Prologue and Disclaimer

It's time. I've put this off for far too long, and I am starting to fear for my sanity (imagine that). I feel that I should include a disclaimer again, considering that maybe half a dozen people who actually know me can access this blog if and when they choose (although only a small handful of them leave comments or own up to their readership...you other folks may, I assume, have opinions best kept to yourselves). I suppose that I have the option of privatizing my entries, or limiting my readership to myself and my therapist, but that would to some extent defeat the purpose. This will be a confessional testament. It's a story I have to tell, whether or not other people will like it, and regardless of the opinions of me that may subsequently emerge. I told this story once--albeit the short version--in a bureaucratic, semi-legal context, and was at first encouraged, then ignored, then ostracized outright by the very individuals and systems which should have assisted and protected me. This is not necessarily a story you'll want to read. It's R-rated for psycho-drama, sex, drugs, adult themes, strong language, and some violence. And no, I'm not about to embark on some insane attempt at a full-length autobiography, whether or not I possess the necessary narcissism to do exactly that. I'm going to try my hand at a series of entries describing--with little to no explanation, justification, or embellishment of the facts--my two years in the dark. I know that my "flair for the dramatic," as someone recently described me (by proxy...so perhaps his source was misquoted), will occasionally emerge, but I hope to avoid, as often as possible, any overloaded language with regards to the events themselves. I originally thought that perhaps a synopsis--a sketch--with later visitations of the details would be more appropriate. I'm not sure, however, that the "short version" really does any justice to the tangled truth itself. Nonetheless, I'm worried that this will sound...what, like a bad Lifetime movie if I say too much. Enough stalling already. Geronimo.

As some of you may be well-aware, I spent my college years in the Donaghey Scholars Program--an insular little honors program, designed with brilliant, high-scoring humanities majors in mind (not to neglect the sciences, but when I entered the Program, it was geared more towards the humanities and emphasized writing and critical thinking skills over scientific research and so forth). Scholarships were given in groups of about twenty, with many of the students progressing through the program as a group (in the ideal state, a "tight-knit" group, although most of my fellow scholars were a constant irritant to me, and I to them). Classes were designed to supplement the university's core curriculum, and approached the disciplines through their formative ideas and histories. "Science and Society" (Darwin, Kuhn, etc...no lab work, really, mostly the philosophy and history of science). "Rhetoric and Communication" (a fucking joke for me. A sham-ass smorgasbord of "journalism," "communications" skills, and touchy-feely drum circle shite during class sessions). "Creative Arts" (theatre, art, music). "History of Ideas" (Eastern/Western philosophy survey courses). And last, but most importantly, "The Individual and Society." Most of these courses took two semesters, each semester emphasizing different aspects of the field of study. For instance, Individual and Society I was a political science course (mostly political theory, particularly as it pertained to Italian city-states), and boring as hell. Individual and Society II? Psychology and Sociology. Our story begins here, in Individual and Society II, during the second semester of my sophomore college year.