Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Because you miss me so much.
You'll wanna take a gander at the latest post on my other blog, Mama Maria's Makin' It Work. It's called "So You Wanna Be a Dominatrix?"
Sunday, September 28, 2008
My exploding ego will be on hiatus.
At least for a little while.
By this I mean: I will be blogging over at themusingbroads.co.nr for the time being. Lots of work-related issues I wanna dive into, and I just don't have the time and energy to do both blogs.
Before I go, though, I want to leave you all with this tidbit: I'm staying. I'm at least 95% sure of it. I think an overwhelming sense of frustration led me to want to go, and that, though it's a good idea, it's a better idea to choose "fight" instead of "flight." It helps that Mei offered to make me a full-time employee by the end of the year, thus ending my quest for steady/good income. It also helps that I have the most awesome friends in the world. I love you all so much.
XO-M
By this I mean: I will be blogging over at themusingbroads.co.nr for the time being. Lots of work-related issues I wanna dive into, and I just don't have the time and energy to do both blogs.
Before I go, though, I want to leave you all with this tidbit: I'm staying. I'm at least 95% sure of it. I think an overwhelming sense of frustration led me to want to go, and that, though it's a good idea, it's a better idea to choose "fight" instead of "flight." It helps that Mei offered to make me a full-time employee by the end of the year, thus ending my quest for steady/good income. It also helps that I have the most awesome friends in the world. I love you all so much.
XO-M
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Back to my old tricks.
As much as I hate to admit it, I'm a spin doctor; I always have been. My powers of manipulation have made almost every situation work in my favor, and I control the thoughts of people who have influence. I do this involuntarily; after attempting to quelch my instinct to do so, I now know that trying is pointless. It's ingrained in me.
Thing is, I honestly believe that everyone tries to be a spin doctor, and in a way, everyone is a spin doctor. The inflection of your voice as you tell a story, your word choice, the subtle physical cues you use - those are all to persuade the audience of something, because, as any political campaign can tell you, "It's not the truth that counts. It's what passes for the truth."
Rewind to this past Thursday. My hormones were out of whack. I was crying every fifteen minutes. Every little thing upset me. I was seriously suicidal for all of half an hour. And just a day before, I was on top of the world, conquering every obstacle thrown at me and loving it. This, dear reader, is why a therapist once suggested that I'm bi-polar.
Every sound out of my mouth was a scream or a holler or a yelp or a cry. Every tear made me shiver and quake. The depression that hit was deep and all-consuming. I couldn't face the thought of leaving my room and dealing with things. No work, no writing, no people. Everything just added to the melee of confusion that attacked me. So I refused to do anything. I stayed home and hardly communicated with the outside world. I slept and cried and ate a bit and repeated the process. I thought about slitting my wrists, then laughed at the idea.
It was in this state that I decided on leaving the country. It came as a revelation, and just as soon as the thought was formed into words and I spoke those words aloud, I felt an overarching sense of relief. Somehow, there existed a plan of action that didn't make me feel more burdened; it was whole and perfect and encompassed everything that I needed to feel all right. In one fell swoop, it canceled out all of the issues that had surfaced within my deep state of depression, and it made me feel better about my situation and my life.
I can't tell for sure, but I think I called people that night. Who I talked to and what was said, I can't really say. Some of the people I remember speaking to have been dead a long time. Some of the people I thought I spoke to tell me they didn't speak to me that night. All I know for sure is that, somehow, I managed to tire myself out and fall asleep. The next day, I woke up and I was fine.
No. Not fine. I haven't been fine in a while. I've been walking the line between crazy and normal, and I know it (and this makes me think that I must be okay, because crazy people don't know when they're crazy). I was mired in residual feelings of laziness. It was hard to get out of bed. I couldn't bring myself to go to work on time. But unlike in the past, I knew all of this and I didn't care; I was no longer afraid of the consequences and feeling guilty about the situation. I thought, "So what if I don't [insert responsibility here]? My first responsibility is to myself, and fuck what anyone has to say to that."
Like so many platitudes and cliches, there is a strand of truth in this line of thinking which makes it difficult to argue. Most people who try to argue with me are immediately shut down because I don't like the way they approach the issue. Some people [read: close friends], I can't help but listen to. However, in the end, more often than not, I stick to my guns. Another platitude about self-reliance rings in my head: "Who can you trust if not yourself?"
I've become enamored with thoughts about fate and destiny. I am zealous about controlling my own fate and loathe the idea that it might be subjected to someone else's plans or whims. I am paranoid that other people might attempt to exercise their influence over my life, and I am angered by the notion that I might be stupid and weak enough to allow them this ability. In the end, only I can be held accountable for what happens to me, and I don't want to be disappointed with myself.
But what do I do now?
I am standing at a precipice, facing the choice of staying in New York City and taking the more conventional route of growing up. If this plan of action is followed, I will lick my wounds, horde my money, get my own place, and find a sense of dignity in joining the masses. I will feel as though I have accomplished a phase that society has deemed necessary, and I will soak in the praise of the ordinary people who will recognize in me the same obstacles they've faced. But more than that: I will, for the first time, compare myself to the masses. I will feel safe and comforted from having chosen to be more conventional, from using the accepted norm as a measure for what I should do or who I should become. I will know that, despite the outcome of my life, there will be a safety net to catch me: people will understand my choices and they will relate to me. This route is personified my Mei.
But, on the other hand, is the less conventional route: the complicated and seemingly perverse route which includes leaving the country and starting anew. It is the choice that seems more natural to me, the choice that most people do not have, the choice that is extraordinary. The parts of me that are inherently from my parents love this choice. It exemplifies everything that is unconventional and quirky and misunderstood and strange and out-of-the-ordinary. In short, it exemplifies everything that I am. It is a vastness of contradiction, i.e., In order to get to the end result of "acceptable norm" I will go through a very "unacceptable ab-norm". It fortifies me with something that most people do not have, and maybe, that's what all of this is really about. Maybe I've come to accept that I am most certainly not like most people, and that's okay: I don't want to be like most people.
