If I haven't said so before, let me state the plot of this stage in my life.
Young woman has no savings; her job has stiffed her two months pay; her libido and sense of romance have shut off; she is attempting to finish off a degree (or two) while making money at a respectable job and getting herself and her family out of severe debt.
Her family means well but is mired in problems. Health issues and money issues dominate their priorities. Their decidedly un-Americanness makes it hard for her to find a common ground to stand on: how is she to deal with problems? Who can she trust? Who understands her plight?
Currently, she is thinking about her boss lady, and the other hands that've lent help: Is she wrong for believing that white people have a profound and real sense of entitlement, which minorities (subconsciously) feed into? That, as such, none of them could ever really know what she's going through, despite their golden intentions?
She wishes that she'd foreseen this stage of her life, so that she could've finished off her degree in one fell swoop, ending at least one part of her journey; but she knows that it's useless to utter one's coulda-woulda-shouldas. She likes to think that nothing was for nothing; but secretly she wonders if her optimism is unfounded and trife.
She knows that she's not regressing, but finds it hard to believe that her present state is progression. Maybe she's in the eye of the storm, and all seems static but everything is really changing. She's almost certain that that's right.
There are things she knows now that she once was weary of. Like her habit of leaving things "unfinished" or "unresolved." She is positive now that she has taken away all she can from events that seem half-done. She no longer feels the need to question her motives; this is do or die; she must think fast and worry about consequences later.
There are people she trusts, with whom there is mutual love and mutual respect. She is thankful for these people, but also weary of the ones who shape their schedules and routines around her. She knows that inevitably, she will let them down, and although she understands that the changes in their relationships will be for the best, she does not want them to change.
There are situations looming on the horizon that look like nothing she has ever thought of. She feels her tendons tightening, her muscles readying, her brain whirring consistently to the beat of her heart. For the first time in her life, the future is wide open. There are no safety nets to catch her fall, no set in stone boundaries of school, career, family, friends. Everything seems up in the air, like balloons that may or may not fly to Heaven. Like Icarus's wings, apt to melt.
This is the part of her story when it becomes a tragedy or a comedy, and for the first time, she does not entirely feel like the writer.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
I'm a Woman's Woman
With a continuation...
I never take for granted the lessons I learn from my woman friends, but as I'm thinking about last night - *le sigh* - and the tiff I had with Rob, I'm realizing there are lots of times that I neglect the men in my life.
Often, it's because they're useless. (And by that, I mean that they don't fulfill the roles I need/want them to fulfill.) From my woman friends, I get love, and support, and understanding, and hours upon hours upon hours of no strings attached laughter and crying and venting and craziness.
From my man friends?
For the most part, I get confusion, and sex, and frustration. I'm not trying to sell them short. I'm just sayin'...
When I was younger, I took pride in the fact that most of my friends were men. I thought it showed that I wasn't the typical girlie girl, and that I could hold my own, and that I was gangsta or some such nonsense. Also, I used this manliness to mean that I was a catch; I could relate to men in ways that other women could never do, and I damn sure as hell looked like a woman "should."
I've still retained some of that logical, no BS, straight-to-the-point, "fuck you - I'm The Man" mentality. That'll never go away. But as I've gotten older, I've forged friendships with women that will likewise never go away. These women have taught me how to love and laugh and live. They've helped me embrace the feminine sides of me. They've taught me what it is to have a true support system, one that I can count on no matter what happens in my life or theirs. And while men come and go, it's my female friends (mostly), who remain by my side.
Of course there are a few exceptions to this rule. DDS, BGF, Black Jew, B and Will certainly spring to mind; they're the guys I can always count on for level-minded insight into life.
But with every other man, there's a sexual tension that complicates our relationship. We can't talk about anything without flirting, or alluding to a sweaty incident from years ago, or wanting to fuck like rabbits on meth.
I think what it boils down to is trust. I am more willing and able to trust a woman. Even if that woman is sexually/romantically interested in me (and I might be sexually/romantically interested in her). Even if that woman is a stranger. Even if that woman is prettier, hotter, more sophisticated, has more money than me; or vice verce. The odds are simply higher that I trust her over the average man.
I'm not sure what this all means, but I'd like to even that out. I'd rather be a true People Person than a real Woman's Woman.
Virginia (Gina) calls and asks about this post, and we start talking about my argument last night with Rob, and how he keeps on inserting himself into my life, and how it's easier for me to trust women than men.
In the middle of talking to Gina, Texti texts comments about this post and I find myself interrupting Gina (which is perfectly fine by she and I!) to delve more deeply into my feelings about guy friends. I've just finished telling Gina what I'm texting to Texti, and the more I repeat it, the more real and true it sounds: I think the sexual tension between myself and my male friends is caused by the fact that we don't know how else to translate our feelings for each other.
Gina laughs in agreement as she remembers the relationships I had down south. "Somehow," she says, "you just know how to tap into people... and with women, that's so appreciated, and we reciprocate by being your shoulder to cry on and all that."
I remind her of the time, when I was 16, when I couldn't find a black dress to wear to a masquerade ball, and I freaked out. It was the same day that my then-boyfriend and my father both confessed that they had illegitimate children - and somehow, even though I stoically dealt with their news, not having a dress to wear to a Sweet 16 brought me to tears. Gina had to drive me to the mall (I didn't have a car back then) and buy me the only black gown available in August: it looked like a reject from a high school production of Swan Lake.
"We [women] have these ill ass moments," Gina continues, "when we know each other and there's an unspoken bond between us... But with men- I dunno. It's trickier to have those moments, and so easy for those moments to translate into romance or sex."
And now I'm listening to Ben Harper while waiting for the laundry machine to be done washing, and Gina's on the phone, feeding me stuff to type on here.
"Besides," she laughs as I tell her what I'm typing, "back then, you were like Hugh Hefner in Jessica Rabbit's body. You related better to men because you thought like one. You probably trust women more now because you've learned to relate better to them... You're not as competitive. You don't keep frienemies. You've developed a crazy level of confidence. All of that makes you a threat to men, in a way..."
The laundry's done washing and Ben Harper's played out. I'm running late to meet an acquaintance for a walk in the park... I think I'll continue this talk (which is veering toward the subject of feminism), and have him wait for me...
Thank God for good friends and cell phones...
I never take for granted the lessons I learn from my woman friends, but as I'm thinking about last night - *le sigh* - and the tiff I had with Rob, I'm realizing there are lots of times that I neglect the men in my life.
Often, it's because they're useless. (And by that, I mean that they don't fulfill the roles I need/want them to fulfill.) From my woman friends, I get love, and support, and understanding, and hours upon hours upon hours of no strings attached laughter and crying and venting and craziness.
From my man friends?
For the most part, I get confusion, and sex, and frustration. I'm not trying to sell them short. I'm just sayin'...
When I was younger, I took pride in the fact that most of my friends were men. I thought it showed that I wasn't the typical girlie girl, and that I could hold my own, and that I was gangsta or some such nonsense. Also, I used this manliness to mean that I was a catch; I could relate to men in ways that other women could never do, and I damn sure as hell looked like a woman "should."
I've still retained some of that logical, no BS, straight-to-the-point, "fuck you - I'm The Man" mentality. That'll never go away. But as I've gotten older, I've forged friendships with women that will likewise never go away. These women have taught me how to love and laugh and live. They've helped me embrace the feminine sides of me. They've taught me what it is to have a true support system, one that I can count on no matter what happens in my life or theirs. And while men come and go, it's my female friends (mostly), who remain by my side.
Of course there are a few exceptions to this rule. DDS, BGF, Black Jew, B and Will certainly spring to mind; they're the guys I can always count on for level-minded insight into life.
But with every other man, there's a sexual tension that complicates our relationship. We can't talk about anything without flirting, or alluding to a sweaty incident from years ago, or wanting to fuck like rabbits on meth.
I think what it boils down to is trust. I am more willing and able to trust a woman. Even if that woman is sexually/romantically interested in me (and I might be sexually/romantically interested in her). Even if that woman is a stranger. Even if that woman is prettier, hotter, more sophisticated, has more money than me; or vice verce. The odds are simply higher that I trust her over the average man.
I'm not sure what this all means, but I'd like to even that out. I'd rather be a true People Person than a real Woman's Woman.
Virginia (Gina) calls and asks about this post, and we start talking about my argument last night with Rob, and how he keeps on inserting himself into my life, and how it's easier for me to trust women than men.
In the middle of talking to Gina, Texti texts comments about this post and I find myself interrupting Gina (which is perfectly fine by she and I!) to delve more deeply into my feelings about guy friends. I've just finished telling Gina what I'm texting to Texti, and the more I repeat it, the more real and true it sounds: I think the sexual tension between myself and my male friends is caused by the fact that we don't know how else to translate our feelings for each other.
Gina laughs in agreement as she remembers the relationships I had down south. "Somehow," she says, "you just know how to tap into people... and with women, that's so appreciated, and we reciprocate by being your shoulder to cry on and all that."
I remind her of the time, when I was 16, when I couldn't find a black dress to wear to a masquerade ball, and I freaked out. It was the same day that my then-boyfriend and my father both confessed that they had illegitimate children - and somehow, even though I stoically dealt with their news, not having a dress to wear to a Sweet 16 brought me to tears. Gina had to drive me to the mall (I didn't have a car back then) and buy me the only black gown available in August: it looked like a reject from a high school production of Swan Lake.
"We [women] have these ill ass moments," Gina continues, "when we know each other and there's an unspoken bond between us... But with men- I dunno. It's trickier to have those moments, and so easy for those moments to translate into romance or sex."
And now I'm listening to Ben Harper while waiting for the laundry machine to be done washing, and Gina's on the phone, feeding me stuff to type on here.
"Besides," she laughs as I tell her what I'm typing, "back then, you were like Hugh Hefner in Jessica Rabbit's body. You related better to men because you thought like one. You probably trust women more now because you've learned to relate better to them... You're not as competitive. You don't keep frienemies. You've developed a crazy level of confidence. All of that makes you a threat to men, in a way..."
The laundry's done washing and Ben Harper's played out. I'm running late to meet an acquaintance for a walk in the park... I think I'll continue this talk (which is veering toward the subject of feminism), and have him wait for me...
Thank God for good friends and cell phones...
Non-Date
There I was, in a park in Fort Greene, sitting on a bench next to B and realizing that he's a smart, funny, down-to-earth, attractive, politically-inclined, educated, liberal, moral, well-read, humble, honest, straight, and single man.
We were eating baked goods from a shop a couple blocks away; yummy cookies, a decadent muffin, and a rich slice of cake lay between us like a metaphor for what I was feeling. We shared the tempting morsels while we continued our (so far) five-hour long conversation.
And maybe it's because we're good friends that go back a ways - we met 5 or 6 years ago, and at the time we both worked for the same non profit - but the conversation took awesome turns that I hadn't expected. We were talking about our mutual love for a film that was panned by critics. We shared stories about books we'd read on trains, and how they made us cry. We listened to old school reggae and I swayed my hips as he shyly smiled down at me.
And it felt good. Not in a romantic kind of way, but just in a really good way. Spending time with B brought out sides of me that have been dormant for a while. The sex kitten inside of me bubbled just past my skin, but she remained still and quiet; the cultured and educated nerd came out in full force.
When was the last time that I could talk about books like that (with a man)? When's the last time I could talk about obscure films with someone? When was the last time that I engaged in an 8-hour conversation with a man, without the pretense of sex, and without my getting frustrated with his lack of conversation skills, and without my grimacing at his righteous right-wing indignation?!
It's been too long.
We were eating baked goods from a shop a couple blocks away; yummy cookies, a decadent muffin, and a rich slice of cake lay between us like a metaphor for what I was feeling. We shared the tempting morsels while we continued our (so far) five-hour long conversation.
And maybe it's because we're good friends that go back a ways - we met 5 or 6 years ago, and at the time we both worked for the same non profit - but the conversation took awesome turns that I hadn't expected. We were talking about our mutual love for a film that was panned by critics. We shared stories about books we'd read on trains, and how they made us cry. We listened to old school reggae and I swayed my hips as he shyly smiled down at me.
And it felt good. Not in a romantic kind of way, but just in a really good way. Spending time with B brought out sides of me that have been dormant for a while. The sex kitten inside of me bubbled just past my skin, but she remained still and quiet; the cultured and educated nerd came out in full force.
When was the last time that I could talk about books like that (with a man)? When's the last time I could talk about obscure films with someone? When was the last time that I engaged in an 8-hour conversation with a man, without the pretense of sex, and without my getting frustrated with his lack of conversation skills, and without my grimacing at his righteous right-wing indignation?!
It's been too long.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Thoughts after a 6-mile jog
It's Memorial Day, and I woke up at 7 a.m. I picked Mommy up from work, took her grocery shopping, then ran to the park, did laps around the park, and jogged back. I'm surprised that I was able to run (albeit, with intermittent breaks), what with my having gone back to smoking cloves and all... I definitely think that the inhaler I've been pumping every morning makes up for the damage I'm doing to my lungs. Steroids will do that...
Opera Singer is training for a run. She does it every year, and I'm sure its aim is to collect money for a worthwhile cause, though at the moment I don't recall which disease its seeking to cure. She mentioned a technique for running, wherein you match your gait with your breath and heart rate; I must learn it.
