Concave

Social media addiction is no joke. Goddamned FOMO. It's only been three days since I swore off (temporarily) these sites, and already I feel restless.

But then I remember how disinterested I was getting as I scrolled, and scrolled, and scrolled... How bored I was. Oh, great, food again. Oh, great, politics again. And that obsession to click Like again and again until my tendonitis became exacerbated. (How ridiculous is THAT?!) As if the act of clicking Like would buy me love.

There is no love, no real connection.

These people, they are not my friends. These groups, they are not real communities. If I never showed by virtual face again nobody would miss me.

See, the trick of weaning is not to convince myself I don't need them. It is to be reminded: they don't need me.

Mired

Since the incident yesterday, I woke up still feeling 100% shitty about life itself. I moped around all morning.

I concluded that something had died in me.

RJ had left me a very cute note, asking me to turn on the oven to 350°F at 11:30 a.m. (so he could bake his beloved croissant). He'd come a long way. I have repeatedly asked him to please solicit my help. In general he doesn't ask me for anything. I'd notice him, sometimes, wandering about, as if lost. It's very adorable actually. Like a child. (He never complains. God bless him - if we believed in God.) Then I'd know he must have misplaced something. He's not the type to be hollering, "Honey, have you seen [insert noun]?"

Or sometimes he'd be searching high and low in the kitchen, and I'd offer to help him find a jar of something that a recipe calls for, be it in the fridge or in the pantry. He never initiates any such inquiry.

On this day, though, when I see the note, despite the little giddiness that he's come around, I write below his paragraph, as a reply:

If I am still alive.

Yeah, a bit dramatic. I agree.

In the afternoon, RJ asked me how I was feeling. I immediately turned weepy. But reined in the emotions in time.

"Pretty bleak," I replied.

I took a vow to safeguard my sanity. For a few days at least, I am not going to consume any social media. That shit is eating me alive. Everyone seems to be coping well and thriving, being responsible, productive, happy adults. I feel like I am the only one struggling, the only one who, just last night, bawled her eyes out because I thought Daddy liked me best but he doesn't.

I need a break. I need to get off the grid.

And I am most definitely NOT going on WhatsApp. I see that I have notifications. I don't want to know. Go away.

Today I avoided my phone like the plague. Like it could kill me. Any moment now.

It is too much to have to explain I am running away from toxicity. I just want to disappear.

Tomorrow is another work day. I can't run forever. I will need to be "findable" again. I hate that with our 21st century technology and phone culture, any one can reach out to you at all hours. Our boss, a fine person in many ways, has been known to call us frantically after hours at times. I resent the expectations to be available around the clock. I resent the expectation of findability.

So, I turn it off. While I can. Be off. World, be off.

A fairly recent epiphany of mine is that no one can ever truly know you. You will be the only person who truly knows you. No one could be there for every experience, every heartbreak. Those will be yours and yours alone.

And that's a tremendously lonely place to be.

Slight

I hung up on my parents and my brother W over our weekly Skype session earlier.

My parents have this habit of turning these conversations into consultations in which my brother is the perceived expert on subjects such as technology and politics, the quintessential keynote speaker. And I sit there, trying to engage, barely getting a word in.

Well today it happened again. More than fed up and consumed by rage, I hit the Hang Up red button. Goodbye!

My presence is obviously not needed here. Guess what, I have better things to do.

Growing up, I always felt like my brother's opinion mattered more than mine. We'd have unofficial family meetings where I would not feel heard at all.

I suddenly realize today that that's where a lot of my deep-seated anger is coming from.

You know that quote that you can feel only as small as you allow them to make you feel?

I seem to recall that my therapist used to advise me to stand my ground with (at least) my mother. (My father was not part of the problem, or so I thought, during that time. In hindsight, as they say, it's the parent you don't talk about...)

My father was supposed to be on my side. I was supposed to be his favorite. We each get a parent we like better, and vice versa. Seems fair.

Oh, the sting.

I'd like to think that today I did more than stand up to my parents for their disrespect.

