and acquired an eight-harness loom. The side-to-side motion of weaving not only soothes me, but it mimics VOR—the vestibular-ocular reflex, the important eye movement connected to body positioning in space. In other words, weaving reduces vertigo for me—a happy accidental discovery. I am currently conducting additional research on its applications. Textiles are now my primary media.

I have also entered a study at Stanford University, looking at promising treatments for PTSD, which includes fMRI imaging, and a therapy modality called Prolonged Exposure Therapy. It’s connected with the Veterans Administration in Palo Alto. I’m very interested in the VA, because soldiers are coming back with blown out ears, and permanent vertigo.

So, you guessed it—the MFA.

I had been quite familiar with the art history route, and familiarity breeds comfort. Now, I am looking at a completely new route, never traveled before. Scary? Yes. Exciting? Yes. And, of course, when your assigned mentor tells you point blank that you are exactly where you are supposed to be, and on the precisely right path, it is entirely worth it to go through with the session, no matter how nerve-wracking. Personal details and all. It’s part of my story, to make my own. Soon, my completed portfolio will speak for me.

Posted in Career Services, New York | 2 Comments

This public posting was a big breakthrough for me. It was a conference in which I re-evaluated my current standing as an MA in art history, and explored my potential future as an MFA in studio-in the public eye. This has been a large, and exciting, shift to make. I have been an art historian for 17 years—a very long time to get comfortable with a very successful identity. Yet, I’m still just young enough to make a choice to change. The circumstances of the change were not under my control, but at least the choice itself is mine to make.

This is also the first conference wherein I have spoken openly about the circumstances of my career challenges. Since 2001, I had been very private about the turmoil in my private, and professional, life. As I have watched my professional life fall apart, while working to regain my health and sanity, it just has not mattered much anymore. Now that everything is out on the table, it has been incredible the support I have received, both from long-time colleagues and strangers alike. It reminds me of how important these conferences are. Not just to present papers, but to share ideas, experiences, and connections.

Time to get busy.

My Year of FAILURE

My Year of FAILURE

January 3, 2011

I have not posted in over a year.

This has been my year of FAILURE.

Not FAILURE in the sense that I have lost anything. Well, I have “technically” lost many things: I lost my mind; and my career as a professor of art history here in the Bay Area, and possibly in the state of California. If I ever want to return to that, I will need to do a serious geographic.

All I have really lost is my pride, my attachment to perfectionism, and maybe a lingering sense of embarrassment.

What I have gained is the knowledge that, no matter how bad it can possibly get, I can certainly get back up, brush myself off, and look through the lens of shifted perspective.

And proudly added FAILURE to my CV.

After the familiar refrain of yet another dressing down, in yet another director’s office, at the end of July 2010, I finally admitted defeat to the increasing flashbacks, panic attacks, anxiety, and inability to live an integral life post-9/11. Yes, it was nine years later, as one of my supervisors snapped, but what this person did not understand (many do not), is that Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) does not have a time-line. Sucking it up is not an option. And, as a recent study has shown, many of us 9/11 survivors are developing latent PTSD symptoms several years later (http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/08/04/study-finds-post-traumatic-stress-from-911-increasing/?scp=1&sq=ptsd%209/11&st=cse). During the previous year, I had prepped and taught 11 classes between 2 institutions. And my breaking point: I had just been pink-slipped from the one institution where I had just qualified for health benefits. How was I going to afford to continue taking care of myself, as a 9/11 survivor? Prime fodder for losing it.

So, I include a couple of photos of the primary place I spent the majority of my time for 5 months: Kaiser Permanente San Francisco Medical Center, French Campus, Psychiatry Department. Getting acquainted with FAILURE.

After consulting with my therapist and psychiatrist, I filed for State Disability, and checked myself into an outpatient psychiatric program in August 2010. For 5 months, I was in treatment 5 days a week. They even let me out—briefly—at the end of September, only to return 2 weeks later.

For a driven, perfectionist academic—this was the end of the road. The opposite of SUCCESS.

The dictionary definition of FAILURE is: a state of inability to perform a normal function; an abrupt cessation of normal functioning; a fracturing or giving way under stress; lack of success; a falling short.

Yes, that sounds about right. It was difficult to function normally when it felt like my life was taken over by flashbacks of events that happened 9 years before, in a place 3000 miles away. When it was not flashbacks, it was consuming panic attacks that left me paralyzed in public and calling friends to help me out. I literally felt like I was fracturing…under stress.

This was the culmination of a two-year fall, during which I experienced most of my greatest fears: losing not one, but three jobs I absolutely loved—all because of my 9/11 injury or PTSD, losing connection with my meditation practice, experiencing that feeling of exhaustion from physical and emotional burnout, and total depression and isolation. Completely broken.