I looked like ass, sans make-up or purrty hair. At least, I think so. My sweat pants fit in that comfortable-but-ill-looking way which emphasizes all of my flaws and none of my good attributes. Yet, there at the park, amidst the gads of fly ladies and gents, I seemed to have made an impression. Maybe it's because I have DDs and no sports bra can really tame em as I'm running, but heads definitely turned.
Men smiled, made small talk, stared. Eyes bugged out. One guy literally drooled when he saw me, though I'm sure that had something to do with the fact that he was out of breath and panting.
And women? Well, it seems that I've mastered the art of making myself a girl's girl. I don't come off as wanting or needing (to be) competition. I'm innocuous. Non-threatening. Women smiled, kindly offered tips to increase my momentum, shared inside jokes about men.
It felt good to do something so right: jogging, playing nice with men and women, biting my tongue from being a complete bitch, putting away my poison-tipped claws...
Okay, now that I think about it, those last two had more to do with a woman I met yesterday at a bbq. They don't really apply to my morning jog.
I'd gone to high school with the woman, though I don't really know her at all. We'd had mutual friends, and what little I summised of her personality was read through the limited experiences I'd had of her actions and attitutdes. Let's call her Shauna...
Shauna's a friend of a very close friend, and though I recall having a bad first impression of her, that was very many years ago, and I figured I could put that all behind me.
But Shauna's one of those people who talks as if she knows. She rushes into assumptions into who you are and what you're about - and I don't like that. I don't particularly like her. I knew it off the bat when I saw her yesterday. There was something about the way she talked to people - no sign of being humble, no self-awareness or self analyzation. She's the kind of woman that knows she's got you pegged, and doesn't take the time to figure herself out because she knows that she's doing the right thing.
So Shauna the know-it-all remembers me from high school and greets me. I return the greeting, and don't correct her when she calls me "Marie." What's the point? If she mentions me in the future, it'll either be to someone who already knows me (so they'll already know my name), or it'll be to someone who doesn't know me at all (and they wouldn't care what my name is anyway).
So she calls me "Marie" and asks how I'm doing, and I say I'm doing well and ask about her. She says she's doing fine, then starts making all of these assumptions, which seem like a conversation, only she's talking to herself while staring at me. "Are you done with college? You must be done with college! It's been years! Right? And I bet you did really well- Oh! I remember! Sura told me that you went to Brooklyn College with her! You two started an organization together, right?.... etc. etc. ..."
My first reaction was to interrupt her rambling by saying, "Actually, I had a baby, got cancer, then was a welfare crack addict for a little while. My addiction's mellowed, thank God! But you know how it is: court dates mess with class schedules."
She would undoubtedly give me a faux-concerned look, at which point I'd say glibly, "No, no. I was joking. Everything but the cancer part was a joke!" At which point, I'd excuse myself to the restroom and leave her hanging.
But, no. Even though I felt the words forming on the tip of my tongue and the full scenario played out in my head, I said none of that. I saw no point in catching an attitude with Know-It-All Shauna.
I also saw no point in correcting her or informing her or clarifying what she thought she knew. I spend too much time analyzing myself, and when I finally come upon a grain of beautiful truth, I don't feel the need to waste it on someone I have no allegiance to.
Opera Singer is training for a run. She does it every year, and I'm sure its aim is to collect money for a worthwhile cause, though at the moment I don't recall which disease its seeking to cure. She mentioned a technique for running, wherein you match your gait with your breath and heart rate; I must learn it.
I looked like ass, sans make-up or purrty hair. At least, I think so. My sweat pants fit in that comfortable-but-ill-looking way which emphasizes all of my flaws and none of my good attributes. Yet, there at the park, amidst the gads of fly ladies and gents, I seemed to have made an impression. Maybe it's because I have DDs and no sports bra can really tame em as I'm running, but heads definitely turned.
Men smiled, made small talk, stared. Eyes bugged out. One guy literally drooled when he saw me, though I'm sure that had something to do with the fact that he was out of breath and panting.
And women? Well, it seems that I've mastered the art of making myself a girl's girl. I don't come off as wanting or needing (to be) competition. I'm innocuous. Non-threatening. Women smiled, kindly offered tips to increase my momentum, shared inside jokes about men.
It felt good to do something so right: jogging, playing nice with men and women, biting my tongue from being a complete bitch, putting away my poison-tipped claws...
Okay, now that I think about it, those last two had more to do with a woman I met yesterday at a bbq. They don't really apply to my morning jog.
I'd gone to high school with the woman, though I don't really know her at all. We'd had mutual friends, and what little I summised of her personality was read through the limited experiences I'd had of her actions and attitutdes. Let's call her Shauna...
Shauna's a friend of a very close friend, and though I recall having a bad first impression of her, that was very many years ago, and I figured I could put that all behind me.
But Shauna's one of those people who talks as if she knows. She rushes into assumptions into who you are and what you're about - and I don't like that. I don't particularly like her. I knew it off the bat when I saw her yesterday. There was something about the way she talked to people - no sign of being humble, no self-awareness or self analyzation. She's the kind of woman that knows she's got you pegged, and doesn't take the time to figure herself out because she knows that she's doing the right thing.
So Shauna the know-it-all remembers me from high school and greets me. I return the greeting, and don't correct her when she calls me "Marie." What's the point? If she mentions me in the future, it'll either be to someone who already knows me (so they'll already know my name), or it'll be to someone who doesn't know me at all (and they wouldn't care what my name is anyway).
So she calls me "Marie" and asks how I'm doing, and I say I'm doing well and ask about her. She says she's doing fine, then starts making all of these assumptions, which seem like a conversation, only she's talking to herself while staring at me. "Are you done with college? You must be done with college! It's been years! Right? And I bet you did really well- Oh! I remember! Sura told me that you went to Brooklyn College with her! You two started an organization together, right?.... etc. etc. ..."
My first reaction was to interrupt her rambling by saying, "Actually, I had a baby, got cancer, then was a welfare crack addict for a little while. My addiction's mellowed, thank God! But you know how it is: court dates mess with class schedules."
She would undoubtedly give me a faux-concerned look, at which point I'd say glibly, "No, no. I was joking. Everything but the cancer part was a joke!" At which point, I'd excuse myself to the restroom and leave her hanging.
But, no. Even though I felt the words forming on the tip of my tongue and the full scenario played out in my head, I said none of that. I saw no point in catching an attitude with Know-It-All Shauna.
I also saw no point in correcting her or informing her or clarifying what she thought she knew. I spend too much time analyzing myself, and when I finally come upon a grain of beautiful truth, I don't feel the need to waste it on someone I have no allegiance to.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
The Harsh Reality of a Hypothetical Situation
Ya know how, sometimes when you're in a group of friends, or when you're watching something provocative on TV, or when you're thinking really hard about something in particular, you start asking yourself questions?
Like, Is that something I would do?, or How would I react to that?, or I think I would do ____, but given the opportunity to show my true colors, would I really ____?
Well, I just had one of those moments.
Kind of.
Rob and I went to my friend's birthday dinner (the food was vegan, Rob and I have been doing well as ___, and there's too much to cover so I'll leave it at that), and I glanced at my phone. In between hearty laughs and chuckles, I'd missed a call. It was from Rob's house. I listened to the accompanying voicemail. It was Rob's cousin; he said that their grandfather was doing really badly and that Rob had to come home asap (turns out, he didn't even know that Rob was with me, nor did he try calling Rob's cell phone first; his first reaction was to call me).
In a flurry of worry, we called the house and left the restaurant. My high spirits - it had been an awesome day, with very few hang-ups - were immediately dampened. My plans - to bar hop with Opera Singer and hit on sailors - were put on hold. Rob's whole family was at his mom's house, doing what they could to stave off their grandfather's inevitable meeting with his Maker.
When we reached the house, everyone was on the phone. They pummeled me with variations of the same question: Did I know where to get an oxygen tank?
My father's a respiratory therapist, and he takes care of peoples' breathing for a living, so I called him. "Tell them to take him to the ER", was his advice.
But Rob's grandfather refuses to go to another hospital.
My father's second job involves homecare, and I figured that of all of us, he'd be better suited to handle this kind of emergency.
Sensing that my dad was growing weary of me (we had a minor tiff earlier today), I texted him. Could he maybe call his boss from his second job, and try to pull some strings?
I got the text back: No, there was nothing he or his boss could do; it didn't work that way.
Rob was growing impatient. He cursed under his breath at his own futility and at the frustration of the situation. He told me to get home, rest, then have fun with Opera Singer. There was no backhanded anything, no sideways implications, nothing. he honestly just wanted me to do whatever was in my best interest.
As a flurry of phones continued to dial medical supply stores and Rob told me of his fear that his mother and aunt be tried by judge and jury for taking into their own hands the old man's medical well-being, I sat there and winced. I was at a loss. All I knew was that I'd feel too guilty to have fun with Opera Singer while Rob and his family were in such a bind.
Twenty minutes after I went into Rob's mom's house, I left to drive my own mother to work. On my way home, my brother called.
"It's a good thing no one noticed what's in your trunk," he said absentmindedly.
And that's when I remembered: My dad keeps an oxygen tank in the trunk, for his homecare job.
My first impulse was to turn around - but I knew that my dad might get fired for giving the oxygen tank to Rob's grandfather. Also, I knew that I might be under legal duress for that action as well.
My second impulse was to call Rob and tell him about the irony of the situation, but I felt like that would be in poor taste.
So I just laughed at my thoughts and myself and my situation. There was no way I'd be willing to risk so much - my dad's job, possible trial, etc. - in order to (maybe) save Rob's grandfather's life.
If I had the means to save a dying old man's life, but had to risk imprisonment and my father's career, would I?
No, I wouldn't. That's what it boils down to.
Like, Is that something I would do?, or How would I react to that?, or I think I would do ____, but given the opportunity to show my true colors, would I really ____?
Well, I just had one of those moments.
Kind of.
Rob and I went to my friend's birthday dinner (the food was vegan, Rob and I have been doing well as ___, and there's too much to cover so I'll leave it at that), and I glanced at my phone. In between hearty laughs and chuckles, I'd missed a call. It was from Rob's house. I listened to the accompanying voicemail. It was Rob's cousin; he said that their grandfather was doing really badly and that Rob had to come home asap (turns out, he didn't even know that Rob was with me, nor did he try calling Rob's cell phone first; his first reaction was to call me).
In a flurry of worry, we called the house and left the restaurant. My high spirits - it had been an awesome day, with very few hang-ups - were immediately dampened. My plans - to bar hop with Opera Singer and hit on sailors - were put on hold. Rob's whole family was at his mom's house, doing what they could to stave off their grandfather's inevitable meeting with his Maker.
When we reached the house, everyone was on the phone. They pummeled me with variations of the same question: Did I know where to get an oxygen tank?
My father's a respiratory therapist, and he takes care of peoples' breathing for a living, so I called him. "Tell them to take him to the ER", was his advice.
But Rob's grandfather refuses to go to another hospital.
My father's second job involves homecare, and I figured that of all of us, he'd be better suited to handle this kind of emergency.
Sensing that my dad was growing weary of me (we had a minor tiff earlier today), I texted him. Could he maybe call his boss from his second job, and try to pull some strings?
I got the text back: No, there was nothing he or his boss could do; it didn't work that way.
Rob was growing impatient. He cursed under his breath at his own futility and at the frustration of the situation. He told me to get home, rest, then have fun with Opera Singer. There was no backhanded anything, no sideways implications, nothing. he honestly just wanted me to do whatever was in my best interest.
As a flurry of phones continued to dial medical supply stores and Rob told me of his fear that his mother and aunt be tried by judge and jury for taking into their own hands the old man's medical well-being, I sat there and winced. I was at a loss. All I knew was that I'd feel too guilty to have fun with Opera Singer while Rob and his family were in such a bind.
Twenty minutes after I went into Rob's mom's house, I left to drive my own mother to work. On my way home, my brother called.
"It's a good thing no one noticed what's in your trunk," he said absentmindedly.
And that's when I remembered: My dad keeps an oxygen tank in the trunk, for his homecare job.
My first impulse was to turn around - but I knew that my dad might get fired for giving the oxygen tank to Rob's grandfather. Also, I knew that I might be under legal duress for that action as well.
My second impulse was to call Rob and tell him about the irony of the situation, but I felt like that would be in poor taste.
So I just laughed at my thoughts and myself and my situation. There was no way I'd be willing to risk so much - my dad's job, possible trial, etc. - in order to (maybe) save Rob's grandfather's life.
If I had the means to save a dying old man's life, but had to risk imprisonment and my father's career, would I?
No, I wouldn't. That's what it boils down to.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Hold back my hair! I'm gonna spew!
With a continuation...
Every morning, for as long as I can remember, I've engaged in a ritual: my daily brain vomit. I took the exercise from a writing self-help book. The idea is, your brain is stuffed with so many thoughts that it's hard for you to jot down literary ideas. So you sit down with a pad and a pen and you write for 10 or 20 minutes straight. You don't stop, you don't think. It's free association, word association, nonsense, stream-of-conscious - whatever you wanna call it.
I have dozens of journals filled with my oozing mental yuckiness. Fears, ambitions, secrets (mine and my friends'), analyzations, stuff that I don't realize I'm thinking until I jot it down, et al. It's incredibly cathartic to have a place of purity in which to release your insides.