This choice is difficult for me to make because I'm being told by Mei that my original way of thinking - aka, the way that makes me want to leave the country - is not healthy.
But maybe, despite all of Mei's understanding and tolerance, my way of thinking is simply out of the bounds of her understanding. Maybe it's simply too unconventional for her - and thus relegated to the realm of unhealthy. What if the risks that I'm taking are simply not the risks that Mei would take? Who's to say what normal is, anyway? And how can anyone know what is healthy?
I've lied to Mei. I told her that a family emergency caused me not to go to work. I told her that Rob's landed a job. I've said that I've started going to therapy. I know that whatever I choose to do in the long-run, it won't be what she wants for me.
If I was going to therapy, the therapist would probably ask why I feel the need to lie to Mei. I'd say that lying facilitates having a relationship with Mei; being honest with her only leads to arguments and confrontation, and I've come to the conclusion that what I want from her isn't mentorship: it's money. In a strictly work environment, I have to responsibility to her to be honest and open about my life, so I'm retracting from what I'd previously done.
I've long ago come to the conclusion that there is nothing in the world that is right - or - wrong, black - or - white. There are shades of gray, and those are the shades that we live in. None of us have definitive answers. Those who claim to have answers are usually the ones grasping hardest at straws, hoping to find a way of consoling themselves.
But strength lies in standing on one's own, familiarizing one's self with the terrain of their personality, and catering to that personality despite what other people might say or do. Strength resides in the faith one has in him/herself. Strength is tolerating negativity and overcoming obstacles - especially when you're something that most people don't understand.
And yet, on the flip side of things, there are, I'm sure, ways to the contrary of being strong. And within the seemingly concrete edifice of my definition of "strength" there are indeed gray areas, dents and nooks and crannies, in which contradictory ideas reside. I will venture on a limb and say that I know all of these sides of strength, and after all is said and done, there will be no one who can doubt my strength of will and character.
Thing is, I honestly believe that everyone tries to be a spin doctor, and in a way, everyone is a spin doctor. The inflection of your voice as you tell a story, your word choice, the subtle physical cues you use - those are all to persuade the audience of something, because, as any political campaign can tell you, "It's not the truth that counts. It's what passes for the truth."
Rewind to this past Thursday. My hormones were out of whack. I was crying every fifteen minutes. Every little thing upset me. I was seriously suicidal for all of half an hour. And just a day before, I was on top of the world, conquering every obstacle thrown at me and loving it. This, dear reader, is why a therapist once suggested that I'm bi-polar.
Every sound out of my mouth was a scream or a holler or a yelp or a cry. Every tear made me shiver and quake. The depression that hit was deep and all-consuming. I couldn't face the thought of leaving my room and dealing with things. No work, no writing, no people. Everything just added to the melee of confusion that attacked me. So I refused to do anything. I stayed home and hardly communicated with the outside world. I slept and cried and ate a bit and repeated the process. I thought about slitting my wrists, then laughed at the idea.
It was in this state that I decided on leaving the country. It came as a revelation, and just as soon as the thought was formed into words and I spoke those words aloud, I felt an overarching sense of relief. Somehow, there existed a plan of action that didn't make me feel more burdened; it was whole and perfect and encompassed everything that I needed to feel all right. In one fell swoop, it canceled out all of the issues that had surfaced within my deep state of depression, and it made me feel better about my situation and my life.
I can't tell for sure, but I think I called people that night. Who I talked to and what was said, I can't really say. Some of the people I remember speaking to have been dead a long time. Some of the people I thought I spoke to tell me they didn't speak to me that night. All I know for sure is that, somehow, I managed to tire myself out and fall asleep. The next day, I woke up and I was fine.
No. Not fine. I haven't been fine in a while. I've been walking the line between crazy and normal, and I know it (and this makes me think that I must be okay, because crazy people don't know when they're crazy). I was mired in residual feelings of laziness. It was hard to get out of bed. I couldn't bring myself to go to work on time. But unlike in the past, I knew all of this and I didn't care; I was no longer afraid of the consequences and feeling guilty about the situation. I thought, "So what if I don't [insert responsibility here]? My first responsibility is to myself, and fuck what anyone has to say to that."
Like so many platitudes and cliches, there is a strand of truth in this line of thinking which makes it difficult to argue. Most people who try to argue with me are immediately shut down because I don't like the way they approach the issue. Some people [read: close friends], I can't help but listen to. However, in the end, more often than not, I stick to my guns. Another platitude about self-reliance rings in my head: "Who can you trust if not yourself?"
I've become enamored with thoughts about fate and destiny. I am zealous about controlling my own fate and loathe the idea that it might be subjected to someone else's plans or whims. I am paranoid that other people might attempt to exercise their influence over my life, and I am angered by the notion that I might be stupid and weak enough to allow them this ability. In the end, only I can be held accountable for what happens to me, and I don't want to be disappointed with myself.
But what do I do now?
I am standing at a precipice, facing the choice of staying in New York City and taking the more conventional route of growing up. If this plan of action is followed, I will lick my wounds, horde my money, get my own place, and find a sense of dignity in joining the masses. I will feel as though I have accomplished a phase that society has deemed necessary, and I will soak in the praise of the ordinary people who will recognize in me the same obstacles they've faced. But more than that: I will, for the first time, compare myself to the masses. I will feel safe and comforted from having chosen to be more conventional, from using the accepted norm as a measure for what I should do or who I should become. I will know that, despite the outcome of my life, there will be a safety net to catch me: people will understand my choices and they will relate to me. This route is personified my Mei.