What I have learned over the past half a year is, I am not in control of my own life. Something much greater and wiser is. Failure did not come often in my life before this. I drove myself fast and hard, and I have a ruthless inner critic—deadly. It is inevitable that we all fail at points in our life—so I could benefit from some failure, right? But seriously?

I have been busy deconstructing myself the past few months. The benefit of 5-day-a-week therapy. Certainly a better alternative to suicide. While I went in to this wanting the PTSD and depression to diminish, I have come out of it learning that I lack essential communication skills, and possess emotional dysregulation—all probably stemming from childhood, and setting me up for eventual FAILURE. If I continue working on those areas, they will help my PTSD and depression. Brilliant.

FAILURE has allowed me to build a new, stronger foundation on which to rebuild my life. I am learning to form trusting relationships, something very new for me—again, the communication thing. I am still working on the emotional regulation puzzle. That one may take awhile, and much assistance. One of these days, I will cry when it’s appropriate, and isolate and shutdown when it’s appropriate (like, never!). I’ve heard it said somewhere that there are no failures, just experiences and your reactions to them. That has certainly been my experience! C.S. Lewis once said, “Failures are finger posts on the road to achievements.” I want more of that view.

The greatest opportunity I’ve had in this time is to experience many different forms of healing. There have been physical forms of healing: walking and other exercises to tend to my vertigo, yoga—which has been essential to getting back into my body which I have felt disconnected from, and soon I’ll be exploring acupuncture. Emotionally, I have continued with psychotherapy, a 12-step program, and continuing to keep myself out there with my new friends. Spiritually, I have slowly returned to my Buddhist practice—which I abandoned as a workaholic—and has been a practice in patience.

I have also gone back to my art practice, another practice in patience. I hope to chronicle that path here. I’ve heard someone say that there are two benefits of FAILURE: 1. If you fail, you learn what does not work; 2. The failure gives you the opportunity to try a new approach. That is equally true of art as in life.

8 years on: time still stands still

Arvin and I left our flat in Astoria, Queens at the same time that morning, September 11, 2001. 7:30am. We walked the same path, up 34th Street to Broadway, right on Broadway, past Uncle George Diner. The cooks were wheeling in the young, skinned lambs, already sacrificed for us--for Souvlaki by lunch time. Past the sweet-smelling Greek bakeries making my stomach growl. Within 15 minutes we were down the 4 blocks, up the stairs, through the fare gates, and waiting on the platform for the Never train. Our nickname for the N.

It was crowded as usual. Smelly as usual. The typical morning smell: of morning B.O., heavy cologne, that sour morning breath smell that even toothpaste and mouthwash does not mask, pungent Dunkin Donuts sugar crack coffee, coconut-flavored shampoo and that strange, almost alcoholesque hair gel, and the condenser from the air conditioner of the subway car.

We got to 59th Street and Lexington, and I snuck a quick kiss from Arvin as I was pushed off the train by the herd, and shouting "I love you. See you tonight." I continued on to transfer uptown, and Arvin continued on that N train to Lower Manhattan.

I hopped a 4 train to 86th Street. I arrived at 8:30am. I walked along 86th Street to Madison, then swung a left to stop at Dean & Deluca at Madison & 85th for my usual morning ritual: blueberry muffin and large coffee. My morning could never get started without this ritual. After jockeying at the counter and hollering out my order, throwing down my money, and grunting my thanks with a smile, I continued walking to the Museum.

I walked up 83rd Street, crossed 5th Avenue, and entered through the Uris Center for Education of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Visitors were already starting to gather at the main entrance, as they usually do on a Tuesday morning, typically tourists up since dawn. They were always excited, since the Museum was always closed on Mondays. I slowed down as I hit the galleries, as I always did. Another morning ritual. That spiritual silence I relished, to look at the art with preciousness, reverence, and awe, before the buzz of the public took over.

I hopped the elevator, got off on the mezzanine level at the Department of European Sculpture and Decorative Arts, and walked all the way to the back, through the library, to my office. I turned on my computer, put away my bag, put down my breakfast, then headed up to the front office. It was exactly 9:00am.

One of the administrative assistants rushed into the Catalogue Room, where I had gone to gather the material to work on for the morning. It was 9:12am. He said Arvin was on line 1, and it was an emergency.

I reached over and picked up the phone, pressing the blinking line 1. On the other end was someone whose voice I barely recognized. Arvin spoke quickly, panicky. He sounded frightened, shocked. I could feel his heart racing, his head bounding, his stomach flipping. He said a plane flew into the World Trade Center. I could not comprehend what he said.