But writing is an art, and artists thrive on showing off their innards. This remains true and applies to me. There is a part of me that will forever be cloaked by mystery, and that is the part that allows me to write so feverishly. The more clear-headed I feel, the less like "myself" I feel, and the more likely I am to write innanely and/or mundanely. I guess this means that my most artistic self is fucked in the brain.
I met with Seli at the Shake Shack on Madison Ave. Over yummy goodies - I had the 'shroom burger, she had a cheeseburger - and a gorgeous park, we assessed our lives.
We were celebrating a monumentous occasion, one that I hope will live on in posterity after we've become famous writers: After much doubt and back-and-forth, Seli's going to Texas in a few weeks to live in Austin and pursue an MFA - and I'm ridiculously happy for her.
Me? Well, at the time, I was still in limbo about the next step in my life - should I stay or should I go? - and sought advice.
Seli is one of those rare gems: someone who understands her craft up and down, backwards and forwards, and still doesn't have a big head about it. She's the only female writer friend of mine whose bread and butter isn't poetry or fiction. (She primarily writes scripts.) And every time I read something of hers, I know it's genius. Oscar caliber genius.
Unfortunately, Seli's a perfectionist and nothing she writes will ever uphold her high standards. She is battered by self esteem issues, would-be mentors who constantly put her down, and her humble nature. But there, in the air, were words that confirmed what I already knew: someone else was bound to find and recognize her art. Someone else was bound to realize that she's golden.
Some things you should know about Seli:
- Three MFA programs accepted her, one of which (in Boulder, CO) I'm a HUGE fan of.
- Her mother has always been supportive of her creative ventures, mainly because her mother believes it's the only endeavor she can achieve. (A backhanded compliment?)
- I met her during my last year of HS.
- Seli's religious. Christian kind of religious. And though this might derail others from seeing people for who they are, this facet of Seli's personality only makes her more interesting.
- In college, she graduated magna cum laude (or was it suma cum laude?) , was on multiple dean's lists, and often finished a semester with a 4.0.
- She's incredibly sweet and susceptible to peoples' manipulations.
- She is so pure and innocent (in sooo many ways) that it's almost off-putting; it took me a long time to realize that she wasn't playing me for a fool - she really is as sincere as she makes herself out to be.
Because of all this, and the history we have, I knew that she was a good person with whom to share my thoughts - about my move to the Philippines, the next step in my writing career, the craziness that goes on in my head, et al.
We talked shop for a bit, mentioned writers we're currently really into, gabbed about writing styles that we find provocative, alluded to up-and-comers we know/the other might know. I mentioned an upcoming meeting with a writer-mentor-acquaintance who's a frequent contributor/freelance editor-writer for such publications as Vogue and Mademoiselle.
As the meal wound down and our topic of conversation drifted from writing to work to moving to family to friends to trust, we found ourselves sharing our personal histories with psycho analysis. I mentioned my fear that "I'm broken", and that it's that broken part of me that allows me to write. I told Seli that if that's the case, I don't want to be fixed. I don't want that part of me to stop working. I don't care if it means that my quality of life will not improve. I want to write and I want to write well. That's all I want.
By this time, we were on the subway station platform, waiting for our trains.
"I'm so afraid," I was saying. "My boss wants me to see a therapist, and even got her therapist to come to work so I could meet her. And I felt so good to meet this woman, and she felt so real, and something in me knew that she could heal me. Something in me knew that this woman was a healer.
"But I'm afraid that if I get healed, I won't be able to write like I've been writing. I feel it happening now, as my mind evolves and becomes more clear and defined. The pathos is gone. The struggle. The urgency."
Seli nodded in understanding. "Ya know," she said. "In college, I studied Walt Whitman for an entire semester, and I learned that despite all of his amazing writing, he was actually a very clear-cut, simple and happy man. He was also very mentally stable. There were no dark psychoses or melodramas in his past. He was not haunted... I guess it's possible to be mentally healthy and also write."
"But that's my fear - I have a feeling I'm not a Walt Whitman. I think I'm a Sylvia Plath or a Jack Kerouac. That that's who I am as a writer, and I need the craziness to fuel my art. I think I need the dissonance, the mystery, the excitement, the blind analyzation of everything."
Seli laughed at my frenzied pitch of voice.
"I know I must sound so stupid, saying that I'm willing to give up mental health in order to write..."
"No, no! I completely understand. I would, too..." She nodded furiously, then her eyes became quiet. "But, ya know, when I was suicidal in high school, I wrote poetry. And it was good poetry. I mean, I don't really write poetry, but people - adults, peers - would read it and think that it's a piece I took from the internet or something, and they were really surprised to hear that I wrote it. Well, I wrote this poetry when I was suicidal, and there was this allure to it, like you got caught up in it. It felt-"
"Urgent! Mysterious! Like true life, encapsulated in words, so people felt it."
"Yes! Yes, exactly!" Her eyes shifted, as if trying to figure out how best to state the following thought. "I know that I'll never be able to write like that again. That was a phase of my life, and now that I'm more mentally stable, I write more-"
"Concise! Precise! Analytic! Sterile!"
"Yes!" she laughed. "Exactly!"
"I know what you mean! As I become more clear-headed, I can see what's going to come next in my writing more clearly. Everything has become more straightforward. There is little second-guessing, and a lot more logic. The roads to my brain are no longer blocked."
"Yes!" she exclaimed, happy that I came to the same conclusion. "It's a different kind of good writing."
We talked about art and artists and what makes someone more of an artist than another. Is a "true artist" someone who needs the outlet of art in order to feel more "like him/herself"? Or is a "true artist" someone who just happens to create work which affects/effects others?
Some people, after suffering from strokes or other incidents of brain damage, begin to write and draw and paint and create at an alarming and amazing rate; their art is gorgeous and profoud. But are they "true artists", or have they become "true artists" via their ailment, or were they never "true artists" at all?
As I'm continuing my latest short story collection and noticing myself changing, and my writing style evolving, I am faced with the fact that different things make up who I am.
I am no longer the girl who needed her thoughts provoked or her muse tickled by some dark pathos. Now, the biggest problem I have when writing is the inevitable futile fishing for the right word.
My writing doesn't necessarily have the same kind of urgency; while writing I've lost the feeling that I'm sharing something sacred and real which everyone must understand and relate to. Now, everything I write is truly for me, and I know that if a piece provokes a sense or emotion in me, that it has fulfilled its purpose.
I think, after many years of trying to decipher some misplaced intention to be an artist, somehow I molded myself into the role. It isn't merely a skin that I wear and shed as if I'm some sloughing snake. It's who I am through and through, and I know that the things I come up with are art. They're indicative of me - the person I am now - and that's what they're supposed to be. Anything else would be a pale imitation of a former self, and that isn't real. That isn't my kind of art.
Even now, after I was distracted by the sound of the TV, I am cognizant of the fact that I have lost my train of thought, for which my former self would have severely criticized herself. But this - this - this writing, spewing out of my thoughts, rambling, craziness, is what's happening, and somehow that makes it good. The true translation from physical action to the written word is what makes it art. It's something that I would never have been able to do before - I would be kicking myself in the ass to retrieve a train of thought that's long departed the station. But thoughts are not stationary and another one comes up next, and the ability to project happenings into minds is not monopolized by any single thought.
Writing is a process, and different writers employ different techniques, skills, focuses. I am simply writing in a different way. And it doesn't make it any less good or any less me. It doesn't make me any less of an artist - just a different one.
Every morning, for as long as I can remember, I've engaged in a ritual: my daily brain vomit. I took the exercise from a writing self-help book. The idea is, your brain is stuffed with so many thoughts that it's hard for you to jot down literary ideas. So you sit down with a pad and a pen and you write for 10 or 20 minutes straight. You don't stop, you don't think. It's free association, word association, nonsense, stream-of-conscious - whatever you wanna call it.
I have dozens of journals filled with my oozing mental yuckiness. Fears, ambitions, secrets (mine and my friends'), analyzations, stuff that I don't realize I'm thinking until I jot it down, et al. It's incredibly cathartic to have a place of purity in which to release your insides.
But writing is an art, and artists thrive on showing off their innards. This remains true and applies to me. There is a part of me that will forever be cloaked by mystery, and that is the part that allows me to write so feverishly. The more clear-headed I feel, the less like "myself" I feel, and the more likely I am to write innanely and/or mundanely. I guess this means that my most artistic self is fucked in the brain.
I met with Seli at the Shake Shack on Madison Ave. Over yummy goodies - I had the 'shroom burger, she had a cheeseburger - and a gorgeous park, we assessed our lives.
We were celebrating a monumentous occasion, one that I hope will live on in posterity after we've become famous writers: After much doubt and back-and-forth, Seli's going to Texas in a few weeks to live in Austin and pursue an MFA - and I'm ridiculously happy for her.
Me? Well, at the time, I was still in limbo about the next step in my life - should I stay or should I go? - and sought advice.
Seli is one of those rare gems: someone who understands her craft up and down, backwards and forwards, and still doesn't have a big head about it. She's the only female writer friend of mine whose bread and butter isn't poetry or fiction. (She primarily writes scripts.) And every time I read something of hers, I know it's genius. Oscar caliber genius.
Unfortunately, Seli's a perfectionist and nothing she writes will ever uphold her high standards. She is battered by self esteem issues, would-be mentors who constantly put her down, and her humble nature. But there, in the air, were words that confirmed what I already knew: someone else was bound to find and recognize her art. Someone else was bound to realize that she's golden.
Some things you should know about Seli:
- Three MFA programs accepted her, one of which (in Boulder, CO) I'm a HUGE fan of.
- Her mother has always been supportive of her creative ventures, mainly because her mother believes it's the only endeavor she can achieve. (A backhanded compliment?)
- I met her during my last year of HS.
- Seli's religious. Christian kind of religious. And though this might derail others from seeing people for who they are, this facet of Seli's personality only makes her more interesting.
- In college, she graduated magna cum laude (or was it suma cum laude?) , was on multiple dean's lists, and often finished a semester with a 4.0.
- She's incredibly sweet and susceptible to peoples' manipulations.
- She is so pure and innocent (in sooo many ways) that it's almost off-putting; it took me a long time to realize that she wasn't playing me for a fool - she really is as sincere as she makes herself out to be.
Because of all this, and the history we have, I knew that she was a good person with whom to share my thoughts - about my move to the Philippines, the next step in my writing career, the craziness that goes on in my head, et al.
We talked shop for a bit, mentioned writers we're currently really into, gabbed about writing styles that we find provocative, alluded to up-and-comers we know/the other might know. I mentioned an upcoming meeting with a writer-mentor-acquaintance who's a frequent contributor/freelance editor-writer for such publications as Vogue and Mademoiselle.
As the meal wound down and our topic of conversation drifted from writing to work to moving to family to friends to trust, we found ourselves sharing our personal histories with psycho analysis. I mentioned my fear that "I'm broken", and that it's that broken part of me that allows me to write. I told Seli that if that's the case, I don't want to be fixed. I don't want that part of me to stop working. I don't care if it means that my quality of life will not improve. I want to write and I want to write well. That's all I want.
By this time, we were on the subway station platform, waiting for our trains.
"I'm so afraid," I was saying. "My boss wants me to see a therapist, and even got her therapist to come to work so I could meet her. And I felt so good to meet this woman, and she felt so real, and something in me knew that she could heal me. Something in me knew that this woman was a healer.
"But I'm afraid that if I get healed, I won't be able to write like I've been writing. I feel it happening now, as my mind evolves and becomes more clear and defined. The pathos is gone. The struggle. The urgency."
Seli nodded in understanding. "Ya know," she said. "In college, I studied Walt Whitman for an entire semester, and I learned that despite all of his amazing writing, he was actually a very clear-cut, simple and happy man. He was also very mentally stable. There were no dark psychoses or melodramas in his past. He was not haunted... I guess it's possible to be mentally healthy and also write."
"But that's my fear - I have a feeling I'm not a Walt Whitman. I think I'm a Sylvia Plath or a Jack Kerouac. That that's who I am as a writer, and I need the craziness to fuel my art. I think I need the dissonance, the mystery, the excitement, the blind analyzation of everything."
Seli laughed at my frenzied pitch of voice.
"I know I must sound so stupid, saying that I'm willing to give up mental health in order to write..."
"No, no! I completely understand. I would, too..." She nodded furiously, then her eyes became quiet. "But, ya know, when I was suicidal in high school, I wrote poetry. And it was good poetry. I mean, I don't really write poetry, but people - adults, peers - would read it and think that it's a piece I took from the internet or something, and they were really surprised to hear that I wrote it. Well, I wrote this poetry when I was suicidal, and there was this allure to it, like you got caught up in it. It felt-"
"Urgent! Mysterious! Like true life, encapsulated in words, so people felt it."
"Yes! Yes, exactly!" Her eyes shifted, as if trying to figure out how best to state the following thought. "I know that I'll never be able to write like that again. That was a phase of my life, and now that I'm more mentally stable, I write more-"
"Concise! Precise! Analytic! Sterile!"
"Yes!" she laughed. "Exactly!"
