The Light Was On

When I met RJ I asked him who his favorite comedian was.

It didn't take him long: Norm MacDonald.

I couldn't believe my ears. He was mine. RJ and I were that attuned.

Norm MacDonald was a rarity. They called him a comic's comic. All I knew was Norm was very unique. Just when you thought you knew what he was up to, you didn't. And you came out belly-laughing. Hysterics, so absurd.

I'd been watching Norm since my 20's, when he first appeared on SNL. He was always a rebel, all defiance. I loved his smirk, disarming in a way. As if whispering, "You don't know what's comin'", or "Gotcha, sucka!"

And there is that hint of vulnerability mixed in with pain that comes from the struggles in life. Norm was an enigma. In interviews, late night talk shows, you were never sure if he was being serious. Norm shared exactly how much (or little) he wanted to. He didn't believe in confessionals. He didn't owe you.

Which made him brilliant - not having to rely on displaying his life like an open book, and still winning laughs and admiration like the devil. 

A lot of people didn't get him, didn't appreciate his sense of humor. I don't get people who don't get Norm MacDonald.

Norm MacDonald was the first stand-up comedian I saw in person. I felt starstruck. He left me wanting more. I'd try to get tickets whenever he was in town. I followed his Twitter account.

(I think) the year before COVID, I learned last minute that he was going to perform in Vegas. On a whim, at my behest, RJ and I flew to Vegas, stayed a night, for the sole purpose of seeing Norm perform (neither of us care for Sin City much). The spontaneity was highly uncharacteristic of me.

But it's Norm! So worth it, even if I was once again painfully aware of the amount of cigarette smoke at the casino (which you'd have to walk through).

Just months later, Norm was slated to come to a city near us again, in March 2020. I facepalmed, lamenting, "Oh! We didn't have to make that Vegas trip, had we known."

As fate would have it, later the show was cancelled on account of COVID. Tickets were refunded.

I was bitterly disappointed. No one had yet grasped the devastation COVID was going to cause. No one knew at that point in time Norm was immune-compromised. He had every right to put his well-being first. (Even if he was in perfect health, who were we to demand an artist put his audience first?)

No knew knew at that point in time Norm was dying.

Turned out the Vegas show was the last live performance of Norm's we would have ever seen.

Life is funny that way.

Dream Big, Go Home

In the past decades, most of my dreams are unhappy. At worst, they are fear-, anxiety- and sadness-filled. Less severe varieties leave me frustrated, uneasy and unsettled.

Recurring themes include being chased, hounded, or being unable to exit a building.

I don't remember the details of my dreams as well as I used to. This morning, though, I distinctly remember not getting attention, not being listened to, feeling invisible, unimportant.

Which was exactly how I felt growing up.

Apparently I still haven't gotten over it.

It's like, come on! It's been nigh 50 years!

Then I realized: at work, I continue to feel unvalued, that my opinion doesn't matter. 

It wasn't always like this. The work situation started out pretty good. Typical of all relationships that go south, I suppose.

But the Law of Attraction tells us that we have a way of finding us in the same kind of toxic relationship, over and over, because it's familiar. It's all we've known. Somehow, we draw them out, these people who will hurt us, but they remind us of home, so it's hard to leave.

Not only familiar. Familial.

I'm going to throw up.

Morsels

I've developed a novel kind of anorexia. Instead of an aversion to the ingestion of food, I am loath to all the steps that lead up to the act of ingestion, and all the aftermath.

There was this sci-fi romance (by 亦舒 Isabel Nee) I read around age 14 which left an indelible mark on me. In the story, a woman from the future gets transported to the 1980's by accident. Amongst refreshing nuances including subtle yet empowering feminism, one anecdote struck me hard and has stuck with me all these years: when our heroine complains about how time-consuming eating is (in the dark ages that are the 1980's), and therefore it is inefficient, and uncivilized. Progress will mean that everybody takes nutrient-packed pills daily instead of traditionally prepared meals. Well-calibrated, no hit-or-miss. The time you save (which is enormous over a lifetime) can be spent on being productive instead. It's a giant step for humankind.

At the time, I thought, "Not TASTING food? Not savoring it? Nonsense!" This astronaut diet held no appeal. If that was where the future had in store, I didn't want to get there.

Fast forward to passing my prime (well over "middle age"). These days, eating does seem a chore. An onerous one at that. Everyday, when hunger returns, I lament, "Again?" I put off doing anything about it until absolutely famished. And at that point I don't care much about what I am putting in my body. I just want it quick and over with.

For some years I dabbled in cooking. There was joy in the process of discovery and creation. I've lost that altogether. It all seems pointless now.

My relationship with food has never been great (no surprise, as most women, cross cultures, grapple with implications of food in regard to their body image). Food became the enemy at some point, something you constantly had to watch with great caution. I am happy to report that I stopped hating my body relatively early on, and stopped obsessing over thinness overall. Food was something to look forward to: make it to lunch, and the rest of the day can't be long. I always make a point to be in the moment when I am eating. To enjoy.

