6:40 p.m. - September 10, 2003
My ex-advisor from Stanford called to see how I've been and there are few things more demoralizing than telling the man who believe/s/d you were the next big thing that there's been very little in terms of anything since I left school. I don't understand why he believes in me as much as he says or why he keeps trying to get me back into school and I kept wanting to tell him the truth, that I'm afraid I wouldn't be first or do the most noteworthy research, write the best papers. The granite that was my intellectual bravura has turned into sandstone, a self-engaging systems defense that backfired.
He mentioned the Barcelona conference and I can feel the draw and allure but it isn't to present: I just want to see the Sagrada, say I've been to Barthelona, indulged in the three Castilian words I know.
I didn't tell him that I feel dumber by the day or that sometimes fools and the rest of the jejeunes intimidate me, as if I'm forgetting how to walk.
I need to find myself. I miss that arrogant Jason, the one who maybe if he didn't believe he was on top of it all, sure made others think he was.
My most salient concern is that I'm mentally ill. There, I said it.
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