"I know what you mean! As I become more clear-headed, I can see what's going to come next in my writing more clearly. Everything has become more straightforward. There is little second-guessing, and a lot more logic. The roads to my brain are no longer blocked."
"Yes!" she exclaimed, happy that I came to the same conclusion. "It's a different kind of good writing."
We talked about art and artists and what makes someone more of an artist than another. Is a "true artist" someone who needs the outlet of art in order to feel more "like him/herself"? Or is a "true artist" someone who just happens to create work which affects/effects others?
Some people, after suffering from strokes or other incidents of brain damage, begin to write and draw and paint and create at an alarming and amazing rate; their art is gorgeous and profoud. But are they "true artists", or have they become "true artists" via their ailment, or were they never "true artists" at all?
As I'm continuing my latest short story collection and noticing myself changing, and my writing style evolving, I am faced with the fact that different things make up who I am.
I am no longer the girl who needed her thoughts provoked or her muse tickled by some dark pathos. Now, the biggest problem I have when writing is the inevitable futile fishing for the right word.
My writing doesn't necessarily have the same kind of urgency; while writing I've lost the feeling that I'm sharing something sacred and real which everyone must understand and relate to. Now, everything I write is truly for me, and I know that if a piece provokes a sense or emotion in me, that it has fulfilled its purpose.
I think, after many years of trying to decipher some misplaced intention to be an artist, somehow I molded myself into the role. It isn't merely a skin that I wear and shed as if I'm some sloughing snake. It's who I am through and through, and I know that the things I come up with are art. They're indicative of me - the person I am now - and that's what they're supposed to be. Anything else would be a pale imitation of a former self, and that isn't real. That isn't my kind of art.
Even now, after I was distracted by the sound of the TV, I am cognizant of the fact that I have lost my train of thought, for which my former self would have severely criticized herself. But this - this - this writing, spewing out of my thoughts, rambling, craziness, is what's happening, and somehow that makes it good. The true translation from physical action to the written word is what makes it art. It's something that I would never have been able to do before - I would be kicking myself in the ass to retrieve a train of thought that's long departed the station. But thoughts are not stationary and another one comes up next, and the ability to project happenings into minds is not monopolized by any single thought.
Writing is a process, and different writers employ different techniques, skills, focuses. I am simply writing in a different way. And it doesn't make it any less good or any less me. It doesn't make me any less of an artist - just a different one.
Monday, May 19, 2008
should I stay or should I go now?
Am I willing to trade in my paradise home of New York City...
...for three years in the tropical paradise and home of my parents, The Philippines?
This seems like a question I've answered innumerable times.
I made up my mind this past November that I needed a change. I needed to grow and evolve and I wanted to feel connected to people. Not just the way that I've been connected here in the States - where I have a large social network, lots of friends, many different social circles, etc. - but I wanted family. I wanted to be in on something that's bigger and better than myself, and to be sure that I belonged there. I wanted acceptance and understanding and hope that in my later years of life, I won't be plagued by indecision about my closest compadres. I didn't want to continue asking myself if my friends are "good enough people."
And maybe it's my fault that I have to take it there, with all the questioning and worrying and analyzing. But I do need to take it there. I've been played for a fool by people that are close to me, and I've done the same; there's no way for me to just relax and socialize. I have to constantly be questioning the goodness of people; I have to constantly be wondering what peoples' motives are. Very seldomly do I meet people with whom I can let down my guard - and when I find those people, I let them know that they're special to me. That I really love them, would walk over hot coals for them, would kill/die for them because they're that special.
Those people are my family. And I will admit, I do have some of those people here in New York, specifically, and the States in general.
Maybe that's why it's so hard for me to make up my mind...
Let me recap the last 6 months, in terms of my trip:
In November, it became apparent that my family and I are really broke. And I mean really broke. We couldn't make enough to pay the mortgage on time (if at all). We were struggling to put food on the table and gas in our tanks to go to work. We were going to extremes in order not to feel/seem full-out poor...
My mom (who is an LPN) had twisted her ankle and couldn't work. She wasn't out of work long enough to collect disability, but she was long enough to miss a substantial number of paychecks. When the union finally got their act together to get my mother paid, it was many, many weeks after she should've gotten paid, and we were already in a huge financial hole.
Add to that that my father was in the Philippines, so he was getting vacation pay. Vacation pay, for average people, is a blessing. However, my family needs to scrimp and save and work at least two overtimes a week in order to make end's meet - and that's under normal circumstances. Each of us - my mother, my father, and I - work ourselves to the bone in order to make as much as possible. But with my mom out of commission and my dad not raking in as much income as he normally would, things were really bogged down.
My brother was starting his schooling overseas. He'd decided that he didn't know what he wanted in terms of higher education, and my parents used that fact to foist upon him the opportunity to learn more about our homeland. It being a third-world country and all, the cost of living is dirt cheap, and my brother could simultaneously mingle with the relatives and absorb some of the culture.
I had at least another year left in school until I earned my philosophy-creative writing degree, and I wasn't even sure what I wanted to do with it once I got it. Ever since I was 16, I've been earning a substantial paycheck (my annual gross is oftentimes larger than my mother's or father's), and it seemed to me that with the recession looming, the odds that my liberal arts degree would help me earn more cash was nil. I started to hate going to school. What was the point? I was reading reading reading on my own and talking to informed/knowledgeable sources all the time. I was writing up a storm and earning a good paycheck by teaching at afterschool programs. I was a respectable adult with responsibilities, and that flimsy piece of paper which said that I could talk with hifalutin condescension was not gonna help me be a respectable adult with responsibilities.
What would help me be a respectable adult with responsibilities? A job that assured me I was helping people; one that paid well; one for which I would not have to pay large sums of cash to gain accreditation/a degree; one that guaranteed a career, recession or no recession.
So I turned to the medical field.
I knew off the bat that I don't want to be a doctor.
My career has to be something that has a set-in stone schedule. I can't be dealing with any of that "on call" nonsense. I don't want to stop fucking someone, or stop an intense conversation, or stop writing, in order to save someone else's life. I'm not that selfless.
The idea of nursing bugged me because, like I've said in previous posts, all Filipinas are expected to show an interest in nursing. I have a natural aversion to all things expected of me.
So I thought about physician's assistance. I started looking up schools and programs, getting used to the idea of saving lives, et al... And then I found out that physician's assistants are also on call - just like doctors - and that put me back at nursing. Sure, I would fit a stereotype - something I completely abhor doing - but for my family, I'd set aside my pride.
The question then became: "How will I become a nurse?" There are lots of programs to choose from, but seeing as I have no money and my grades took a fall after I was diagnosed with cervical cancer, I had limited options. Should I try to get into a private nursing school? Should I transfer to Hunter (a public, city university), which has a very good nursing program? Which would offer me more money? Which would take the shortest time? Which would guarantee me a better job upon graduation?
At the same time this was happening, I was plagued by my usual worries about life: my writing, my family, my friends. I was feeling very distant from most people. I was (am?) constantly uneased by social interaction. Like I said, there have only been a handful of people that can settle the voices in my head; most of them don't realize that they do that; and a lot of people who think they can do that, don't. It's easy for me to seem comfortable in a social situation, but it's hard for me to feel comfortable in a social situation. My mind doesn't shut off.
Around this time, my brother came back to the States to celebrate the holidays. It was decided that he would take some time off from school in the Philippines; I decided I would join him when he went back.
I've only been to the Philippines twice since I hit puberty, but on each occasion, I was greeted by warmth and understanding and love. There was no rivalry - overt or covert - between anyone. There was no reason to knit-pick or nag or question or analyze. Things were refreshingly straightforward: you lived, you loved, you laughed, and you went to school and worked, too. Bills got paid (for the most part) and ends got met (albeit sometimes barely), but somehow, none of that mattered. Maybe it's the culture, or maybe it's the country, or maybe it's my family, but things got done and people struggled - and, somehow, happiness and mental/emotional health were still intact.
My father's side of the family has always been very closely knit. Despite the fact that my cousins' ages range from early teens to late 40s, all of then know each other and make it a point to hang out. My fathers' siblings (there were 11 of them) are tried and true friends. And it's not forced. They spend time together and laugh and cry and act the way you would expect a family to act after watching Family Matters and Full House and all of those other TV shows that feature functional, happy, healthy households.
I decided that I wanted a part of that. I wanted to experience that kind of lifestyle at least once while I'm young. I wanted to earn a BS in nursing, too, and have some tropical adventures, and bond with my family.
But on a more sinister level, there was great pathos in my decision. I've never easily completed any stage of my life. I've always jumped, head-first, straight into whatever was ahead of me. I didn't wait until the timing was right or anything like that, either. The moment I caught a glimpse of what lay ahead, I dove right in.
This has caused me to be a very rash and persistently evolving individual - and for that, I am grateful. However, there are times when I question my inner motives. Could it be possible that somewhere, deep inside my psyche, a part of me wants to abandon things before they abandon me? Could it be possible that a fear of failure drives me to leave off on things, before a conclusion can be reached? Could it be possible that, in all seriousness, I have no idea what I want to do with my life, so I wait for the wind to shove me in a direction? (And if the last is true, is that what everyone else really does, and does that matter?)
Looking back on November, all of these questions, I'm certain, were true in their acknowledgements of my deep character flaws.
But that was my decision: to leave the country, start over, become a nurse who has close bonds with her extended family (at least, on her father's side). That was the plan.
I told everyone my plan, I was so excited about it. My uncle in the Philippines asked if I'd be interested in working at an orphanage, as a teacher and counselor; I agreed to take on the role. The date was set for April - and then I got sued by Chase Bank. I owed money, wasn't able to pay it, and thought it best to stick around a few more months and scrounge up the cash to pay off my debts. I didn't want to burden my parents with that responsibility, and I knew that there was no way I could pay off my monthly minimum balance with Filipino pesos. So I delayed my trip till September. In order to keep my spirits up, however, I bought my ticket. It was really happening. September 2nd was the last day I'd be in the States...
Then my case went to trial, a judge said that I can't leave the country until I pay off my debts, and my whole world was rocked. I consoled myself with addages and platitudes, the most potent of which was, "Perhaps it simply is not time for me to go."
And, despite all of my excitement and enthusiasm over leaving the country, this sentiment certainly rang true. I still had those voices in my head, analyzing my reasons for leaving. How did I know that I didn't want to go simply because I'm used to bailing on situations/lifestyles? How did I know that I simply wasn't afraid of going back to Brooklyn College, facing people I don't really want to deal with, and having to make do with the fact that my grades have slipped? Besides, I was (and still am) a teacher, with students I love and a work atmosphere that is awesome and beneficial to my soul and mind. Didn't the excellence of that experience warrant more of my time?
All of a sudden, everything good about my present life seemed to hint that the potent platitude was right. I cried about my lost opportunity, but quickly shook it off and rearranged my plans. My mom told me that her union would pay for me to attend an accelerated nursing school, so that in the better span of two years, I'd be a registered nurse (something my mom's never achieved). I would go back to Brooklyn College this August, reconcile all of my flimsy grades, show myself what I'm made of, and then cut back on classes so that I could simultaneously attend nursing school. I would work only two or three days a week (if that), so that all of my waking hours would be spent on schoolwork or pay-the-bills kind of work, but in the process I would prove to myself that I'm not a quitter, that I'm not just looking for an easy way out, that I have character and morality and ethics.
While I worked that out, I also worked out a bunch of my other issues. I finally shed the skin that was my relationship with Rob. I started to feel good about exercising regularly. I fell in love with the teaching profession. My dad's lawyer took up my case, so that I didn't have to deal with my finances. Meetings with credit counselors were scheduled. I got laid off from one of my teaching gigs, but my favorite boss lady took it upon herself to offer a hand - in every way possible. I started writing academic papers to offer to professors (so that I can turn my incomplete grades into actual grades). I wrote letters to people who I've wronged, and felt a little more at ease about my past.
In short, life was good. My head was clear. I was being productive and more mentally and emotionally healthy than I've ever been.
And then, this morning, I got a call from my dad's (mine, too, I guess) lawyer. He clarified some ins and outs of the judge's ruling, and has filed several motions on my behalf. In a matter of weeks, the case and my credit should be worked out in a plan, and apparently the odds are in my favor. Today, also, I learned that after much heeing and hawing, my brother has decided to return to the Philippines this coming September. And, on top of all that, I did research and found out that my mom's union isn't exactly willing to pay for my nursing education; they're willing to reimburse me for it. This, of course, stipulates that I have the funds to pay for it in the first place - which isn't the case.
I hate see-sawing on whether or not I'm going to leave the country. I hate being ambivalent and unclear. This whole process has forced me to confront a lot of my mistakes and flaws, and I've become a better person for it all. But does it lead me to a true conclusion, as to what the best course of action is?
Yes, I think so...
...for three years in the tropical paradise and home of my parents, The Philippines?
This seems like a question I've answered innumerable times.
I made up my mind this past November that I needed a change. I needed to grow and evolve and I wanted to feel connected to people. Not just the way that I've been connected here in the States - where I have a large social network, lots of friends, many different social circles, etc. - but I wanted family. I wanted to be in on something that's bigger and better than myself, and to be sure that I belonged there. I wanted acceptance and understanding and hope that in my later years of life, I won't be plagued by indecision about my closest compadres. I didn't want to continue asking myself if my friends are "good enough people."