Not to say that I no longer enjoy food, but even reheating food can feel like such a burden these days.

What happened? Is it still a simple case of not loving myself enough? Just a different manifestation? Is it my resurging depression, fast and furious? Same monster, different bite?

Maybe I merely miss being taken care of, being served. I have been known to semi-joke that no food tastes as good as when someone else makes it for you.

Maybe a life that has no purpose does not seem to deserve to be nourished and extended.

I used to think that enlightenment was a destination. If one reads a lot, pays keen attention, there is only one truth, and you arrive at it one day, and you're done. Imagine my disappointment finding out you never stop learning, never stop struggling, and worst yet, truth might be just interpretation. Oh, the horror!

And we are supposed to find solace in the knowledge that everyone experiences pain, and this shared pain makes us human and connected.

I may be finding myself more disconnected than ever. Maybe I have stopped trying. 

The more I read, the more I wind up with questions than answers.

How do you end a piece like this? You don't.

Lamb

On my last visit, I had a very surreal, powerfully emotional moment with my Mom.

At age 87, my Mom's strength and stamina was waning fast. Some of the rituals parents and child used to share and cherish could no longer be had.

Every night, after dinner, watching stupid shows on TV was how we used to bond. Because it was easier to share opinions on things that didn't matter than to share deep thoughts about real life.

I observed that, even when my Mom could manage the couch for a bit of time before she had to retire, quite early in the evening, I felt very reluctant to actually sit next to her. It just didn't feel natural.

My relationship with her had always been fraught. Every time she opened her mouth to speak to me, I cringed and braced myself, "What critical, hurtful words will I hear now?"

We just never had that kind of loving closeness that I read about that other mothers and daughters have.

Even when I realized that every visit could be our last reunion, I could not bring myself to sit with her. I'd pull a chair up and situate it close to the couch where she was sitting. But the thought of actually sitting beside her on the couch itself brought on great anxiety.

Of course, this led to gnawing guilt. 

Until the last day, when it was time for me to fly back, to being, again, 7,000 miles away from my aging parents.

I sat down next to my Mom on the couch then. There was a look of innocence about her, childlike, a bit lost. I was touched. Allowing love to take over, I put my arms around her, and I kissed her on the cheek, multiple times, while bidding her farewell in a consoling manner. I talked to her as if I was the parent and she was the child, as if I was leaving for work, and I wanted her to know that she was loved, that she was not being abandoned, that it was just something I had to do.

She raised her bony hand and caressed me on the arm in our gentle embrace. She never said a word, just a wan smile. I squeezed her a bit tighter. It was real.

That was positively the single most tender, intimate moment we had ever shared. When we (my brother and I) were little, our parents and we hugged and kissed plenty. Somehow, with distance and time, we'd grown out of it. We'd forgotten how. It'd become awkward.

Sometimes I think about all the love that had been lost. But I'd like to remember that, the love was always there, just under the surface, even when we couldn't or didn't know how to express it.

And that was enough.

Phoenician

On Saturday we encountered a beautiful human being dining at the bar.

As soon as we arrived, he indicated there was an empty stool next to him if I wanted it for my purse.

Shortly after we'd been seated, he complimented me on my dress in a natural, sincere way. As I have said before, the kind of conversation kids start in kindergarten with no agenda and no reservation.

We got to chatting. Turned out he was working at the Pride event at the park nearby in the heart of the city. We briefly discussed food and drinks. He was very relaxed and open, not the cloying kind of positivity that's piled on.

He had rhinestone stickies on his face and piercing in his ear that resembled candy cane. Such slow-burning energy, the kind that the young exude which the old find enchanting to feed on. I understand now.

The event needed lights. A quick problem solver, he'd decided to Instacart it and have them delivered to the restaurant. And why not grab a meal (and a cocktail) while waiting?

He loved burrata, he said. He would never let it go to waste.

I thought, if I had a son, I would love if he was like this young man. I would ask for nothing more, not a thing to change. I'd be so proud of him.

On his way out, he stopped to extend felicitations to a birthday girl situated next to RJ. Lively conversation ensued. Such kindness and warmth.

I wanted to be friends. How I would love to stay in touch. But... what do you say these days? How to ask? It would all be awkward. 

There is no protocol on platonic overtures. I haven't been trained.

And so it was all I could do to watch him walk away and out of my life. Forever.

I did not even know his name.

As he strolled to exit, carrying his takeout box of unfinished supper like a good boy, the setting sun was on him, rendering him backlit, like a legend. He was to work till midnight, maybe past it. His evening was only beginning. And ours was ending soon.

A metaphor of life as well.

Slim

My Aunt Teresa came from the orphanage to my mother's house as a servant. I hadn't been born yet.

Abandoned by her own mother during WWII and verbally and physically abused by the nuns running the orphanage, Aunt Teresa grew up with very low self-esteem.