There was a commotion in the front office. I saw the light blinking for line 2.

Arvin repeated himself. A plane flew into the World Trade Center. I knew his office well. It was a mere few blocks from the Towers. From the window just behind his desk, the top half of the Towers hung gracefully in the air. Close enough to touch. They were ethereal giants, lit like angels in the night. I was trying to imagine a plane, and came up with a small commuter plane.

No, he said, a jetliner.

He continued to panic. He said that the other Tower was also on fire. I began to panic. We talked about a meeting place--our friend's apartment on West 13th Street. He told me to meet him there. He told me he did not know what was happening, or what was going to happen, but that he loved me very, very much. I could not believe what I was hearing. How bad was it? He told me hundreds of firemen were arriving on the scene. He and everyone in his office were witnessing people jumping from those upper floors of the Towers. I felt sick and full of disorientation.

The Director was ordering the closure of the Museum. Security was clearing the galleries of those tourists who were waiting so patiently just 40 minutes earlier. Rumor was that we were a cultural target. Yes, terrorism. I needed to get to Arvin. Every intuitive sense in my body felt he was in extreme danger.

By now, the phones were down. I no longer had contact with Arvin. All I could do was make my way downtown. All trains were halted throughout the city and boroughs. I did not want to be alone. I left with a curator who I had been working on a cataloging project with for several months, so was particularly close to. We walked through Central Park to the West Side to his residence. We saw people in the park, sitting on benches, seemingly in shock, trying to get their cell phones to work. To no avail.

Then we reached Central Park West.

We witnessed a sublime line of people, from it's starting point at 60th Street, and going all the way uptown beyond our range of sight. Many, many of them were covered with dust. A fine, white dust. What the hell happened?

One of them sobbed, "The Towers collapsed!"

I immediately panicked, asking him if I should rush down there? He said that we should probably go try and find out what is happening first. And get food into me. I had yet to eat.

As we walked, and reached Broadway on the Westside, it was the most surreal scenario. It was a picture perfect day. Clear blue sky. Pleasantly warm. People were out and about. Hauling around shopping bags touting boutique logos. Basking in the sun in all the restaurants along Broadway. It was like a normal day. What the fuck?

We grabbed lunch. I forced myself to eat, but my mind was reeling as I thought about nothing but bolting downtown to find Arvin.

We returned to his apartment, turned on the television, and were socked in the gut with the horror. We had yet to see the pictures. Of the planes slicing into the Towers. Of each Tower giving way, and collapsing in a cloud burst and a pile of grief.

I gathered my bag and bolted.

Practically running the 60 blocks, on pure adrenaline, I reached 14th Street. And was confronted by my first of several police lines. I spent 20 minutes screaming and cursing, trying to convince them that, with luck, my husband was in an apartment one block away. That I had spoken to him int he morning right after the second plane went in, and we had planned to meet here. And no, I did not have ID proving I lived below 14th Street. I lived in Astoria. Which I could not get to because there are no trains running. But I have a husband who I did not know was alive or dead, and need to get to this apartment one block away to find him.

They eventually let me through. Only to be directed around St. Vincent's Medical Center, the triage hospital and command center for rescue workers.

I repeated this scenario, of screaming and cursing at cops for access to Arvin, at 3 more checkpoints. The route took me to the edge of Ground Zero. The streets were covered with paper. All this paper. With peoples' names. And with other artifacts. Like shoes. And clothing. And work badges. And framed pictures. And more paper. Then a body part. I stopped cold.

I had to find Arvin.

The route took me past his office building. It was deserted, the streets were strewn with debris, and cops were telling me to keep going.

I finally made my way back up to 13th Street, coming east, on west side of the hospital. A police officer stopped me. I told him he can follow me if he would like, but that I have been searching for my husband, and have been yelling at enough cops. He followed.

I ran up the stoop, ran the bell, and was immediately buzzed in. I ran up stairs, and burst through the door. Our friend was there. And there was Arvin, in the back room.

Shock N Awe

Shock and Awe: a 20th Century term relating to military and strategic policy, first coined in 1996 by Harlan K. Ullman and James P. Wade in a discussion of the military strategy of rapid dominance, in their book Shock and Awe: Achieving Rapid Dominance. This notion of shock and awe literally means to paralyze an enemy’s will to carry on, and to seize control of the environment and paralyze, or so overload, an enemy’s perceptions and understanding of events that the enemy would be incapable of resistance at the tactical and strategic levels.

