Playing Defensive; Logging Off

Anti-Semitism, the Internet, and Me

I have lost friends over the past year because I am Jewish.

You can read that and think, oh, I’m sure that’s not it. I’m sure you were attacking them with Zionist propaganda and then these friends set reasonable boundaries. It can’t be because of your religion, your culture, and your career as a Jewish educator.

It can’t possibly be.

And yet, I can assure you that it is. I have logged out of all my social media because of the rampant anti-Semitic remarks sent by supposed well-meaning activists. I’m here now to tell my story.

...

When I was in college, at Pitzer college in southern California, we had something called “Israel apartheid week”. This was the week every school year I took off my Jewish star necklace. When I was scared to attend Hillel. When I stopped feeling safe making art.

I painted an Israeli flag with the Hebrew word “Shalom” and the English translation, “Peace”.

I don’t think I have to explain the irony of how my artwork, within hours, was defaced, by student members aptly titled, “Jewish Voice for Peace”.

I don’t know if it was that group, another one, or some bored student with a spray can. Regardless, this is just one example. And when I went to the administrative office to tell them of the incident, they assured me that art is subjective and other nonsense words that did not soothe my concerns in the least.

For four years I experienced a type of gaslighting by my college administration, telling me I was over reacting. Not just for this incident, but for others.

This wasn’t anti-semitism, they told me. This was just very passionate, very well intentioned peers with nothing better to do than deface my painting and hang eviction notices on Jewish students doors.

I was overreacting. I should go back to my dorm. I should focus on my schoolwork.

Unfortunately, Pitzer college, my Alma mater, and the colleges surrounding it, have only gotten worse. I have attempted to call administration directly, several times, since I to this day continuously receive emails asking for me to support the school that brushed over my experiences. My alma mater took the side of the bullies. My school that silenced their critics.

I’ll put the petition here, in case you want to sign it as well. I’ll be honest; I have little to no hope. It simply is what it is, and what it has always been. (Update: since I wrote this, I learned of ongoing litigation against the Claremont colleges and other liberal California private colleges. This brings me new hope, but my choice to stay offline still stands)

...

And now, the here and now:

I withdrew from my masters program, a program I thought was perfect for me, because I saw these patterns repeating. Patterns of not protecting Jewish students. Patterns that avoided listening to the voices of those actually affected by the conflict. Short emails of lukewarm responses that never condemned the acts of the terror, on any side.

This is a divisive issue, to be sure. But from me, and other diaspora Jews affected by this war, please, I’m asking: have compassion. Take a step back and reflect.

Think about the ways you are marginalized, the ways you have been silenced and hurt, and ask yourself: do I really need to post this inflammatory comment? Do I really need to add this to my story? Do I really need to say this?

Because maybe, in the end, this doesn’t affect you.

And, to be honest, it only indirectly affects me.

I chose to log off. What will you choose?

Expressive Arts Therapy

I'll be honest, I have no idea how to start this post. I (quite literally) just completed a six day intensive retreat for my new masters' program in expressive arts therapy. Here is a link to the program website. It was a lot and it was full and it was fulfilling. And now I'm telling you.

I'm telling you. Whoever "you" are. I know I haven't been writing a lot in the past few years. I have invested myself in my teaching work and in my self care and in understanding myself, my neurodivergence, and my place in the world. Now I have come full circle in a completely different mindset, and I am moving forward towards my work and my purpose in the world.

In my darkest times, deep in my depression and misdiagnosis and overmedication, I found art. I discovered a way to express myself, through writing, drawing, and slam poetry. This creative expression offered me power. When my entire life was controlled by medication schedules and overwhelming side effects and counting minutes and sleeping too much-- I found healing.

Coming Out as Asexual

Happy pride! Or, as I like to call it, rainbow capitalism month. As you can probably tell from the title, I have decided to come out of the closet as they say, as gray ace (on the asexual spectrum) as well as opening up about my journey of understanding my asexuality, my neurodivergence, and myself.

If you've never heard the term gray ace, asexual spectrum, or asexual identity, I'll give you a brief overview of my experience. Like many aspects of my identity, this is a spectrum and not a binary. Others experiences with asexuality can and will differ, but this is mine. This is how I am choosing to identify, and this fits my experience of my own sexual identity. 

I don't completely remember when I was first introduced to the idea of asexuality, but in 2021 I read the book "Ace: What Asexuality Reveals About Desire, Society, and the Meaning of Sex" by Angela Chen and finally feeling understood. Finally my experience of sexual ambiguity, of constant confusion, of the frustration of living in a world and culture dominated by sex-- it all made sense. 