And maybe it's my fault that I have to take it there, with all the questioning and worrying and analyzing. But I do need to take it there. I've been played for a fool by people that are close to me, and I've done the same; there's no way for me to just relax and socialize. I have to constantly be questioning the goodness of people; I have to constantly be wondering what peoples' motives are. Very seldomly do I meet people with whom I can let down my guard - and when I find those people, I let them know that they're special to me. That I really love them, would walk over hot coals for them, would kill/die for them because they're that special.
Those people are my family. And I will admit, I do have some of those people here in New York, specifically, and the States in general.
Maybe that's why it's so hard for me to make up my mind...
Let me recap the last 6 months, in terms of my trip:
In November, it became apparent that my family and I are really broke. And I mean really broke. We couldn't make enough to pay the mortgage on time (if at all). We were struggling to put food on the table and gas in our tanks to go to work. We were going to extremes in order not to feel/seem full-out poor...
My mom (who is an LPN) had twisted her ankle and couldn't work. She wasn't out of work long enough to collect disability, but she was long enough to miss a substantial number of paychecks. When the union finally got their act together to get my mother paid, it was many, many weeks after she should've gotten paid, and we were already in a huge financial hole.
Add to that that my father was in the Philippines, so he was getting vacation pay. Vacation pay, for average people, is a blessing. However, my family needs to scrimp and save and work at least two overtimes a week in order to make end's meet - and that's under normal circumstances. Each of us - my mother, my father, and I - work ourselves to the bone in order to make as much as possible. But with my mom out of commission and my dad not raking in as much income as he normally would, things were really bogged down.
My brother was starting his schooling overseas. He'd decided that he didn't know what he wanted in terms of higher education, and my parents used that fact to foist upon him the opportunity to learn more about our homeland. It being a third-world country and all, the cost of living is dirt cheap, and my brother could simultaneously mingle with the relatives and absorb some of the culture.
I had at least another year left in school until I earned my philosophy-creative writing degree, and I wasn't even sure what I wanted to do with it once I got it. Ever since I was 16, I've been earning a substantial paycheck (my annual gross is oftentimes larger than my mother's or father's), and it seemed to me that with the recession looming, the odds that my liberal arts degree would help me earn more cash was nil. I started to hate going to school. What was the point? I was reading reading reading on my own and talking to informed/knowledgeable sources all the time. I was writing up a storm and earning a good paycheck by teaching at afterschool programs. I was a respectable adult with responsibilities, and that flimsy piece of paper which said that I could talk with hifalutin condescension was not gonna help me be a respectable adult with responsibilities.
What would help me be a respectable adult with responsibilities? A job that assured me I was helping people; one that paid well; one for which I would not have to pay large sums of cash to gain accreditation/a degree; one that guaranteed a career, recession or no recession.
So I turned to the medical field.
I knew off the bat that I don't want to be a doctor.
My career has to be something that has a set-in stone schedule. I can't be dealing with any of that "on call" nonsense. I don't want to stop fucking someone, or stop an intense conversation, or stop writing, in order to save someone else's life. I'm not that selfless.
The idea of nursing bugged me because, like I've said in previous posts, all Filipinas are expected to show an interest in nursing. I have a natural aversion to all things expected of me.
So I thought about physician's assistance. I started looking up schools and programs, getting used to the idea of saving lives, et al... And then I found out that physician's assistants are also on call - just like doctors - and that put me back at nursing. Sure, I would fit a stereotype - something I completely abhor doing - but for my family, I'd set aside my pride.
The question then became: "How will I become a nurse?" There are lots of programs to choose from, but seeing as I have no money and my grades took a fall after I was diagnosed with cervical cancer, I had limited options. Should I try to get into a private nursing school? Should I transfer to Hunter (a public, city university), which has a very good nursing program? Which would offer me more money? Which would take the shortest time? Which would guarantee me a better job upon graduation?
At the same time this was happening, I was plagued by my usual worries about life: my writing, my family, my friends. I was feeling very distant from most people. I was (am?) constantly uneased by social interaction. Like I said, there have only been a handful of people that can settle the voices in my head; most of them don't realize that they do that; and a lot of people who think they can do that, don't. It's easy for me to seem comfortable in a social situation, but it's hard for me to feel comfortable in a social situation. My mind doesn't shut off.
Around this time, my brother came back to the States to celebrate the holidays. It was decided that he would take some time off from school in the Philippines; I decided I would join him when he went back.
*****
I've only been to the Philippines twice since I hit puberty, but on each occasion, I was greeted by warmth and understanding and love. There was no rivalry - overt or covert - between anyone. There was no reason to knit-pick or nag or question or analyze. Things were refreshingly straightforward: you lived, you loved, you laughed, and you went to school and worked, too. Bills got paid (for the most part) and ends got met (albeit sometimes barely), but somehow, none of that mattered. Maybe it's the culture, or maybe it's the country, or maybe it's my family, but things got done and people struggled - and, somehow, happiness and mental/emotional health were still intact.
My father's side of the family has always been very closely knit. Despite the fact that my cousins' ages range from early teens to late 40s, all of then know each other and make it a point to hang out. My fathers' siblings (there were 11 of them) are tried and true friends. And it's not forced. They spend time together and laugh and cry and act the way you would expect a family to act after watching Family Matters and Full House and all of those other TV shows that feature functional, happy, healthy households.
I decided that I wanted a part of that. I wanted to experience that kind of lifestyle at least once while I'm young. I wanted to earn a BS in nursing, too, and have some tropical adventures, and bond with my family.
But on a more sinister level, there was great pathos in my decision. I've never easily completed any stage of my life. I've always jumped, head-first, straight into whatever was ahead of me. I didn't wait until the timing was right or anything like that, either. The moment I caught a glimpse of what lay ahead, I dove right in.
This has caused me to be a very rash and persistently evolving individual - and for that, I am grateful. However, there are times when I question my inner motives. Could it be possible that somewhere, deep inside my psyche, a part of me wants to abandon things before they abandon me? Could it be possible that a fear of failure drives me to leave off on things, before a conclusion can be reached? Could it be possible that, in all seriousness, I have no idea what I want to do with my life, so I wait for the wind to shove me in a direction? (And if the last is true, is that what everyone else really does, and does that matter?)
Looking back on November, all of these questions, I'm certain, were true in their acknowledgements of my deep character flaws.
But that was my decision: to leave the country, start over, become a nurse who has close bonds with her extended family (at least, on her father's side). That was the plan.
I told everyone my plan, I was so excited about it. My uncle in the Philippines asked if I'd be interested in working at an orphanage, as a teacher and counselor; I agreed to take on the role. The date was set for April - and then I got sued by Chase Bank. I owed money, wasn't able to pay it, and thought it best to stick around a few more months and scrounge up the cash to pay off my debts. I didn't want to burden my parents with that responsibility, and I knew that there was no way I could pay off my monthly minimum balance with Filipino pesos. So I delayed my trip till September. In order to keep my spirits up, however, I bought my ticket. It was really happening. September 2nd was the last day I'd be in the States...
Then my case went to trial, a judge said that I can't leave the country until I pay off my debts, and my whole world was rocked. I consoled myself with addages and platitudes, the most potent of which was, "Perhaps it simply is not time for me to go."
And, despite all of my excitement and enthusiasm over leaving the country, this sentiment certainly rang true. I still had those voices in my head, analyzing my reasons for leaving. How did I know that I didn't want to go simply because I'm used to bailing on situations/lifestyles? How did I know that I simply wasn't afraid of going back to Brooklyn College, facing people I don't really want to deal with, and having to make do with the fact that my grades have slipped? Besides, I was (and still am) a teacher, with students I love and a work atmosphere that is awesome and beneficial to my soul and mind. Didn't the excellence of that experience warrant more of my time?
All of a sudden, everything good about my present life seemed to hint that the potent platitude was right. I cried about my lost opportunity, but quickly shook it off and rearranged my plans. My mom told me that her union would pay for me to attend an accelerated nursing school, so that in the better span of two years, I'd be a registered nurse (something my mom's never achieved). I would go back to Brooklyn College this August, reconcile all of my flimsy grades, show myself what I'm made of, and then cut back on classes so that I could simultaneously attend nursing school. I would work only two or three days a week (if that), so that all of my waking hours would be spent on schoolwork or pay-the-bills kind of work, but in the process I would prove to myself that I'm not a quitter, that I'm not just looking for an easy way out, that I have character and morality and ethics.
While I worked that out, I also worked out a bunch of my other issues. I finally shed the skin that was my relationship with Rob. I started to feel good about exercising regularly. I fell in love with the teaching profession. My dad's lawyer took up my case, so that I didn't have to deal with my finances. Meetings with credit counselors were scheduled. I got laid off from one of my teaching gigs, but my favorite boss lady took it upon herself to offer a hand - in every way possible. I started writing academic papers to offer to professors (so that I can turn my incomplete grades into actual grades). I wrote letters to people who I've wronged, and felt a little more at ease about my past.
In short, life was good. My head was clear. I was being productive and more mentally and emotionally healthy than I've ever been.
And then, this morning, I got a call from my dad's (mine, too, I guess) lawyer. He clarified some ins and outs of the judge's ruling, and has filed several motions on my behalf. In a matter of weeks, the case and my credit should be worked out in a plan, and apparently the odds are in my favor. Today, also, I learned that after much heeing and hawing, my brother has decided to return to the Philippines this coming September. And, on top of all that, I did research and found out that my mom's union isn't exactly willing to pay for my nursing education; they're willing to reimburse me for it. This, of course, stipulates that I have the funds to pay for it in the first place - which isn't the case.
I hate see-sawing on whether or not I'm going to leave the country. I hate being ambivalent and unclear. This whole process has forced me to confront a lot of my mistakes and flaws, and I've become a better person for it all. But does it lead me to a true conclusion, as to what the best course of action is?
Yes, I think so...
Sunday, May 18, 2008
What is it about me..
...that makes so many of my mentors believe that I need therapy?
Is it their own dependence on professional mental/emotional health providers?
Does something about me positively scream "psycho" or "sociopath"?
Am I so broken that they believe I need to be fixed?
Do I strike them as someone who is incapable of figuring things out on my own?
Have I fulfilled the role of "daughter" so well in their lives that they dispense onto me advice that they'd otherwise reserve for kin?
If my willingness to be open about my thoughts/feelings is the catalyst for this strange anomoly, am I being too open?
Other than this persistent internal questioning, is this affecting me? Should it?
Do I need therapy?
Is it their own dependence on professional mental/emotional health providers?
Does something about me positively scream "psycho" or "sociopath"?
Am I so broken that they believe I need to be fixed?
Do I strike them as someone who is incapable of figuring things out on my own?
Have I fulfilled the role of "daughter" so well in their lives that they dispense onto me advice that they'd otherwise reserve for kin?
If my willingness to be open about my thoughts/feelings is the catalyst for this strange anomoly, am I being too open?
Other than this persistent internal questioning, is this affecting me? Should it?
Do I need therapy?
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Thoughts at 3 a.m.
There's a lot I want to say, but it's a quarter to 3 in the a.m., I just got home 10 minutes ago, and I still have stuff to write up for work (which starts in 7 hours). In the past week, I've gotten fired, gotten paid, gotten fed up and gotten laid... and it all keeps happening. The rhyming parts: yeah, they're great. But damnit. I wanna just watch the wheel keep on spinning so that I can write down what happens. This whole living thing - this "life is not a spectator sport" thing - this grab the bull by the horns yada yada - insert cliched platitude here - - - it's all running me down. There's so much for me to catch up with.
Money, friendship, work, family - it's all great and it all needs work, and I have a feeling that's just what life is. Ya know that thing you sentimentalized in high school? All those questions about "what are you gonna be when you grow up"? The fantasy of what adult life would be like?
That's here. That's now. There's no time to waste, to procrastinate, to hold off on. This right here is what it's about and you only get one chance to make it right.
And that's wonderful and awful all at the same time...
Money, friendship, work, family - it's all great and it all needs work, and I have a feeling that's just what life is. Ya know that thing you sentimentalized in high school? All those questions about "what are you gonna be when you grow up"? The fantasy of what adult life would be like?
That's here. That's now. There's no time to waste, to procrastinate, to hold off on. This right here is what it's about and you only get one chance to make it right.
And that's wonderful and awful all at the same time...
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
I'm thinking about adopting...
...babies, yes... in the far-away future.
For now, though, animals. Dogs and cats, to be exact. To be more exact: ones that need saving from near-certain death, are small, get along well with other animals (since I have a pug), and are free.
It's part of my need to set roots. And to also stop myself from leaving the house too often and inevitably and unnecessarily spending money.
I figure I might as well start my impending future as a woman with lots of cats, and dogs, and kids... (But probably no long-term beau, since my standards are apparently too high and I refuse to settle for anything less than what I deserve/want/need in a partner.)
Lately, I've been thinking a lot about the future - and not just in the ambiguous and arbitrary way. It's been of the really deep, thought-provoking, oh-gee-golly-I-never-realized-I-thought-about-life-like-this kind of way. Creepy.