But, on the other hand, is the less conventional route: the complicated and seemingly perverse route which includes leaving the country and starting anew. It is the choice that seems more natural to me, the choice that most people do not have, the choice that is extraordinary. The parts of me that are inherently from my parents love this choice. It exemplifies everything that is unconventional and quirky and misunderstood and strange and out-of-the-ordinary. In short, it exemplifies everything that I am. It is a vastness of contradiction, i.e., In order to get to the end result of "acceptable norm" I will go through a very "unacceptable ab-norm". It fortifies me with something that most people do not have, and maybe, that's what all of this is really about. Maybe I've come to accept that I am most certainly not like most people, and that's okay: I don't want to be like most people.
*****
This choice is difficult for me to make because I'm being told by Mei that my original way of thinking - aka, the way that makes me want to leave the country - is not healthy.
But maybe, despite all of Mei's understanding and tolerance, my way of thinking is simply out of the bounds of her understanding. Maybe it's simply too unconventional for her - and thus relegated to the realm of unhealthy. What if the risks that I'm taking are simply not the risks that Mei would take? Who's to say what normal is, anyway? And how can anyone know what is healthy?
*****
I've lied to Mei. I told her that a family emergency caused me not to go to work. I told her that Rob's landed a job. I've said that I've started going to therapy. I know that whatever I choose to do in the long-run, it won't be what she wants for me.
If I was going to therapy, the therapist would probably ask why I feel the need to lie to Mei. I'd say that lying facilitates having a relationship with Mei; being honest with her only leads to arguments and confrontation, and I've come to the conclusion that what I want from her isn't mentorship: it's money. In a strictly work environment, I have to responsibility to her to be honest and open about my life, so I'm retracting from what I'd previously done.
*****
I've long ago come to the conclusion that there is nothing in the world that is right - or - wrong, black - or - white. There are shades of gray, and those are the shades that we live in. None of us have definitive answers. Those who claim to have answers are usually the ones grasping hardest at straws, hoping to find a way of consoling themselves.
But strength lies in standing on one's own, familiarizing one's self with the terrain of their personality, and catering to that personality despite what other people might say or do. Strength resides in the faith one has in him/herself. Strength is tolerating negativity and overcoming obstacles - especially when you're something that most people don't understand.
And yet, on the flip side of things, there are, I'm sure, ways to the contrary of being strong. And within the seemingly concrete edifice of my definition of "strength" there are indeed gray areas, dents and nooks and crannies, in which contradictory ideas reside. I will venture on a limb and say that I know all of these sides of strength, and after all is said and done, there will be no one who can doubt my strength of will and character.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Therein lies the problem.
With an add-on
The last few days have been especially hard. My mom's been in and out of the hospital, my brother's thousands of miles away (in the Philippines), and my father and I are still at a stalemate. On Tuesday night, a man followed me home from work, and what followed was a sea of emotions: pride and empowerment from having handled the situation well, confusion and befuddlement from having two parts of my world clash. On the one hand he was fulfilling a desire that was somewhat assisted from the part I play at work; on the other hand, this is real life motherfucker.
What followed the unsettling feeling was a decision: Call Rob; he'll make me feel better. But even though we'd agreed that he'd be glued to his phone while I'm coming home from work; even though I called him, frantic, a dozen times; even though I texted him and called his house and even called from a payphone (I'm not sure why that seemed like a relevant idea), I was left hanging. The one person that I depend on to be there for me was not there for me. Because he was asleep.
Believe me when I say that I am patient with Rob. I give him the benefit of the doubt. Hell, I even lie to myself about him. All this just so that we have a shot in hell of working out. But when he doesn't provide for us financially and he doesn't help out emotionally and he can't even pick up a fucking phone when I'm being stalked from work - then what the fuck do I need him for?
We haven't had sex in more than a week, which is a huge deal for us. We argue all the time, which isn't necessarily a new development. What is a new development is the feeling of loneliness that's permeated my side of the relationship. I no longer feel like I am part of a couple. I no longer trust that Rob will pull through for me in any capacity. I have lost faith in us, ergo there is no Us.
And maybe that's why I am no longer comfortable in Rob's mom's house. Between the many times that I've screamed ridiculously loud at Rob and the fights that we've had; between the lack of boundaries within the house and the constant pressure to socialize; between the notion that I need a feeling of family and the magnification of a lack thereof within this house - I don't like it here. I want to leave as soon as possible.
But there's a problem: my lack of money and my lack of decision. There is a small nagging part of me that wants to jump ship. It is the part of me that says, "I know you're domming and consulting and you've started a blog with your two friends - but face it, dearie, you ain't no pauper. You gotta have dough and you don't want it to hinge on your punani. You're not happy with things the way they are."
And, yeah: that voice is right.
As much as I appreciate all that Mei's done for me, and I truly respect and admire sex workers who make the profession work for them - I can't depend on a paycheck that's built on my ability to be feminine. Not in the body-woman kind of way, and not in a slutty-for-show kind of way. And the reason for this isn't only that my feelings of femininity are flimsy - it's also because the pay is flimsy, too.
I can't depend on a regular, steady paycheck, and that makes my line of work seem more like a gig than a career. Yeah, I said it: I wouldn't mind making a career out of being a dominatrix. But a career implies that the pay is steady and the hours set. This is not so, and therefore I have to search elsewhere.
Had I known that things would be this hard on my own? Absolutely! I even fetishized the difficulty in being independent. But now that the new car smell has worn away, and I am less than a week away till my birthday, I'm feeling torn. That part of me who relished doing things the hard way, who bore the brunt of everything with a smile, who knew that every obstacle only made her stronger - she's tired of being strong and noble. She wants to take the easy way out. And, honestly, I can't blame her.
I think to myself: what is the best case scenario [short of finding a suitcase full of cash under my bed]? And I think to myself, I need a short-term solution that will manifest itself into a long-term solution. I need to land a job that pays really well, and I need to do it right now.
But jobs like that aren't exactly everywhere, and most of them are professions I wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole. Moreover, the ones that seem like a good idea inevitably turn into short-term prospects with no chance of becoming a long-term career.