Like many other parts of my life, this was affected by my neurodivergence and mental illness. Was I asexual, or were side effects of my anti-depressants causing these issues? How could I want to be in a relationship with someone but never want to be intimate? Why did I have all of these crushes on book characters, yet not a single celebrity crush?

Seasonal Depression

 I stopped writing on this blog, I know. I wrote because it gave me a voice, it gave me power, and then I started to find that within myself and now...now we are back. I do not know if I will publish this, if I am just typing into the abyss because journaling by hand takes too long and I enjoy the methodic click clack of the keys. But here I am. Writing once again.

Depression comes and goes for me, and I have the privilege of forgetting what it feels like when I am not in it. As the seasons change, as the winter blues set in, I am in a constant battle between trying so hard to be fine while knowing I am denying my own sadness. 

It's an illness, I know that. It is a mental illness and it is not something that I can ever be fully rid of. But I forget, again and again, what it feels like. How the simple offer of a hug will break me down into tears. The stinging in my nose when I am trying not to cry because I have no reason to cry but my brain does not know how to react other than to cry. So I let the tears drip down my face and I don't wipe them away. I tell myself that maybe that will do something. Maybe wiping away my tears is an act of finality, of telling myself I am crying now and I am not ready to accept my tears. My tears tickle my chin. I wipe them away.

I am doing everything right. I already increased some of my anti-depressants in preparation for this time. I am practicing light therapy every day. I take my weekly zoom sessions with my therapist and I take time to recharge and refuel and yet here I am. I wish it could stop.

Depression is nothing like anything. It feels like nothing, feels like an emptiness where your emotions should be. As if I am nothing but an overflowing vessel of emotions with a hole in the bottom that is leaking out fast. 

I don't know what to do. I guess that's why I'm writing this. I feel better, I think. Maybe it's just giving myself some breathing space. Journaling always sounds so meaningless until I try it, and then it changes things. It shifts my lenses, a rubix cube clicking pieces into place. I am nowhere near my completed form. I am still a shell of myself, I still feel as though I am grasping at pieces of myself that are wiggling away. 

Tomorrow I have work. I will be teaching young children in a job I love, in work that at this moment, I love more than parts of myself. I am admitting to myself now that things are getting bad again, so maybe this will change. Maybe it will begin the process of making things better. 

It's not going to make it go away. If I could wish myself out of depression, this story would've been over years ago. I can feel muted and still live my life every day. I can be everything I need to be in this moment. I can cry because that's what my body needs from me right now. 

Depression is all encompassing. It picks and prys at every piece of you, whether or not you want to fight. Part of that is just adulthood, choosing to go into each day and fighting whatever demons you cross. We all have demons of different varieties. My anxiety is loud and booming. My ADHD is chatty. My depression is silent, deathly silent in a way that takes away the power of everything around me. 

But I am taking that power back. Right now. My annual depression battle has begun, and I am ready with swords and pens.

Name and Identity

I know it’s been a good few months since I’ve written anything. My life has been good. I haven’t had too many struggles to work through in my writing, haven’t worried that I would lose my sense of self without a sense of self expression. All in all, I’ve been good.

I worked pretty regularly as a substitute teacher at the JCC East Bay, located less than a block away from my apartment. It’s a wonderful environment, and for the 2021-2022 school year I was hired as a regular preschool teacher. Plus, I am now an official naproom teacher, which honestly is a dream job.

I love my work, I love my co-teachers, I love my family and friends I connect with from near and far. I am passionate about my creative pursuits, from sewing to knitting to writing. I am grateful for all that I have and all that is set to be.

It wasn’t always like this. I am truly living a life I never dreamed of. I am living independently, navigating social and professional dynamics, and sharing my truth through my writing. I can be nothing but grateful for the place I am now.

For those of you who may not know, Rivi is not my legal name. Legally, my name is Rebecca. That was who I was growing up, who I was when I was hurting, who I was when I was in such dark places. Around age 17, I decided I was no longer that quiet, anxious, helpless girl. I was a strong young woman, and I wanted to reclaim my name and my identity.

My heart still breaks for my younger self. Rebecca had to be released so Rivi could live. There was a sad younger self in me, and she’s still there. And by reclaiming my name, my identity, and my story, I am living now. I reflect on my past self, my past pain, and my resilience to move forward.

There are sad parts that linger. There are wise words and knowledge I cling to within my mind. I am comprised of many parts, many stories, and many paths. I am proud to be living now as Rivi: Teacher Rivi, friend Rivi, penpal Rivi, advocate Rivi.

I am becoming who I have always fought to be. I am stronger than I know, and I am moving forward, in strength. 