I'll probably regret it in the morning.

After I hung up, my hands shaking from the fury, I typed a quick note on WhatsApp where we have our family group chat:

"If you are only going to talk about politics, take your time. Don't mind if I back out. Catch you next week."

Still shaking, I stormed out of our study and went off to do something pleasurable instead: read one of the many New York Times magazines that I've been running behind reading.

But I can hardly concentrate.

I decided I needed to blog. Before I did, I made sure to shut down my WhatsApp for Windows window, to avoid distractions and interruptions.

It looked as if my message to excuse myself hadn't even been read. They probably hadn't even noticed.

Before COVID hit, I had the pleasure of dragging RJ to see a live performance of Chicago. Chicago is one of my favorite musicals. RJ is not categorically a fan of musicals. But he's always gracious to accompany me to things that I enjoy.

It was a lot of fun for me. I knew every song, albeit not necessarily all the lyrics (a good portion, though). And I appreciate a killer choreography.

After the show, glowing in delight, I told RJ that Mr. Cellophane had always been my favorite song of the set because, I said, "I relate." Utterly surprised, he reacted with a half cough/half chuckle.

My knee-jerk reaction to his reaction was a little bit of hurt, a little bit of disappointment. How did he not know that I had felt invisible for decades?

How could he, though? Unless you have felt second-best and overlooked yourself.

'Cause you can look right through me
Walk right by me
And never know I'm there...

Plantigrade

Back in November I received this note from Pinterest that I found absolutely hilarious.

I wondered who in the "community" ratted me out - ahem, I mean "[became] concerned". I hadn't even been on Pinterest in months.

Ah, that's just it.

Cumulus

Like my parents (especially my father) before me, I have a hoarding problem. I have a really hard time letting go of things. Before I know it, I've got stacks of magazines and piles of paper lying around.

I used to be fairly good at filing things away. But there are only so many file cabinets you can fit, and so many boxes you can heap.

I think it has to do with my sense of displacement, having moved so much, having lost so many mementos. For fuck's sake I still mourn my childhood room, all my books, my diaries, my collection of stamps from countries far, far away, some of which no longer exist.

When I was younger I bought a lot of books, many of which I haven't read. I do love books, not just the joy of reading, but as an art form (it's the Graphic Design major speaking). And also I had many feelings of inadequacy I thought books could ease.

I don't like clutter per se. When RJ states we have too much stuff, I joke that we just don't have a big enough place. Perhaps no place would ever be big enough, given the disease of my mind.

Yesterday, on my birthday, I was taking photos of my lunch as I often do (I was doing this before everybody was doing it). At least I have a spot at the table that's always available - that much I need to maintain my sanity. It is highly important for me to be able to sit down and have a proper sense of a meal.

Then I realized no matter how I finagle, I could not get a clean shot. Because there was always something in the background ruining the picture.

I decided enough was enough. On a whim, I started to clean the orderly mess. (It's orderly because my stacks are very straight, not haphazard. You know. OCD.)

No, not the entire table, silly, Just enough so that there is a better, nicer space between my food and the wall.

While I was at it, I rode the wave and next attacked my desk in the study. That was an even more challenging task. There was literally no surface left for writing. And since shelter in place, I'd been working there, making do day by day. For almost three months, it was a balancing act. Comical at best.

Cleaning is always overwhelming and painful, both emotionally and tactually. When organizing, we also run out of room to neatly clear things out of sight. While sorting menus, even though I knew full well some were easily found online, I couldn't just toss all of them. Again, I've been in love with printed matter for a long time.

I found some cute missives from RJ, some thank you notes from vendors, a whole lot of business cards. Yes, I collect business cards. I could say I am into networking, but a revelation came to me as I was going through them: holding on to these made me feel connected, as if I had real friends.

I do sometimes actually enter these people in my Contacts for safekeeping, but a lot of the time I don't. It gives me pleasure to review the physical cards, admire the designs, revisit the encounters, and revel in possibilities.