Enter my mom, who has reserved a ticket to the Philippines. I'm considering going back to the original plan: going overseas, teaching English, and getting a nursing degree. I'm thinking about parlaying that nursing degree into a house and a physician's assistance degree when I get back to the States in 3 years. I'm daydreaming about tropical weather and my own house where I'll set boundaries and be able to afford the good life. I'm telling myself that I can still blog with the girls and write incessantly and send out my work to agents - but now I'll be emotionally and financially comfortable.
I have only a week to decide.
Add-on: I went in to see Mei and she corrected me. "You don't need to make a boatload of cash right now," she said with a glint in her eye. "You want to make that money. There's supposed to be a disconnect between what you want and what you need, and not having it isn't healthy."
I explained to her that bridging the disconnect is exactly why I get everything I want. I don't just focus on the things that are necessary; I attempt to accomplish the impossible. I don't limit my options and say, "I can have this or that." Instead, I say to myself, "What can I do to ensure that I have this and that?"
"But that's not healthy," Mei kept saying. "You have to make a decision. What do you need more?"
"If I can have both, why do I need to make a decision?"
"Because you can't have both."
"Why not?"
"Because it's not possible."
"But what if it is possible?"
"It's not."
And that, right there, is why I'm still considering going to the Philippines. I want to be able to make money and be creative, and I feel like this option will give me both.
The truth is, I don't do "poor" well, and at this point in the game, I don't want to do it if I don't need to do it. So why the fuck not go to the Philippines?
Sure, it's unconventional and will leave Mei disappointed - but I have more responsibility to myself than I have to her. And, sure, I'll miss New York City and all of my friends and family - but in this day and age, they're only as far as a computer or a phone. I've come to a conclusion about who I am and what I need, and it doesn't necessarily mesh with what others think of me and what others think I need - and that's okay. Part of growing up is facing truths that are uncomfortable, and dealing with them.
The last few days have been especially hard. My mom's been in and out of the hospital, my brother's thousands of miles away (in the Philippines), and my father and I are still at a stalemate. On Tuesday night, a man followed me home from work, and what followed was a sea of emotions: pride and empowerment from having handled the situation well, confusion and befuddlement from having two parts of my world clash. On the one hand he was fulfilling a desire that was somewhat assisted from the part I play at work; on the other hand, this is real life motherfucker.
What followed the unsettling feeling was a decision: Call Rob; he'll make me feel better. But even though we'd agreed that he'd be glued to his phone while I'm coming home from work; even though I called him, frantic, a dozen times; even though I texted him and called his house and even called from a payphone (I'm not sure why that seemed like a relevant idea), I was left hanging. The one person that I depend on to be there for me was not there for me. Because he was asleep.
Believe me when I say that I am patient with Rob. I give him the benefit of the doubt. Hell, I even lie to myself about him. All this just so that we have a shot in hell of working out. But when he doesn't provide for us financially and he doesn't help out emotionally and he can't even pick up a fucking phone when I'm being stalked from work - then what the fuck do I need him for?
We haven't had sex in more than a week, which is a huge deal for us. We argue all the time, which isn't necessarily a new development. What is a new development is the feeling of loneliness that's permeated my side of the relationship. I no longer feel like I am part of a couple. I no longer trust that Rob will pull through for me in any capacity. I have lost faith in us, ergo there is no Us.
And maybe that's why I am no longer comfortable in Rob's mom's house. Between the many times that I've screamed ridiculously loud at Rob and the fights that we've had; between the lack of boundaries within the house and the constant pressure to socialize; between the notion that I need a feeling of family and the magnification of a lack thereof within this house - I don't like it here. I want to leave as soon as possible.
But there's a problem: my lack of money and my lack of decision. There is a small nagging part of me that wants to jump ship. It is the part of me that says, "I know you're domming and consulting and you've started a blog with your two friends - but face it, dearie, you ain't no pauper. You gotta have dough and you don't want it to hinge on your punani. You're not happy with things the way they are."
And, yeah: that voice is right.
As much as I appreciate all that Mei's done for me, and I truly respect and admire sex workers who make the profession work for them - I can't depend on a paycheck that's built on my ability to be feminine. Not in the body-woman kind of way, and not in a slutty-for-show kind of way. And the reason for this isn't only that my feelings of femininity are flimsy - it's also because the pay is flimsy, too.
I can't depend on a regular, steady paycheck, and that makes my line of work seem more like a gig than a career. Yeah, I said it: I wouldn't mind making a career out of being a dominatrix. But a career implies that the pay is steady and the hours set. This is not so, and therefore I have to search elsewhere.
Had I known that things would be this hard on my own? Absolutely! I even fetishized the difficulty in being independent. But now that the new car smell has worn away, and I am less than a week away till my birthday, I'm feeling torn. That part of me who relished doing things the hard way, who bore the brunt of everything with a smile, who knew that every obstacle only made her stronger - she's tired of being strong and noble. She wants to take the easy way out. And, honestly, I can't blame her.
I think to myself: what is the best case scenario [short of finding a suitcase full of cash under my bed]? And I think to myself, I need a short-term solution that will manifest itself into a long-term solution. I need to land a job that pays really well, and I need to do it right now.
But jobs like that aren't exactly everywhere, and most of them are professions I wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole. Moreover, the ones that seem like a good idea inevitably turn into short-term prospects with no chance of becoming a long-term career.
Enter my mom, who has reserved a ticket to the Philippines. I'm considering going back to the original plan: going overseas, teaching English, and getting a nursing degree. I'm thinking about parlaying that nursing degree into a house and a physician's assistance degree when I get back to the States in 3 years. I'm daydreaming about tropical weather and my own house where I'll set boundaries and be able to afford the good life. I'm telling myself that I can still blog with the girls and write incessantly and send out my work to agents - but now I'll be emotionally and financially comfortable.
I have only a week to decide.