Reflections on Depression

I feel pretty confident in saying I am no longer depressed. Since quarantine began, I have gone from doing good to doing fine, then to doing okay. After I stopped feeling okay I was feeling a bit off, but nothing I couldn't blame on the pandemic we were currently experiencing and as a country, pretty much failing and becoming more and more divided. So I wasn't great, but it was also understandable.

Then I fell into my "I'm not depressed, but I also wouldn't say I'm not 'not depressed". There were a few months of struggling as I tried to figure out my future, where I wanted to work, what I wanted to do, who I wanted to be when this was all over. And I struggled.

As soon as I admitted to myself that I was depressed, things got both easier and harder. There was a certain detachment I could fall back on if I kept telling myself this was just a bad day, a bad week, a bad month, a pandemic afflicted world, a confusing future-- all the very valid reasons one could feel a bit off. 

But I wasn't just a bit off. I was depressed. And now, from the other side, I'm writing to try and figure out where to go next. 

Feeling Good, Or at least getting there

I know basically nothing about music, but I remember hearing this comment about DJs somewhere (probably on a podcast). The reality of being a DJ is that no one should be able to tell if you are good. Bad DJs are noticeable. But good DJs, who make the club or the venue the best it can be, should fade into the background and be completely unobserved.

That's kind of what my depression feels like. I've gone a couple weeks now without writing a blog post, and my journey towards mental wellness and stability is trudging along. When it's bad, I KNOW it's bad. I can tell when my medication isn't working right, or I'm in another depressive episode, or the world just feels too big and too hopeless for me to engage with. It's not like that right now. Things feel okay. 

Depression as a feeling

When the depression hits bad for me, like it has been doing this past week, it can sometimes feel like I forgot how to live. As though my life only exists in this singular, painful moment, when my body is unmotivated and my mind is depressed and everything just feels like too much.

My friend Talia told me once, a long time ago, that we can treat sadness as a feeling. This was back in high school, when my depression felt so awful not only did I not know how to live, I did not want to live much anymore either. Her reminder has stayed with me, all these years, when my moods dip down to scary lows. I remind myself this is a feeling, this is an experience, this is just one day. I have had so many other days. I have had so many other feelings and moods and experiences. It doesn't make it go away, but it helps remind me that it will go away. That this feeling is not my existence, this sadness is only all encompassing at this moment. I will move through this. I will get better.

So I remind myself of that in times like these. That the beauty of life is that it must change, that change is the only constant we have. And death and taxes too, but that's besides the point. So I ride the wave of depression, I ease through the riptide of panic, I succumb to the tranquility of rest. 

Things will be different. Even if you don't believe they will get better, at least they will be different. Emotions can be painful and feel like they will last forever, but they won't. Today is a new day. Tomorrow is another chance. After lunch maybe things will shift. 

Remind yourself life is ever changing, and even the bad stuff can't stay here forever.

With love and strength, 

Rivi

Trying to Treat Depression, Again

I don't know how to approach this topic other than being frustrated. I suppose that's better than being apathetic or being constantly sad, but I want to make my feelings clear. And, I want to have others who may be suffering something similar know this is an odd struggle but it is very real.

I have written many times over the past year about my mental health journey with depression while under lockdown and quarantine. By the time the new year rolled around and my mental health was pretty much the same, I decided it was time to reach out for help, from my therapist and my psychiatrist.

I understand we are in unprecedented times. I understand everyone's mental health has been taking a hit right now, and a flare up of seemingly managed issues can quickly become unraveled. That being said, I needed, and still need, more help. Medication help. Psychiatric help.

Because I did all the right things. In the new year, I started exercising again. I started walked a couple miles a few times a week, making a routine of walking to the UC Berkeley campus and sitting in nature. I was getting sunshine (too much sometimes, and I am now been diligent about wearing sunscreen. Wear sunscreen!). I was eating healthier, eating leafy greens and reducing my processed foods and drinking pressed juices instead of coffees. I was doing everything right. And still, I was curled up motionless many afternoons, disappointed in myself and sad with my world.

Neurodivergence and Neurodiversity

As many of you know, I have lived with mental illness and what I now understand as neurodivergence for the majority of my life. I am only now identifying with the label of neurodiversity or neurodivergence, and I want to take this time and write this post to explain all of that a bit better.

In brief, neurodiversity is a term and a movement designed to redefine and re-contextualize conditions such as autism, ADHD, dyslexia, sensory processing disorders, and other experiences of people who fall somewhere in that spectrum. I started looking into this movement in college, after being diagnosed with ADHD at age 19.