I'm thinking this has something to do with the flashbacks I mentioned in the last post. I'll be making soup or grilling veggies or cleaning the house or in the middle of a conversation about Irish writers, and right there, in the middle of a fully formed thought that has nothing at all to do with the oncoming memory - DING! - there's the memory. It's almost always a happy, positive memory: a Spring day 8 years ago, when I wore an outfit that made the whole school take notce (baggy fatigues that my grandfather wore during WWII, tight mid-driff baring brown cotton tank top, and black Timbs); a great date that I had with an ex boyfriend, 9 years ago; a very specific moment in the local high school's yard, when I initiated what would become my first threesome; the first time I kissed a girl; failing my first exam on purpose, just to see what it would feel like; the day I found out I had cervical cancer...
There are lots of other moments that have surfaced, astonishingly vivid and amazingly clear. I remembered details that I won't be able to recall about yesterday - smells, EXACTLY what I was wearing, whether or not someone was shaved, the color of my pedicure... It's eerie. I mean, yeah, I remember stuff. But the stuff I remember is usually either stuff that happened A LOT, or stuff with real poignancy and importance.
Not to say that the moments that have resurfaced don't have innate poignancy and importance... but they're definitely not as important as the stuff I know I've stored in my memory.
Anyway, this sort of strange glimpse into my past has made me think long and hard about my future. It's made me a lot more pragmatic about the way I handle things. For instance: Last Saturday, while talking to one of the students about what they'd like to major in, nursing came up as an option. Now, I'll be the first to admit that I've been bucking against becoming a nurse since I realized that 90% of the Filipinas I've met have been nurses, but whatevs... I've made my decision, I know my reasons, and that's all there is to it. But my student... well, she had the same idea that I did. She wasn't Filipina, but she also didn't think it was right for her, and even though this career provides financial stability and assurance of a job, she'd rather choose something else.
I surprised myself by not feeling hurt. It's not that I meant to not feel hurt, but when I realized that I didn't feel hurt by her apparent letting down of my would-be profession, I was surprised. It made me proud. Every molecule in my body truly believed that it was okay for her to pick a path that's nowhere similar to my own. And that, to an egotistical person like myself, is a huge step to shedding my skin.
Also, though, I found myself wondering if the economy would continue to falter, and if she'd be forced to join the ranks of the medical field - as I have, sort of - in order to make end's meet. I wondered if that's the main reason or the only reason that I've made my decision... And then the mother of my recently deceased godson called. She thanked me for attending the funeral, asked if I'd mind looking after her two other boys when they're in town next week, and insulted the EMTs that were first to arrive on the scene. (My godson was shot.)
In that moment, when I listened to her talk about what the EMTs should've done, I realized I had no idea what the fuck she was talking about. I mean, sure, I've watched a few episodes of Grey's Anatomy, but I don't know dick when it comes to biology or medicine. If, somehow, I had been there when my godson got shot, there would've been nothing I could do but call 911 a little sooner. I'd have been useless.
The other huge reason that made me decide to go into nursing is a desire to expand my skill set. Writing is a talent and my passion, but it doesn't save lives. Not literally, anyway. I should be able to give more of myself than fancy articulations of my thoughts and egotistical analyzations of my experiences.
So, yeah... I want to adopt puppies and kittens.
I'm not really sure how I got so derailed from that thought. But, yeah. Puppies and kittens. Fo sho.
For now, though, animals. Dogs and cats, to be exact. To be more exact: ones that need saving from near-certain death, are small, get along well with other animals (since I have a pug), and are free.
It's part of my need to set roots. And to also stop myself from leaving the house too often and inevitably and unnecessarily spending money.
I figure I might as well start my impending future as a woman with lots of cats, and dogs, and kids... (But probably no long-term beau, since my standards are apparently too high and I refuse to settle for anything less than what I deserve/want/need in a partner.)
Lately, I've been thinking a lot about the future - and not just in the ambiguous and arbitrary way. It's been of the really deep, thought-provoking, oh-gee-golly-I-never-realized-I-thought-about-life-like-this kind of way. Creepy.
I'm thinking this has something to do with the flashbacks I mentioned in the last post. I'll be making soup or grilling veggies or cleaning the house or in the middle of a conversation about Irish writers, and right there, in the middle of a fully formed thought that has nothing at all to do with the oncoming memory - DING! - there's the memory. It's almost always a happy, positive memory: a Spring day 8 years ago, when I wore an outfit that made the whole school take notce (baggy fatigues that my grandfather wore during WWII, tight mid-driff baring brown cotton tank top, and black Timbs); a great date that I had with an ex boyfriend, 9 years ago; a very specific moment in the local high school's yard, when I initiated what would become my first threesome; the first time I kissed a girl; failing my first exam on purpose, just to see what it would feel like; the day I found out I had cervical cancer...
There are lots of other moments that have surfaced, astonishingly vivid and amazingly clear. I remembered details that I won't be able to recall about yesterday - smells, EXACTLY what I was wearing, whether or not someone was shaved, the color of my pedicure... It's eerie. I mean, yeah, I remember stuff. But the stuff I remember is usually either stuff that happened A LOT, or stuff with real poignancy and importance.
Not to say that the moments that have resurfaced don't have innate poignancy and importance... but they're definitely not as important as the stuff I know I've stored in my memory.
Anyway, this sort of strange glimpse into my past has made me think long and hard about my future. It's made me a lot more pragmatic about the way I handle things. For instance: Last Saturday, while talking to one of the students about what they'd like to major in, nursing came up as an option. Now, I'll be the first to admit that I've been bucking against becoming a nurse since I realized that 90% of the Filipinas I've met have been nurses, but whatevs... I've made my decision, I know my reasons, and that's all there is to it. But my student... well, she had the same idea that I did. She wasn't Filipina, but she also didn't think it was right for her, and even though this career provides financial stability and assurance of a job, she'd rather choose something else.
I surprised myself by not feeling hurt. It's not that I meant to not feel hurt, but when I realized that I didn't feel hurt by her apparent letting down of my would-be profession, I was surprised. It made me proud. Every molecule in my body truly believed that it was okay for her to pick a path that's nowhere similar to my own. And that, to an egotistical person like myself, is a huge step to shedding my skin.
Also, though, I found myself wondering if the economy would continue to falter, and if she'd be forced to join the ranks of the medical field - as I have, sort of - in order to make end's meet. I wondered if that's the main reason or the only reason that I've made my decision... And then the mother of my recently deceased godson called. She thanked me for attending the funeral, asked if I'd mind looking after her two other boys when they're in town next week, and insulted the EMTs that were first to arrive on the scene. (My godson was shot.)
In that moment, when I listened to her talk about what the EMTs should've done, I realized I had no idea what the fuck she was talking about. I mean, sure, I've watched a few episodes of Grey's Anatomy, but I don't know dick when it comes to biology or medicine. If, somehow, I had been there when my godson got shot, there would've been nothing I could do but call 911 a little sooner. I'd have been useless.
The other huge reason that made me decide to go into nursing is a desire to expand my skill set. Writing is a talent and my passion, but it doesn't save lives. Not literally, anyway. I should be able to give more of myself than fancy articulations of my thoughts and egotistical analyzations of my experiences.
So, yeah... I want to adopt puppies and kittens.
I'm not really sure how I got so derailed from that thought. But, yeah. Puppies and kittens. Fo sho.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Beyond Glass Ceilings and Brick Walls
It's official. I've hit a brick wall in my writing. And it sucks. Big time.
Now, before you ask the obvious question: I know why I've hit the wall, but that doesn't necessarily change anything.
Lately, I've been poring over my next move, money, going back to school, body issues, family stuff, looking for a job... All of that makes it harder to concentrate on working on fictional people and their lives - especially when just 24 hours ago ideas were sparking and igniting amazing riffs of magic and music and light and fire and genius and.... God! You shoulda been there. My crazed face had enough insanity to make Andy Warhol and Jackson Pollock suggest that I see a doctor.
Anyway, this is what I'm thinking about: I used to think that I was talented at writing precisely because of my ability to compartmentalize. I was able to lead separate lives - school, home, social circle 1, social circle 2, et al. - and the people who lived in my imagination were simply an extension of all that. Having different identities for dealing with each facet of my life surely helped.
But now my life is more homogenized. I've broken the holy grail of my old social schematic by introducing key players of different social circles. Everything seems fluid and easy. There is no separation of information about moi. There are no compartments, per se. There is only one world to deal with, one real set of problems, and one agenda. All this breaks down my daily routine and makes me feel sane and emotionally healthy.
Sounds great, right?
Well, yes and no.
On the real life tip, it's awesome. There are no secrets, no real privacy. I am only one person. There is no inner conflict, no push and pull between different parts, no dissonant flavors within the buffet that is my life.
On the artistic side, it's not so awesome. I need secrets. I need real privacy. I need to be able to ascertain different sides of me, different sides of situations, and how they coalesce and combine into something that resembles Life.
To stick with my food metaphor: What I have now is shit. Literally. It's post-processed, all the nutrients taken out, compost-fertilizer. It's useful and healthy, yes. But I can't verify the components. I can't gain much in the way of personal wellness. I can only plant gardens and maybe tell if there's a corn kernel in there or if I ate beets....
Maybe I took that metaphor too far.
Anyway, the point is, this whole transparency thing ain't good for my writing mojo. My greatest fear about psycho-therapy is being realized: apparently, just as my egotistical ramblings have topped out and I've become a good, decent, happy, healthy, and mentally stable person, I've lost my ability to create.
Is it worth the trade?
I dunno.
I definitely won't be attempting to regain my aforementioned literary prowess via drugs, sex and alcohol - so cliche! - but that's only because I'll be too busy staying awake, exercising my ass off - literally! - reading like a maniac, and writing academic papers.
Why?, you ask.
Well, partially it's because I need to continue using parts of my brain that haven't been utilized since taking a break from formal academics. Mostly, it's because I think I'm going back to Brooklyn College to finish up my Philosophy-Creative Writing dual major. I have to get back to prime student state. I want to fulfill all of my unused potential as a scholar. And, yeah, I wanna be able to out-run, out-fight, out-swim anyone, any time. All this is part of a bigger plan to be happy here in NYC.
Oh, the pain and humor of it all....
See, I was totally set on leaving behind the ivied walls of BC for going back to my roots in the Philippines. I had many reasons - a need for a change of scene, lack of funds to continue higher education in the states, a desire to get to know my extended family and my culture, an opportunity to teach English in an orphanage - but then a judge decided that I owe too much money, and that I've been so irresponsible with my handling of finances that I shouldn't be allowed to leave the country until I've sufficiently paid off my bills.
My boss lady, who I love to death - despite differences that might have plagued my opinion of her had this been three years ago - offered to hook me up with credit counseling and extra funds. My mother hooked me up with her finance lawyer. My father decided to ink a deal with the legal authorities, stating that he would take responsibility for my financial dealings, which would therefore lead to my ability to leave the country.
But somehow, even though only a short time has passed between the judge's ruling and my subsequent short-term depression, I've had a change of heart about leaving the country. I want to handle my responsibilities by actually handling my responsibilities - as opposed to letting Mommy and Daddy handle them for me. I want to close this chapter of my life - the BC, English-major chapter - by getting a degree in that field even though I know damn well that I can't earn any more money with it than I'm earning now. I want to earn my nursing degree via my mom's union - free tuition, y'all! - so that I can make a lot more money than I'm making now. And I want to parlay that money into sound investments, real estate, a small business or two, and several college degrees to boot.
Somehow, in the short time that's elapsed since the judge said I can't leave the country, I've decided I don't want to leave the country.
Maybe it's because I've revived and strengthened many relationships because of my financial ordeal. Maybe it's because I now have the option of earning two bachelor's degrees in two years. Maybe it's because I've been having really strange glimpses of moments I've forgotten - my life flashing before my eyes? - and I'm paranoid about a dream that Texti had. Maybe it's because I have a deep faith that I'll regain my writing momentum and that I'll have a manuscript or two to peddle.
I'm not too sure.
But I'm taking in more Life than I'm writing about. I've become the listener, the one who'll let you rattle and ramble till you've run out of words - just because I'd rather bust a move than talk. (Oh, and because I think highly of you and value your insight. That, too. Of course.) And when I do write, it's explosive and impressive and I wonder if I'm dreaming or if I'm delusional about actually finishing what I've started.
I've started planting roots. I've started to take things more seriously. No more fucking around about my health (I really wanna be able to kick some serious arse when provoked) or my relationships (oh, the responses to my letters!) or my writing career. (Yes, career. That's exactly what it is, damnit.) No more passively taking things in and regurgitating them solely for the purpose of writing. (I've been watching the last season of Sex and the City on cable, and it's amazing how many things I didn't catch the first time around!) No more forgetting that relationships are a secret. (A reference to my newest favorite author.)
I'm busier than ever, and I'm only gonna get busier. Wish me luck.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
After Being Robbed...
...it's hard to feel normal.
I refer, of course, to being with Rob - not actually having my possessions taken from me.
I mean, if I were pandering, I could say that Rob stole my heart*, took too much of my time**, replaced my good will with a hole***... but none of that is really true.
Now, the thing that takes up the most time/energy when dealing with Rob is doing things expressly so that I don't have to deal with Rob.
Every morning, when we hadn't spent the night together, one of us would call or text the other. Every night, if we weren't together, one of us would call or text the other. Then there were the rituals: taking the dog out for his first walk, cooking breakfast/lunch/dinner together (depending on our schedules), cleaning house, going grocery shopping, entertaining our friends... Okay, now that I think about it, we were pretty much married.