Add-on: I went in to see Mei and she corrected me. "You don't need to make a boatload of cash right now," she said with a glint in her eye. "You want to make that money. There's supposed to be a disconnect between what you want and what you need, and not having it isn't healthy."
I explained to her that bridging the disconnect is exactly why I get everything I want. I don't just focus on the things that are necessary; I attempt to accomplish the impossible. I don't limit my options and say, "I can have this or that." Instead, I say to myself, "What can I do to ensure that I have this and that?"
"But that's not healthy," Mei kept saying. "You have to make a decision. What do you need more?"
"If I can have both, why do I need to make a decision?"
"Because you can't have both."
"Why not?"
"Because it's not possible."
"But what if it is possible?"
"It's not."
And that, right there, is why I'm still considering going to the Philippines. I want to be able to make money and be creative, and I feel like this option will give me both.
The truth is, I don't do "poor" well, and at this point in the game, I don't want to do it if I don't need to do it. So why the fuck not go to the Philippines?
Sure, it's unconventional and will leave Mei disappointed - but I have more responsibility to myself than I have to her. And, sure, I'll miss New York City and all of my friends and family - but in this day and age, they're only as far as a computer or a phone. I've come to a conclusion about who I am and what I need, and it doesn't necessarily mesh with what others think of me and what others think I need - and that's okay. Part of growing up is facing truths that are uncomfortable, and dealing with them.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Shameless Plug
I've teamed up with two of my closest friends-cum-writing buddies, Annamarya and Deena, to become The Musing Broads. Every week, we'll be answering your questions about love, life and the pursuit of sexiness, and ya never know what we'll say! This week, for example, we got two rather spindly and long emails from women who don't know what to do about their love interests.
Ya got questions? We've got answers.
Ya got questions? We've got answers.
Monday, September 15, 2008
So this is what it feels like to be successful!
For the first time ever, things are really going my way. I'm making good money, working at jobs that I *love* with people I *adore*, and fully aware of what's coming up next.
Life gets more interesting and fulfilling with each passing minute, and I'm not wasting any time. This is productivity at its finest.
This here quarter-life crisis is passing me by. And. It. Feels. So. Good.
Off the top of my head, 15 things that are going on with me:
1) I'm hooking up my friend, Sasha, who's intense and has a very *ahem* colorful past, with a friend of Rob's brother, Ryan, who's got PTSD and is a retired Army Sgt.
2) Two of my closest friends and best writer-buddies have asked me to start a website with them. It's called "The Musing Broads" and will offer advice on everything from health and dating, to career and house-hunting.
3) Ryan (from #1) has finished a book, and I'm helping him shop it around to independent publishers and literary agents. Makes me kinda think I belong in publishing. But then I remember how much I loathe being tied down by a set schedule, and I very much love my freelance lifestyle.
4) As a big-tittied Asian woman, I'm hauling in lots of cash as a dominatrix. Unfortunately, it's all getting sucked into the black hole that is my debt. Hopefully, I'll soon be able to save some. Soon is the operative word. Only problem is, what with it being an election year and the dungeon having been out-of-business for a month, the clients are few and far between.
5) My own writing is going really well. That is, when I find the time to write.
6) Two things I'm buying asap: a cell phone and a laptop. Rob and I have been sharing his cell phone - "Love, don't worry about spending money on a phone bill. Just use my phone. I hardly use it anyway." - since I moved in with him. But the bill hasn't gotten paid and I need a cell phone in order to keep freelancing at all my jobs. And, technically, I have a laptop - only it's riddled with viruses and really bulky. I need one that I can take everywhere with me.
7) I've filled out the paperwork so that I can be re-admitted to school in the Spring. The way things are going, I'll only have time to take two classes, but cest la vie. I need to make some money, and that degree ain't goin' nowhere.
8) Right up there, on my list of things to do, alongside "Buy a cell phone", "Buy a laptop", "Go back to school", and "Make money", is "Get My Own Place." Things fell through with Asia and she's attempted to hook me up with another viable roommate option, but I'm not feelin' the idea of looking for a place when I don't have the steady income flow. Once the money gets good and steady, I'll be outta Rob's place quicker than you can bat a lash.
9) I love Rob and things are overall going aiight with him. Only... I... Just... Don't... Wanna... Be... Tied... Down. [Right now.]
Yeah.
There.
I said it.
10) I went to my cousin's fabulous lesbian wedding last weekend, and I'm going to California next weekend to attend another cousin's fabulous straight wedding. Plus, I'm making plans to spend some time in Miami this January. Look at me, all jet-setting!
11) My little brother is leaving for the Philippines this Sunday. My folks have already warned him: Once he's gone, he ain't comin' back till he's earned his degree. I'm gonna miss the little booger, but I know that this is what's best for him.
12) I've signed up for therapy at a really reputable place. It's so reputable, in fact, that there's a waiting list. *sigh* I'm hoping that they don't call me back while I don't have a phone; it would suck if I lost my place in line.
13) Rob's thisclose to securing a job as a barback. I'm really hoping that he'll get it, but at the same time I don't wanna get disappointed. The thing is, our main argument is that I feel I'm running around being productive while his ass is coasting on his parents' coattails. I don't want a house-husband.
14) I caught wind of a baby that might need rescuing. Her parents are teenage drug addicts who are supposedly too stupid and lazy to stand on line for WIC checks. Don't worry. I'm gonna do something about it. And, no, I'm not adopting her.
15) Despite the fact that I'm making good money, I'm still looking for a more steady part-time gig. Something with reliable hours/money would be great. I mean, yeah, I love having the flexibility to make my own schedule, but that depends on too many variables, and I need a job where I get paid for basically sitting around for a set amount of time.
Overall, I gotta say: I feel good. Really, really good.
Life gets more interesting and fulfilling with each passing minute, and I'm not wasting any time. This is productivity at its finest.
This here quarter-life crisis is passing me by. And. It. Feels. So. Good.