Over the weekend, during our weekly conference call, my mother lamented the fact that she had a chest of stuff from her youth: homework, essays, etc. When she got married and moved out of her mother's house, she had not taken the chest with her. Now the chest is lost forever.

Incidentally, just a few days prior, my mother's sister, my Aunt Lynn, had lamented the same thing about her stuff.

As I have also, but of course, lamented about my stuff. I wrote some good essays, damn it.

Everybody loses shit. No one gets to hold on to their shit forever.

In a moment of waning empathy, I said to my mother as much. And regretted it. I could see the pain on her face. A face distorted by the memory of loss.

If you want to get Buddhist about it, it's all just things. When we die, we are not taking any of it with us. We come to the world alone. And we shall leave it alone. No possession. No attachment.

I remember reading Philip Galane's column in the New York Times called Social Q's a while back, when a reader wrote of an incident of a well-meaning but insensitive neighbor after her house had burned down and she lost everything. When urging her to look forward and move on, the neighbor remarked, "It's just stuff!"

To which she replied, "But it's my stuff!"

Quote 283

The great thing about the music of Richard Strauss is that... it presents to us an example of the man who makes richer his own time for not being of it, who speaks for all generations by being of none. It is an ultimate argument of individuality, an argument that a man can create his own synthesis of time without being bound by the conformities that time imposes.

- Glenn Gould

Quote 282

They talk of my drinking. But never my thirst.

- Scottish proverb

Grub

I recently finished reading the emotional roller coaster of Alyssa Shelasky that is Apron Anxiety. Emphasis on "finished" because at first I was not sure I would.

I didn't think that I liked her, as a character. It's hard to stay the course when you are not invested in the protagonist.

Of course, I questioned why I didn't like her. It comes down to: I'm jealous. She's lived in New York; she's lived in Los Angeles. Same as I. But she's really lived it.

Then there's the dark period of insecurity, incessant crying and drama... OMG why are you revolving around a man, deriving every sense of happiness from him? You're your own person!

I silently scream inside. And judge.

Oh, right. I've done it.

Quite a sobering moment of realization of why her flaws irked me so. We dislike in others what we despite most in ourselves.

She comes out on top, though. Successful. Dignity intact. Whole.

I, on the other hand, am having a bad case of midlife crisis. In the age of a global pandemic and historic civil unrest and activism, I am doing... nothing. 'Cept for the occasional nominal donation. I feel more inert than ever. Paralyzed.

Speaking of paralyzed, I have been reflecting on why I have scarcely been able to cook anything more complicated than a simple noodle soup. Slicing and dicing seems daunting now when in the past it used to soothe me. Can't seem to deal with the chaos, the smells... Sensory issues kicked up a few notches.

I am not a seasoned cook who can whip up something based on what happens to be on hand. I need to plan and shop accordingly. Planning and shopping was the fun part. And now is not the best time to leisurely browse the aisles, not to mention you may not find an ingredient. And it is not advisable to store hop - not exactly an essential activity.

But even before Shelter in Place, it's been a few years... I blame it on the job. I am mentally drained, my soul sucked dry. There is a numbness that is at a pathetic level.

Oh, here we go again. My ex-therapist would not be pleased with the self-loathing.

And thus it hasn't been easy to be on social media where it seems everyone's inner chef has surfaced, cooking and baking up a storm. Everyday I am bombarded by images of their culinary adventures, reminders of what a loser I am.

Since the stay-at-home order, I have maybe seen two posts along the lines of: "It's okay to be doing nothing more than surviving". Is this what I am doing, surviving? Or merely subsisting, forever bound by demons that I cannot even name?

I read recently an article in either the New York Times Magazine or The New Yorker that happiness over one's life span is a U-shaped diagram. Obviously when we are children we are fancy-free and happiness level rates high. As we age, happiness takes a dip while, as they say, life happens. So it would make sense that middle age is the worst part of one's emotional journey. Retirees tend to report much higher degrees of happiness than their middle-aged counterparts.

Ha! So it IS the job!

I hope the paradigm holds true so there is hope yet.