Which goes to show just how hard it is to get him out of my system. It's not so much that I want him per se, but I miss the thing that is now a void. My synapses need time to snap to something else, my neurons need time to realign.
So, now, when I wake up, I fight the urge to text him, and I go running instead. Or I clean up the house. Or I do laundry. Or I turn on Exercise On Demand (thank God for cable!) and do yoga or tae bo.
When I'm at work and I get a few free minutes (in which I used to text him and get all giggly), I scour Craigslist for job openings. My internet connection at home is still wavy, so I get to the school early and use their internet connection. (It's the least they can provide me with, since the last two paychecks have bounced!)
When I'm at home at night, too broke to go out, I do sit-ups till I hurt. Then I write, and I immerse myself in the lives of fictitious characters who are so incredibly different from me that I have no choice but to forget about Rob. (Note: This is the first time that my characters bare so little resemblance to me. Weird and awesomely wonderful.) I read until my eyes hurt too much to keep them open, then I try to teach myself guitar (with my eyes closed). If I still can't sleep and my eyes don't burn like jalapenos have been rubbed into them, I call someone. Or I try to finagle the internet connection so that I can resume my job hunting. Or I paint.
It's incredibly liberating and fortifying to be reminded of my own strength of will. And when Rob calls me, which he does several times a day, and I choose to answer the phone, there is little resistance to feeling good. I know that I've earned his friendship and that I want nothing more from him, and that whatever happens next - cutting off ties with his family, permanently losing contact, becoming good friends - I'll be okay. I'm ready for anything.
*I let him have it.
**Again, I let him have it.
***Not even close. I just like the way phrases sound in threes.
I refer, of course, to being with Rob - not actually having my possessions taken from me.
I mean, if I were pandering, I could say that Rob stole my heart*, took too much of my time**, replaced my good will with a hole***... but none of that is really true.
Now, the thing that takes up the most time/energy when dealing with Rob is doing things expressly so that I don't have to deal with Rob.
Every morning, when we hadn't spent the night together, one of us would call or text the other. Every night, if we weren't together, one of us would call or text the other. Then there were the rituals: taking the dog out for his first walk, cooking breakfast/lunch/dinner together (depending on our schedules), cleaning house, going grocery shopping, entertaining our friends... Okay, now that I think about it, we were pretty much married.
Which goes to show just how hard it is to get him out of my system. It's not so much that I want him per se, but I miss the thing that is now a void. My synapses need time to snap to something else, my neurons need time to realign.
So, now, when I wake up, I fight the urge to text him, and I go running instead. Or I clean up the house. Or I do laundry. Or I turn on Exercise On Demand (thank God for cable!) and do yoga or tae bo.
When I'm at work and I get a few free minutes (in which I used to text him and get all giggly), I scour Craigslist for job openings. My internet connection at home is still wavy, so I get to the school early and use their internet connection. (It's the least they can provide me with, since the last two paychecks have bounced!)
When I'm at home at night, too broke to go out, I do sit-ups till I hurt. Then I write, and I immerse myself in the lives of fictitious characters who are so incredibly different from me that I have no choice but to forget about Rob. (Note: This is the first time that my characters bare so little resemblance to me. Weird and awesomely wonderful.) I read until my eyes hurt too much to keep them open, then I try to teach myself guitar (with my eyes closed). If I still can't sleep and my eyes don't burn like jalapenos have been rubbed into them, I call someone. Or I try to finagle the internet connection so that I can resume my job hunting. Or I paint.
It's incredibly liberating and fortifying to be reminded of my own strength of will. And when Rob calls me, which he does several times a day, and I choose to answer the phone, there is little resistance to feeling good. I know that I've earned his friendship and that I want nothing more from him, and that whatever happens next - cutting off ties with his family, permanently losing contact, becoming good friends - I'll be okay. I'm ready for anything.
*I let him have it.
**Again, I let him have it.
***Not even close. I just like the way phrases sound in threes.
Monday, May 5, 2008
She's Ba-ack!
Loud Maria is back, and it feels so fucking good... To have this self-trust. To know my boundaries. To understand the repercussions and be fully responsible for them.
The last incarnation of Loud Maria was simply rude and obnoxious, and she felt the urge to let her id out just because. She never took responsibility for anything - good or bad - and was in constant need of thinking and analyzation. Passive Maria dealt with that by being very accomodating and understanding and zen. She analyzed ad nauseum, and let other people do the loud and obnoxious. She felt the need to apologize, even if the situation didn't necessarily call for it (for fear of "being rude"), and communicated alllll thhheee tiimmmeee why she did what she did.
But this new Loud Maria, with her better grasp of the world's ways and her aptness to say "I LOVE YOU, BUT FUCK YOU IF YOU WANT ME TO CHANGE!" is coming into her own. She won't go out of her way to rub you the wrong way, but she doesn't mind so much if she does. ("You'll just have to grow some cajones and deal.") She still loves people, but now sees this love as a mere option. ("I need to focus on me before I can help you.") She still has those pretentiously deep thoughts all the time, but she reserves them for her writing. ("A place for everything and everything in its place.")
And communicating why and how she does things seems moot and repetitive... I dare say, I'm becoming more conservative*. And I like it.
*****
I've gotten replies to my letters, and it's funny how people have reacted to them. I didn't know exactly what to expect, but it's gone something like this:
Of the 30-someodd letters I've sent, I've gotten more than a dozen replies, and 2 have come back to me, unopened. (I didn't put my name or my address on the envelopes, so I'm guessing I just got the wrong addresses.) Of the 15 or so replies, nine of them were emails or letters, telling me some elaborated variation of "it's all good." One of them is inviting me to their wedding next month. A few of them wanna get together and talk.
And, it seems, all of them have wondered from time to time about me and how I'm doing, but they didn't know how to get a hold of me (most of these people are of the too-cool-for-the-internet ilk).
I've talked on the phone to a few of them, laughed, had "moments" on the line, shared stories, apologized whole heartedly. And always, there was a sentiment of "Hey, back in the day this was a big deal, but as you grow older you learn ________, and you realize there's no reason to feel bad. Shit happens."
Funny, but rekindling a relationship with these people, they seem closer to me in mind and spirit than a lot of the friends I've kept along the way...
*****
Opera Singer talks a lot and she feels bad about this, but I love her more for it. Sometimes it's good to bathe in the way another person thinks, and just take it all in. I'm pretty sure I'm being an emotional spy, but also, it takes the edge off of having to come back with the witty repartee. And it gives me time to acclimate to offering the witty repartee, which is strangely antithetical to the deep, philosophical ramblings that I'm prone to.
I'm not used to being encouraged to speak on subjects that my interlocuter might find disagreeable. (I think that came out wrong. It's not the subject itself that Opera Singer might find disagreeable, but my opinion on them.) But, anyway, Opera is cool with that. She's respectful and open-minded and awesomely intelligent, and I can feel like a two-way street of information is being crossed when we converse. She offers me a glimpse of what may come, and I haven't felt that in a while.
*****
Rose Madder emails me and asks about my blog: Why wasn't she aware that I had one? Why didn't I message her about it? And, most importantly, why haven't I mentioned her in it?!
Apparently she found it while blog hopping, and instantly recognized some of the people I mentioned... Funny. You know a person for almost 20 years, and the way she finds out that you're a former phone sex operator with designs on the world is through the 'nets...
*Conservative, in this sense, as in "I'm winnowing down the choices of who I can be, until my personality is more compact and manageable."
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Currently craving outlets for my energy...
I've been pontificating a lot these past six months. There was a lot of relative quiet and passivity on my part, and though I did a lot, I didn't really act much on anything...
I confess that I haven't learned how to/if I should/when to let Loud Maria out to play. She hasn't seen the light of day in about two and a half years, when I was with my last great love, Caleb. (Not enough time has passed for me to really know how I feel about the latest serious relationship.) See, Loud Maria is obnoxious and turbulent and volatile. Loud Maria gets into lots of fights. She doesn't hold her tongue. She doesn't philosophize so much as act out her ideas. And if you want an explanation or justification or rationalization out of Loud Maria - well, as the Leaving Brooklyn signs say on the Belt Parkway: "Fuhgeddaboudit".
Loud Maria doesn't care about decorum. Even if she cares about you, she will tell your best friend that she doesn't like her. Then she'll chalk that up to "not everyone can get along" and assume that things will be all right between the two of you.
Loud Maria will not hesitate to metaphorically or literally throw elbows. She does not care what you think of her.
Loud Maria will be a bitch. She will not consider your feelings or your sensitivities or proclivities. She will very well take advantage of your good will. (<--Actually, I've stopped doing this altogether.) She will... She will... Be me.If I can remember how to sum up her parts.
Its like relearning how to do math problems or win at logic games. At first, it seems unbelievable that you once excelled at something so different from what you presently are. Then you remember how you used to be that other person, and the two mesh into a symbiotic whole.
I confess that I haven't learned how to/if I should/when to let Loud Maria out to play. She hasn't seen the light of day in about two and a half years, when I was with my last great love, Caleb. (Not enough time has passed for me to really know how I feel about the latest serious relationship.) See, Loud Maria is obnoxious and turbulent and volatile. Loud Maria gets into lots of fights. She doesn't hold her tongue. She doesn't philosophize so much as act out her ideas. And if you want an explanation or justification or rationalization out of Loud Maria - well, as the Leaving Brooklyn signs say on the Belt Parkway: "Fuhgeddaboudit".
Loud Maria doesn't care about decorum. Even if she cares about you, she will tell your best friend that she doesn't like her. Then she'll chalk that up to "not everyone can get along" and assume that things will be all right between the two of you.
Loud Maria will not hesitate to metaphorically or literally throw elbows. She does not care what you think of her.
Loud Maria will be a bitch. She will not consider your feelings or your sensitivities or proclivities. She will very well take advantage of your good will. (<--Actually, I've stopped doing this altogether.) She will... She will... Be me.If I can remember how to sum up her parts.
Its like relearning how to do math problems or win at logic games. At first, it seems unbelievable that you once excelled at something so different from what you presently are. Then you remember how you used to be that other person, and the two mesh into a symbiotic whole.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
May[, I] Flower
It's the first day of a new month. I tossed and turned until 5 in the morning. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't get my mind off things. So much has changed. So much is different. And better. And new.
But death comes in 3s and in the past 10 days there have been 5. [<--I don't believe in that per se, but it sounded damn near poetic to be so fucking mathematical.] My godson, SoHo's father, Indiana Poetess's grandmother, my mother's coworker, my former coworker... I've mourned and respected their deaths and celebrated their lives and helped others do the same. Some I loved very much, and some I didn't know enough about, and some I respected, and some I barely knew, and some I never met.
But there was mourning and tomorrow there will be morning, and in between now and then so much will happen.
*****
I can't leave the country... A judge has ordered that I pay my debt before I can leave, and since I don't make enough money to live - really live - and also pay off my debt in a timely manner, I'm stuck in the States. I cried and screamed and was a bitch-reculse for a day and a half, but now I'm taking this development in stride.
I'm going back to Brooklyn College to finish up my dual bachelor's in creative writing and philosophy.
My mom told me that her union will pay for me to go to nursing school. In less than a year, I can be a Licensed Practical Nurse (what my mom is), and in an additional 11 months I can become a Registered Nurse. I'm looking into finding a school/program that I can start this September.
If I find a nursing program to start this September, I'm going to try to juggle it at the same time that I work and attend Brooklyn College.
I really need to feel like I'm moving. I need to gain momentum so I can coast in the future.
In the meantime, I'm settling grades from past semesters at Brooklyn College, writing like a madwoman, looking for more (and/or better-paying) work, and working my tailbone at my current jobs.
The job market is sooooooo dry. It used to be that I could fish for jobs on craigslist like it was a river full of salmon and I was a huge bear straddling the steep bank. 'Tis no longer.
I feel good about my immediate family. Really good. Everyone's doing everything they can to keep us afloat. I have to really, really try to spend more time with them. I feel like we're all working around the clock (my brother's been on the job hunt for several months now, and he's not slowing down), and sadly we don't bond enough. we need to talk more, play mahjong together, play dominoes... Of course, we (READ: I) wouldn't be in such a financial pickle if they'd have had their game on a little earlier, but hey. I can't change the past; I can only learn form it, try to teach from it, and hope that people are on the up-take.
On the subject of my extended family, though... *clears throat and coughs* That's an entire blog onto itself.
I really love my friends.
I confessed to Sura the other day that I've lied to my Best Guy Friend. [I've actually been doing a lot of thinking, and I think he's my "Former Best Guy Friend". He doesn't know/understand/respect/love me as much as he should to deserve the moniker of Best Guy Friend. Plus, I kind of think he's a jerk. And not in the loveable way. More like, in a racist bigot kind of way.] Actually, I lied by omission. We hadn't spoken in about a year and a half, and in our first conversation, he assumed that I'd graduated college. Mind you, I shouldn't have felt self conscious seeing as he took 5 1/2 years to graduate and I'm on schedule after having taken two years off... But anyway, I simply didn't correct him when he made the assumption... I realize that I did this because he's a pompous jerk in a lot of ways, and I was afraid of incurring his loathing wrath. If you saw the way he treats his own mother, you'd understand...