Off the top of my head, 15 things that are going on with me:
1) I'm hooking up my friend, Sasha, who's intense and has a very *ahem* colorful past, with a friend of Rob's brother, Ryan, who's got PTSD and is a retired Army Sgt.
2) Two of my closest friends and best writer-buddies have asked me to start a website with them. It's called "The Musing Broads" and will offer advice on everything from health and dating, to career and house-hunting.
3) Ryan (from #1) has finished a book, and I'm helping him shop it around to independent publishers and literary agents. Makes me kinda think I belong in publishing. But then I remember how much I loathe being tied down by a set schedule, and I very much love my freelance lifestyle.
4) As a big-tittied Asian woman, I'm hauling in lots of cash as a dominatrix. Unfortunately, it's all getting sucked into the black hole that is my debt. Hopefully, I'll soon be able to save some. Soon is the operative word. Only problem is, what with it being an election year and the dungeon having been out-of-business for a month, the clients are few and far between.
5) My own writing is going really well. That is, when I find the time to write.
6) Two things I'm buying asap: a cell phone and a laptop. Rob and I have been sharing his cell phone - "Love, don't worry about spending money on a phone bill. Just use my phone. I hardly use it anyway." - since I moved in with him. But the bill hasn't gotten paid and I need a cell phone in order to keep freelancing at all my jobs. And, technically, I have a laptop - only it's riddled with viruses and really bulky. I need one that I can take everywhere with me.
7) I've filled out the paperwork so that I can be re-admitted to school in the Spring. The way things are going, I'll only have time to take two classes, but cest la vie. I need to make some money, and that degree ain't goin' nowhere.
8) Right up there, on my list of things to do, alongside "Buy a cell phone", "Buy a laptop", "Go back to school", and "Make money", is "Get My Own Place." Things fell through with Asia and she's attempted to hook me up with another viable roommate option, but I'm not feelin' the idea of looking for a place when I don't have the steady income flow. Once the money gets good and steady, I'll be outta Rob's place quicker than you can bat a lash.
9) I love Rob and things are overall going aiight with him. Only... I... Just... Don't... Wanna... Be... Tied... Down. [Right now.]
Yeah.
There.
I said it.
10) I went to my cousin's fabulous lesbian wedding last weekend, and I'm going to California next weekend to attend another cousin's fabulous straight wedding. Plus, I'm making plans to spend some time in Miami this January. Look at me, all jet-setting!
11) My little brother is leaving for the Philippines this Sunday. My folks have already warned him: Once he's gone, he ain't comin' back till he's earned his degree. I'm gonna miss the little booger, but I know that this is what's best for him.
12) I've signed up for therapy at a really reputable place. It's so reputable, in fact, that there's a waiting list. *sigh* I'm hoping that they don't call me back while I don't have a phone; it would suck if I lost my place in line.
13) Rob's thisclose to securing a job as a barback. I'm really hoping that he'll get it, but at the same time I don't wanna get disappointed. The thing is, our main argument is that I feel I'm running around being productive while his ass is coasting on his parents' coattails. I don't want a house-husband.
14) I caught wind of a baby that might need rescuing. Her parents are teenage drug addicts who are supposedly too stupid and lazy to stand on line for WIC checks. Don't worry. I'm gonna do something about it. And, no, I'm not adopting her.
15) Despite the fact that I'm making good money, I'm still looking for a more steady part-time gig. Something with reliable hours/money would be great. I mean, yeah, I love having the flexibility to make my own schedule, but that depends on too many variables, and I need a job where I get paid for basically sitting around for a set amount of time.
Overall, I gotta say: I feel good. Really, really good.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
This is why I'm considering therapy.
Ya know how when you're watching a movie, and it's a thriller or a suspense flick, and something happens to make you scream at the screen, "Why are you doing that?! You know that's not right!"?
It doesn't matter if it's the girl in the heels entering a scary house, or the teenage couple fucking in a car on a deserted street, or the Scooby Gang deciding to split up - you just know it's a bad idea.
Well, I'm not as big on movies as I'd like, but I remember very well that feeling of "Whoa, what the fuck are you doing?!" I remember it almost as well as I remember watching certain movies - Momento comes to mind - and thinking to myself, "What if that was me? How would that feel? What if I seriously didn't realize what was going on?"
Maybe it's my innate creativity (or my hustler prowess?) that forces me to empathize with people, but I've always prided myself on being able to figure people out. I've always been good at seeing all the dimensions of a person and being able to cater to as many of them as the occasion calls for. It's not far-fetched of me to consider the possibility of being schizophrenic or clinically depressed. It's not a big leap to see how much I have in common with the homeless geriatric war vet on the corner.
My brother bought me the tools I needed to alter a dress, so a few days ago I went to Queens to pick up the stuff. I have to take the 2 train to the shuttle to the C train to the A train in order to get to my folks' place, and before I reached the shuttle, I couldn't help but notice a middle-aged, white, balding, man. He was dressed in pressed jeans that were pulled up to his waist, and he wore a matching stone-washed denim jacket. There was a braided brown leather belt holding his pants to his gut, and a red plaid button-down shirt underneath his unbuttoned jacket. On his face were glasses, and on his right hand was a gold wedding band.
I remember looking him over and deciding that he was probably in town for his first gay rendezvous. There was a distinct aura of "foreigner" about him, as if he, too, did not fully comprehend what he was about. He carried two large pieces of luggage and was probably on his way to JFK airport to go back to his wife and kids.
I watched as this man took the shuttle to the C to the A. I watched as the woman sitting next to me pointed out which train he should take to the airport. I saw the man get out of the A train at Rockaway Boulevard.
Everything made sense.
I went to my folks' place, had lunch with my mom and brother, played with my dog. I picked up a crapload of clothes and headed back to the train station. I'd spent maybe three hours at my folks' place, and I had to hurry to Brooklyn so that I could take a shower before going to work.