Of course, the words shock and awe still ring in our ears after hearing it day in, day out, as newscasters repeated it like a mantra, while we watched the sublime blasts of orange, red and yellow over the skies of Baghdad in April 2003. Arvin and I were still physically and psychologically numb from 9/11, as we sat watching the first bombs rip into Iraq on our tiny tellie in our studio apartment in Astoria, Queens.

The expression has stayed with me since then. Recently, it has had a special relevance to me in other spheres of my life. It seems to have a much more malleable meaning, than just strictly a military connotation. Though that is how I first started thinking about it.

I remember just after 9/11, and suddenly, sprouting up all over New York City, was the American Flag. It was on everything. Decals on the sides of the subway trains and the bus. Huge flags unfurled from the back of the remaining fleet of Manhattan fire trucks. Smaller flags flying from peoples’ cars. From buildings. From every building.

Then there was the ubiquitous United We Stand signs and decals. We? And standing for what? About what? Against what? Personally, I was still in shock. I trembled and had panic attacks whenever I saw troops in the subway. I still ducked and took cover whenever the fighter jets flew over, and that was probably 2-3 dozen times a day for months. Worst of all, when you ventured out to the boroughs, away from the glare and the plastic smiles of Manhattan, and into the heart of the Middle Eastern and Muslim immigrant neighborhoods, it was certainly not United We Stand. It was traditional, American fear camouflaged in patriotism. Mosque burning, harassment, threats…yes, United We Stand.

I have since seen this slogan “shock and awe” used to describe the tragedies of terrorism around the world, as well as the atrocities of Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo. I have gazed at cable news personalities practically screaming at us about the shock and awe of the Great Recession. Or, that we need shock and awe policies to stop it.

I’m more intrigued by the overwhelming fear that enveloped me since that fateful Tuesday. Fear never knowingly guided my life before. It has guided every second of my life since. That fear has it’s own shock and awe value, for me.

When I first conceived of this project, it took many years of working through post-traumatic stress disorder, and the concurrent vestibular injury—all resulting from 9/11—for all the disparate ideas, and materials, to strike like the proverbial stones and create the spark and fire.

The fabric makes me extremely angry, panicked, bitter, sad, puts me on the edge of flashbacks sometimes. It’s ridiculous. It’s only printed fabric. But that’s how traumatized I still am. I don’t even think it’s the American flags. I’m pretty sure it’s the United We Stand. Instant trigger. All it takes is a simple trigger of an event to send someone into a flashback.

Yet I was drawn to the notion of making the phrase into pillows; I wanted something that was painful to look at and acknowledge, yet simultaneously could embrace, hug, scream into like a pillow, could kick around or throw in anger. I am drawn to their tactile, almost healing nature, even though they initially stir panic, anger, fear, sadness, and flashbacks.

I am making them bigger. Much bigger. Body pillow size. Full size hug.

Obsessions

I have had much time to obsess lately. It has been the strangest kind of obsessing. It's not the "oh I must get that pair of shoes right now" variety of obsession. I have been obsessing on much larger things, and much smaller things, simultaneously. It is the beauty of having a lot of time.

I have been unemployed since January, so yes, plenty of time. It all started out as exercises in curiosity, really. One of the absolute evils of unemployment is the instant isolation it plunges one into. You suddenly find yourself living inside your head for the majority of the day, instead of conversing with coworkers. I became curious with the streams of anger and sadness I felt and thought. Pretty soon, I became obsessed with it, and I then became quite literally consumed by it.

I find I obsess like a scientist. Which is good for an artist.

My current list of obsessions:

1. My depression. The depression I fell into after losing my job was the worst I have experienced since September 11th, 2001. It took me out until probably two weeks ago, when the new meds started working their magic. I was obsessed with it in the most morose ways. I knew precisely what was happening. I could feel it deep down in my bones. I knew exactly what it was doing to my body and my psyche. I could not communicate with anyone, not even my therapist. Only meds and near-hospitalization were the answer. That is a frightening prospect.

2. Therapy and the Self-Help industry.

3. 9/11. I am not sure why I am just now beginning to obsess about this. Probably because I have more time on my hands to begin processing it. As a former resident of NYC on that day, it is a trauma I have only just begun to unpack....

4. Vertigo. It has totally fucked up my life.

5. Words. I find myself writing--all the time. The majority of my work right now is word-oriented. I am doing some drawing and weaving. But really, mostly words. Jenny Holzer is one of my heroines at the moment. The work by Doug Hall that just came down at Rena Bransten Gallery in SF was also great.

6. Loneliness. I am reading a book called "Loneliness: Human Nature and the Need for Social Connection" by John T. Cacioppo and William Patrick. It makes me want to board the next plane back to NYC immediately! At least I can feel like I am connected to 10 million people, if only just by walking down the street....