I want to find a job that I like. By that, I mean that I want "the office" to be synonymous with a joyous, productive, challenging and fruitful feeling of accomplishment. One that, might I add, does not make the world a worse place. And one that pays me decently and regularly.
I was sitting in the train, writing, reading, writing, reading, writing... And I got really tired of this input and output of words. Really tired of it. I just wanted to curl up in numbers for a little bit. So I came home and did soduku and logic games and mathematical problems. And it felt so fucking good. I think that part of my brain (the right part, I think?) almost atrophied from lack of use.
On that same trip on the train, I wrote a list of things I want to do:
1) Practice guitar.
2) Practice piano.
3) Really exercise---I mean, really exercise. Get myself into G.I. Jane condition.
4) Clean house more.
5) Spend more time with Military Mother's kids while they're in town.
6) Cook more, and share my cooking with more of my loved ones.
7) FIND A JOB THAT PAYS BETTER THAN MY CURRENT WORK!!!!
8) Continue writing at least 1,000 usable words every day.
9) Fix up all of the drama with my incompletes.
10) Commune more with nature.
11) Take advantage of the fact that I have health insurance---and USE IT.
12) Go to museums as much as possible from now till September.
13) Take dance classes.
14) Limit my alcohol intake. (I've been imbibing like a fish in a Tanqueray sea.)
15) Pay off my debts. To EVERYONE. Credit card companies. Medical bills. Friends. Doctors. The whole shebang.
16) Get a couple excerpts/short stories/essays published...
I'm not really sure what else is on the list, since I don't have my journal in front of me, but suffice it to say, there's a lot that I want to do. And dating/sex ain't really on that list.
I'm not intending to be celibate. If it happens, it happens, and that's fine. I just realized that I spend a lot of time fucking and gabbing to my friends about fucking. I spend a lot of time talking about relationships - mostly the one with Rob, aka Would-Be Romantic - and I'm sick of it. I want to be able to be in a functional, healthy, happy, wholesome, sexy, fun relationship with someone special... And, unfortunately, I have way too much on my plate for It or anything that even remotely resembles It or It's variants. I just want to get back on the highway again. My time on the vista is over.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Does "It" Exist?
Lately, I've been bombarded with questions about love: What is it? Does it really exist? With whom can I have it? Are there variations of it?
There's platonic love and family love. There's love for your country and love for your self. There's fleeting love and useful love. All of these seem believable and real and almost ordinary. We encounter them regularly, take into account their varying kinds, and sometimes take them for granted.
But love in its most romantic, idyllic state - the It love - remains elusive, and therefore the most sought-after.
What is this It love that I'm talking about?
You already know.
We give It many names: true love, real love, finding the one, fairy tale love, perfect love, soul mates... It's that thing that Disney and Valentine's Day companies capitalize on. That thing that *we* crave. To be complimented. To be understood. To be completed. To be partners in perfection.
While we spend our lives actively figuring out the other kinds of love, It's this kind of love that most of us falter on. We learn soon enough how to trust people just enough to keep us from being isolated and perpetually hurt. We come to grips with the correct way to handle our families and understand ourselves. We manage somehow to put things in a perspective that we understand.
The difference between It and other kinds of love is pretty simple: ideally, you only get one chance to make It right. With friendship and country and morals and yourself, you have your entire life to figure out how you feel. You're under no pressure to know right now, at this very moment, who your best friend is. Or what kind of a patriot you are. Or who you are. You're free to be transitory with your beliefs, to actively alter your opinions on things, to change and evolve and come up with new ideas and new ideals - Because there's no pressure.
You don't have to worry about living up to this ideal of forever and always. You don't have to worry about damaging your ultimate relationship. You don't have to worry about being alone.
But It is the opposite of being alone: you feel like you're never alone. Someone else knows who you are and what you're about and what you mean. Someone else validates and acknowledges and understands and experiences the entire breadth of your personality and character and influence and beauty. Someone else took the amazing, alive, exhuberant, wonderful experiencing person that you were - and raised the bar to what you could be and experience and know.
It is so great that It can't be duplicated.
Attaining and retaining It is the ultimate accomplishment.
Unfortunately, however, most of us never attain It. And those of us who do, don't retain it.
I was reading nerve.com the other day when I came across this essay. In it, the writer talks about her feelings concerning marriage and the eternal question of true love. She hints at her romantic notions of love and those of fellow writer, Lori Gottlieb. And, most importantly, she deals with the question that's been pointing at me like the barrel of a gun: Is it better to be alone, or to settle?
Given that choice, I am ultimately and unequivocally a fan of the former.
stealing myself from the past
Sister Superhero calls me twice every hour. She knows how I get when I'm upset. How irrational I get. How quick-tempered. How crazy.
When did this kind of behaviour start? When I was 12? 13? I just remember needing to "clear my head" a lot. I remember seeing the bruises on my mother's face and still adoring my father. (I still do.) I remember my parents breaking things, threatening each other with knives, my toddler brother safe in his playpen. The first time I ran away from home, my father canvassed the neighborhood until he found me. He made me promise not to run away again. I agreed. After that, every time I left my house in the middle of the night, it was only to walk and think. I'd follow the Belt Parkway to Brooklyn, lose myself in thoughts, and then find myself on a filthy street somewhere near Starret City. I'd realize that I was a young girl in a place I didn't know, a place my parents didn't know how to get to, and that I didn't have money for a ride or food or a phone call. So I'd find a commercial street and stay in a McDonald's or a gas station or a 7-Eleven until the morning looked like it was close to breaking. Then I'd hurry home, shower, and go to class.
When I was 15, I bought a train ticket to Georgia. I think maybe one of my cousins lived there at the time. If not, I'm not sure why Georgia popped in my head. Maybe it was because I'd heard Atlanta's small enough to jog around, and I wanted to run around its circumference while smoking Newports. I loved being contradictory like that. My brother was in the fifth grade and things between my parents were getting really ugly. The night I was supposed to leave, my parents were having it out downstairs, in the dining room. I could hear them screaming, hear the threat of violence like the Jaws theme, thumping in my temples. My brother walked into my room and sat on my suitcase. He made small-talk, blinked away his tears, pretended not to hear the thud of a fist planted somewhere on our mother's body. I couldn't leave.
That same year, I passed out after taking some X and snorting a couple lines of coke. Carlos had come over to my parents' house. He'd been wearing eyeliner. I'd paraded slutty outfits in front of him and gotted loaded. Then I was out. When I woke up, Carlos was hunched over me, crying and praying. He said I'd been out all night, and at one point I'd stopped breathing and he'd given me mouth-to-mouth. I asked why he hadn't just woken up my parents. He said he would've if he couldn't have gotten me to start breathing, but that he just knew I'd be okay after I'd started breathing.
I was 17 and living with a man six years my senior in midtown Manhattan. For reasons I still can't fully grasp, I'd cut off ties with my friends and started thinking that I knew what I was doing. (Maybe I did know what I was doing?) Days were comprised of high school mundanity, evenings consisted of dinner with the beaux, and nights were spent bartending or waitressing at a neighborhood joint. By September, he'd propose to me and I'd use my parents as an excuse to say No. I was in the familiar territory of being adored by a man most women would kill for, and I couldn't use the L word. It was beyond me. There I was, picking out curtains and china patterns, and I still played the role of a visitor in "our" apartment. By October 1st (my 18th birthday), he'd broken up with me. During a drive from Ohio, he'd said that I'd "shown my true colors" - and apparently they were too "ghetto" and "street" for his taste. I went back to dealing "designer drugs" and weed. Antics would ensue until my lawyer (a father figure) scared the shit out of me.
When I was 20 and full of self-loathing, I went out with SoHo Suit, Military Mother, and our friend Parole Officer, who's a sexy 4-foot-8-and-a-half-inch Peruvian woman we went to school with. Parole Officer left early, and the rest of us figured we'd get into trouble like we usually do. That night, I guzzled glass after glass of chardonnay. I hadn't eaten all day and SoHo Suit kept on asking if maybe I wanted water instead. We walked out of the restaurant, somehow got to West 4th Street, and paid for tattoos. Then we went to the bathroom and I passed out. I vaguely recall SoHo Suit crying and smacking me. Military Mother was telling her to make sure I was breathing. Someone called 911 and a butch lesbian carried me to the ambulance. I spent the night at St. Vincent's.
There were so many more episodes. So many stories that evaporated into the air after they first escaped my mouth. So many (mis)adventures that only therapists and co-deviants know. So many times, I know, that I should've died. Or gotten severely impaired. Or lost all of my innocence.
But, somehow, I managed to hold on to a bit of wonder. A sense of naivety. A desire to love and be loved.
And now, as I think of the changes that've happened in the past 24 hours - my inability to leave the country, the crumbling of my relationship with Rob, the hospitalization of Latina Princess, my thankfulness at having such amazing people in my life (you know who you are) - I know that I'm not going to add to my list of crazy, illegal, life-threatening misadventures.
I'm calling Sister Superhero and letting her know: she has nothing to worry about.
When did this kind of behaviour start? When I was 12? 13? I just remember needing to "clear my head" a lot. I remember seeing the bruises on my mother's face and still adoring my father. (I still do.) I remember my parents breaking things, threatening each other with knives, my toddler brother safe in his playpen. The first time I ran away from home, my father canvassed the neighborhood until he found me. He made me promise not to run away again. I agreed. After that, every time I left my house in the middle of the night, it was only to walk and think. I'd follow the Belt Parkway to Brooklyn, lose myself in thoughts, and then find myself on a filthy street somewhere near Starret City. I'd realize that I was a young girl in a place I didn't know, a place my parents didn't know how to get to, and that I didn't have money for a ride or food or a phone call. So I'd find a commercial street and stay in a McDonald's or a gas station or a 7-Eleven until the morning looked like it was close to breaking. Then I'd hurry home, shower, and go to class.
When I was 15, I bought a train ticket to Georgia. I think maybe one of my cousins lived there at the time. If not, I'm not sure why Georgia popped in my head. Maybe it was because I'd heard Atlanta's small enough to jog around, and I wanted to run around its circumference while smoking Newports. I loved being contradictory like that. My brother was in the fifth grade and things between my parents were getting really ugly. The night I was supposed to leave, my parents were having it out downstairs, in the dining room. I could hear them screaming, hear the threat of violence like the Jaws theme, thumping in my temples. My brother walked into my room and sat on my suitcase. He made small-talk, blinked away his tears, pretended not to hear the thud of a fist planted somewhere on our mother's body. I couldn't leave.
That same year, I passed out after taking some X and snorting a couple lines of coke. Carlos had come over to my parents' house. He'd been wearing eyeliner. I'd paraded slutty outfits in front of him and gotted loaded. Then I was out. When I woke up, Carlos was hunched over me, crying and praying. He said I'd been out all night, and at one point I'd stopped breathing and he'd given me mouth-to-mouth. I asked why he hadn't just woken up my parents. He said he would've if he couldn't have gotten me to start breathing, but that he just knew I'd be okay after I'd started breathing.
I was 17 and living with a man six years my senior in midtown Manhattan. For reasons I still can't fully grasp, I'd cut off ties with my friends and started thinking that I knew what I was doing. (Maybe I did know what I was doing?) Days were comprised of high school mundanity, evenings consisted of dinner with the beaux, and nights were spent bartending or waitressing at a neighborhood joint. By September, he'd propose to me and I'd use my parents as an excuse to say No. I was in the familiar territory of being adored by a man most women would kill for, and I couldn't use the L word. It was beyond me. There I was, picking out curtains and china patterns, and I still played the role of a visitor in "our" apartment. By October 1st (my 18th birthday), he'd broken up with me. During a drive from Ohio, he'd said that I'd "shown my true colors" - and apparently they were too "ghetto" and "street" for his taste. I went back to dealing "designer drugs" and weed. Antics would ensue until my lawyer (a father figure) scared the shit out of me.
When I was 20 and full of self-loathing, I went out with SoHo Suit, Military Mother, and our friend Parole Officer, who's a sexy 4-foot-8-and-a-half-inch Peruvian woman we went to school with. Parole Officer left early, and the rest of us figured we'd get into trouble like we usually do. That night, I guzzled glass after glass of chardonnay. I hadn't eaten all day and SoHo Suit kept on asking if maybe I wanted water instead. We walked out of the restaurant, somehow got to West 4th Street, and paid for tattoos. Then we went to the bathroom and I passed out. I vaguely recall SoHo Suit crying and smacking me. Military Mother was telling her to make sure I was breathing. Someone called 911 and a butch lesbian carried me to the ambulance. I spent the night at St. Vincent's.
There were so many more episodes. So many stories that evaporated into the air after they first escaped my mouth. So many (mis)adventures that only therapists and co-deviants know. So many times, I know, that I should've died. Or gotten severely impaired. Or lost all of my innocence.
But, somehow, I managed to hold on to a bit of wonder. A sense of naivety. A desire to love and be loved.
And now, as I think of the changes that've happened in the past 24 hours - my inability to leave the country, the crumbling of my relationship with Rob, the hospitalization of Latina Princess, my thankfulness at having such amazing people in my life (you know who you are) - I know that I'm not going to add to my list of crazy, illegal, life-threatening misadventures.
I'm calling Sister Superhero and letting her know: she has nothing to worry about.
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