I remember missing the train by a fraction of a second; if I'd have quickened my pace by the most minute of speeds, I would've made it in time. But, instead, I stood on the train platform and waited for the next train, and boarded it when the opportunity arrived. I took a seat by the window and stared out into the neighborhood that used to be my own. When I reached Rockaway Boulevard, I noticed a teenage girl: very pale, with bleached blond hair and wearing all black. Her big, baggy jeans reminded me of Jnco Jeans; they were all the rage when I was in junior high school, and coming back to Queens always makes me nostalgic. Her top was tight, making her lithe frame all the more noticeable. The black bandana on her head made it unclear whether she was designating herself as a goth kid or a wanna-be gangsta.
I watched this girl from across the platform. She sat on one of those large, metal, beige-painted boxes in which are housed the train station's cleaning materials. She was looking down at her hands, and thinking about something very intently. I imagined that she was thinking about something very important: the state of the world, her future, how hard it is to live. I projected onto her things that I know far too well: drama, chaos, hardships, responsibilities, adulthood. I felt that in making her like me, I would be less alone. But of course, none of this I knew at the time.
I was just thinking and letting my mind wander, and holding her in my gaze as my train left the station. It was not until now, as I'm sitting here, in a house that is not mine, in a room that is not mine, that I realize all of this probably led up to my thoughts.
But, anyway, those were my thoughts as my train left the station, and I saw this girl - young, impressionable, finding her way - on the opposite platform, heading to a place I'd just come from. I felt like I was leaving her behind to fend for herself.
My thoughts were jumbled and cloudy as I made the trek back to Brooklyn. These days, that is not unusual, and I attribute that fact to my lack of sleep and nutrients. I joke with my friends that I'm on the "too broke to eat more than once a day diet." The truth is, my appetite is diminished. Even at weddings and baby showers and parties, when there is a large, lavish spread of food, I am unable to eat. Delicacies and choice cuts of meat are piled high around me, and people are prodding me to eat! eat! eat!, and I can't bring myself to fill my stomach. I think, "What's the use? I'll only have to refill it again."
On my shoulder was a large duffel bag filled with clothes, jewelry, hair clips. There was a bag of weed in it, too - something that I'd bought right before leaving my folks' place - and I walked to the end of the platform to keep away from a cop. It was nearly deserted on the far end of the platform, and I busied myself with thoughts of things I have to do. I made mental checklists and crossed things out one by one.
When the shuttle arrived, I found a seat by the conductor's booth, and when I looked up, there was the white man with the two suitcases and a gold wedding band on his right hand. To my left was the teenage girl dressed all in black.
I kept on staring at them. I wanted to ask the white man, "Didn't I see you on the train earlier?" I wanted to ask the teenage girl, "How is it possible that you're on the same train as me when I know I saw you on the opposite side of the platform, heading to Queens?" But I was too scared to open my mouth. At that point, I'd already begun to doubt myself, and this was brand-new to me. It's one thing to doubt my decisions, but to doubt my senses? To not be able to trust what I see?
It was all too much.
I got back home, showered, and readied myself for work. That night, there were no clients. Rob's favorite uncle passed away. I felt alone and adrift, with no one to understand or help me.
The next morning, I watched as Rob opened the door to the basement and disappeared down the stairs. From my vantage point, I saw his head bobbing as he drunkenly stepped. I went downstairs to make sure that he'd be okay, that he wouldn't bump his head on the low ceiling or fall on the awkwardly-placed steps. But the basement was empty. He hadn't walked down the stairs.
I intellectualized the events, figured that I'd projected onto Rob my desire to have him do laundry in the basement. Then I found him in his cousin's bedroom. I called his name and he came to me, and even though he held me and smiled at me, I felt as if he were clutching air. When he walked away, I saw him enter the bathroom, turn on the light and close the door so that it was partially ajar. I could see the light spilling out of the doorway. I could see his image in the bathroom mirror. I called out to him and when he didn't come out, I went into the bathroom - and it was empty.
Almost frantic, I called to him again and again, and finally he re-emerged from his cousin's bedroom, which is directly opposite from the bathroom. I told him that I could've sworn he went into the bathroom, and he just laughed.
Always, after something like this happens, I feel like there's been a disruption in the space-time continuum. It's like my life was paused and something was changed, and when play was hit again, I could feel the shift but not explain it. It's like those moments in the movies when you know that something is wrong or that something will happen or that the director will play with your head - but you're not really sure why it's affecting you so much. You can't really tell why you care that the couple in the car will be killed or the Scooby Gang will see a ghost. You just know that something unusual, extraordinary, and strange will occur, and that this person, these people, this moment will have to face a reality that you could never even fathom.
No matter how much discipline or preparation or life experience I have, there is something I'm not ready for. And it's out there, waiting, plotting, scheming. It's making me feel paranoid, it's making me feel on-edge, it's making me doubt myself. And it's my job to beat it.
It doesn't matter if it's the girl in the heels entering a scary house, or the teenage couple fucking in a car on a deserted street, or the Scooby Gang deciding to split up - you just know it's a bad idea.
Well, I'm not as big on movies as I'd like, but I remember very well that feeling of "Whoa, what the fuck are you doing?!" I remember it almost as well as I remember watching certain movies - Momento comes to mind - and thinking to myself, "What if that was me? How would that feel? What if I seriously didn't realize what was going on?"
Maybe it's my innate creativity (or my hustler prowess?) that forces me to empathize with people, but I've always prided myself on being able to figure people out. I've always been good at seeing all the dimensions of a person and being able to cater to as many of them as the occasion calls for. It's not far-fetched of me to consider the possibility of being schizophrenic or clinically depressed. It's not a big leap to see how much I have in common with the homeless geriatric war vet on the corner.
*****
My brother bought me the tools I needed to alter a dress, so a few days ago I went to Queens to pick up the stuff. I have to take the 2 train to the shuttle to the C train to the A train in order to get to my folks' place, and before I reached the shuttle, I couldn't help but notice a middle-aged, white, balding, man. He was dressed in pressed jeans that were pulled up to his waist, and he wore a matching stone-washed denim jacket. There was a braided brown leather belt holding his pants to his gut, and a red plaid button-down shirt underneath his unbuttoned jacket. On his face were glasses, and on his right hand was a gold wedding band.
I remember looking him over and deciding that he was probably in town for his first gay rendezvous. There was a distinct aura of "foreigner" about him, as if he, too, did not fully comprehend what he was about. He carried two large pieces of luggage and was probably on his way to JFK airport to go back to his wife and kids.
I watched as this man took the shuttle to the C to the A. I watched as the woman sitting next to me pointed out which train he should take to the airport. I saw the man get out of the A train at Rockaway Boulevard.
Everything made sense.
I went to my folks' place, had lunch with my mom and brother, played with my dog. I picked up a crapload of clothes and headed back to the train station. I'd spent maybe three hours at my folks' place, and I had to hurry to Brooklyn so that I could take a shower before going to work.
I remember missing the train by a fraction of a second; if I'd have quickened my pace by the most minute of speeds, I would've made it in time. But, instead, I stood on the train platform and waited for the next train, and boarded it when the opportunity arrived. I took a seat by the window and stared out into the neighborhood that used to be my own. When I reached Rockaway Boulevard, I noticed a teenage girl: very pale, with bleached blond hair and wearing all black. Her big, baggy jeans reminded me of Jnco Jeans; they were all the rage when I was in junior high school, and coming back to Queens always makes me nostalgic. Her top was tight, making her lithe frame all the more noticeable. The black bandana on her head made it unclear whether she was designating herself as a goth kid or a wanna-be gangsta.
I watched this girl from across the platform. She sat on one of those large, metal, beige-painted boxes in which are housed the train station's cleaning materials. She was looking down at her hands, and thinking about something very intently. I imagined that she was thinking about something very important: the state of the world, her future, how hard it is to live. I projected onto her things that I know far too well: drama, chaos, hardships, responsibilities, adulthood. I felt that in making her like me, I would be less alone. But of course, none of this I knew at the time.
I was just thinking and letting my mind wander, and holding her in my gaze as my train left the station. It was not until now, as I'm sitting here, in a house that is not mine, in a room that is not mine, that I realize all of this probably led up to my thoughts.
But, anyway, those were my thoughts as my train left the station, and I saw this girl - young, impressionable, finding her way - on the opposite platform, heading to a place I'd just come from. I felt like I was leaving her behind to fend for herself.
*****
My thoughts were jumbled and cloudy as I made the trek back to Brooklyn. These days, that is not unusual, and I attribute that fact to my lack of sleep and nutrients. I joke with my friends that I'm on the "too broke to eat more than once a day diet." The truth is, my appetite is diminished. Even at weddings and baby showers and parties, when there is a large, lavish spread of food, I am unable to eat. Delicacies and choice cuts of meat are piled high around me, and people are prodding me to eat! eat! eat!, and I can't bring myself to fill my stomach. I think, "What's the use? I'll only have to refill it again."
On my shoulder was a large duffel bag filled with clothes, jewelry, hair clips. There was a bag of weed in it, too - something that I'd bought right before leaving my folks' place - and I walked to the end of the platform to keep away from a cop. It was nearly deserted on the far end of the platform, and I busied myself with thoughts of things I have to do. I made mental checklists and crossed things out one by one.
When the shuttle arrived, I found a seat by the conductor's booth, and when I looked up, there was the white man with the two suitcases and a gold wedding band on his right hand. To my left was the teenage girl dressed all in black.
I kept on staring at them. I wanted to ask the white man, "Didn't I see you on the train earlier?" I wanted to ask the teenage girl, "How is it possible that you're on the same train as me when I know I saw you on the opposite side of the platform, heading to Queens?" But I was too scared to open my mouth. At that point, I'd already begun to doubt myself, and this was brand-new to me. It's one thing to doubt my decisions, but to doubt my senses? To not be able to trust what I see?
It was all too much.
I got back home, showered, and readied myself for work. That night, there were no clients. Rob's favorite uncle passed away. I felt alone and adrift, with no one to understand or help me.
*****
The next morning, I watched as Rob opened the door to the basement and disappeared down the stairs. From my vantage point, I saw his head bobbing as he drunkenly stepped. I went downstairs to make sure that he'd be okay, that he wouldn't bump his head on the low ceiling or fall on the awkwardly-placed steps. But the basement was empty. He hadn't walked down the stairs.
I intellectualized the events, figured that I'd projected onto Rob my desire to have him do laundry in the basement. Then I found him in his cousin's bedroom. I called his name and he came to me, and even though he held me and smiled at me, I felt as if he were clutching air. When he walked away, I saw him enter the bathroom, turn on the light and close the door so that it was partially ajar. I could see the light spilling out of the doorway. I could see his image in the bathroom mirror. I called out to him and when he didn't come out, I went into the bathroom - and it was empty.
Almost frantic, I called to him again and again, and finally he re-emerged from his cousin's bedroom, which is directly opposite from the bathroom. I told him that I could've sworn he went into the bathroom, and he just laughed.
*****
Always, after something like this happens, I feel like there's been a disruption in the space-time continuum. It's like my life was paused and something was changed, and when play was hit again, I could feel the shift but not explain it. It's like those moments in the movies when you know that something is wrong or that something will happen or that the director will play with your head - but you're not really sure why it's affecting you so much. You can't really tell why you care that the couple in the car will be killed or the Scooby Gang will see a ghost. You just know that something unusual, extraordinary, and strange will occur, and that this person, these people, this moment will have to face a reality that you could never even fathom.
No matter how much discipline or preparation or life experience I have, there is something I'm not ready for. And it's out there, waiting, plotting, scheming. It's making me feel paranoid, it's making me feel on-edge, it's making me doubt myself. And it's my job to beat it.
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