Eventually she married my (mentally ill) uncle, my mother's oldest brother. But her role as a servant never quite changed. As the size of the household grew, she worked for easily 18 hours a day. Back-breaking work. Even as a child, I observed that she had very little respect from the people who were supposed to be her family, the only family she ever had.

I made a point to praise her. It evolved into a lifelong motto of giving credit where credit is due.

There was very little commending from the rest of the family, the least of all my mother (I should know).

Fast forward a few decades. Aunt Teresa is in a home after she broke her femur and is no longer bipedally mobile. My parents are in their 80's and aging rapidly. I am 6,000 miles away, as I have been since I was 16.

Even before Aunt Teresa was confined to a home, reaching her was challenging as she never learned to use a smart phone. After her mother-in-law and husband passed away, she had been living alone for a long while, in a flat with 4 bedrooms and two baths (very generous in that part of the world). A space of ghosts and quietude. Of course, she had her friends from church, and she did her volunteer work 7 days a week, more dedicated than you would a regular job. But when I would visit, I could see the blankness behind those eyes sometimes. Nothing can take the place of family, even if they have mistreated you in the past.

During COVID lockdown, for extended periods of time the home did not allow visitors at all. I shudder to imagine the isolation one must feel. After reopening, my parents gradually ceased to be as mobile as they used to be. Eventually they are not able to visit Aunt Teresa even if they want to. I tend to feel that, for all that Aunt Teresa has suffered and sacrificed for, both as a Roman Catholic and a human being, her God certainly has not rewarded her with much. I know that the one thing she's craved is love. She hasn't had her fair share. She will spend her final years alone, without family, just as she did as a child.

Yesterday, my cousin Jojo, the only person who is still able to visit Aunt Teresa semi-regularly, shared with us in a group chat a couple of photos of Aunt Teresa showing off a multimedia piece of art she had created: a tin decorated with many colorful, shiny trinkets. It was really quite attractive. Jojo said Aunt Teresa seemed proud of her work. As she should be, I thought. I felt proud of her. Wish I could tell her in person.

My mother and an aunt in the group started to chime in, actually praising Aunt Teresa. 

"So talented!" My mother exclaimed. "I had no clue!"

I was incredulous. NOW you have nice things to say? Aunt Teresa would never see these praises as she does not own a smart phone. And her memory is fading. If you fill her in a week after the fact, it likely does not mean much.

Where was this approval when she needed it in decades past?

But these days sometimes I stop the judgment and wonder: what caused a person's behavioral pattern? Those stingy with praises probably did not receive praises themselves growing up.

So. Much. Hurt. We deal each other.

Can't Twitter or Facebook 11

Not that I would tweet anymore... But this was the series of not being able to share on social media.

#TFW you find out some of those in your circle whom you once considered close friends, intelligent, cool individuals, turn out to be right-winged nuts.

Maybe they always were right-winged nuts, just never spoke up. Maybe I missed all the signs? No, pretty sure there were no signs.

And they could say the same about those of us who identify as liberal.

The divisiveness... How I wish we could bridge. It is heartbreaking. And dangerous.

When those who are unfit to rule are in power, when the populace is blind to their inadequacies and ambition - what a paradox BTW! What's to become of the world?

I don't feel safe. Far from it.

Sacre

I needed to write this. I had stopped writing, thinking, "What's the point?" It just seemed silly to be gushing anymore. Besides, having read the likes of John Irving, and listened to the likes of Joy Reid, I think, Who am I kidding? I am not a writer! I am barely an intellect.

I have suppressed the need to write in the past year or so (?)

And then, something life-changing happened, yet again.

Last summer, I revisited the town where I grew up, and the family I hadn't seen in 4 years, thanks to the pandemic known as COVID. I made a plan to visit more often. So I did, again in February this year.

Aunt Teresa is now in a home. My vibrant, beloved Aunt Teresa, who was my primary caretaker, one of the very few people on earth whose name I have not altered on this blog.

One just never knows when is the last time. The last time I walked with her the park known to the locals as "Pigeon Nest"; the last time I treated her to tea, complete with symphony cake; the last time she walked.

She's in a home because she no longer walks.

When I visited her this past winter, at one point I crouched to adjust her pants and to pull up her socks, because slivers of her calves were being exposed to the cold. I get it. It is not easy for the orderlies to fix up everything after they have gotten you to the toilet, cleaned you up, and hoisted you back in your wheelchair. Clothes get bunched up, inevitably. 

As I bowed down before my aunt in this manner, busying myself at her feet, I felt a tender hand on my head, patting, almost gingerly. I looked up and it was Aunt Teresa, petting me, lovingly but uncertainly, like a child with a stray dog, almost with pity.

My heart completely melted at the moment. I didn't think I'd had a truer connecting moment with a human being since childhood. And even then...

Fast forward to this fall, my third visit since resuming after the global pandemic.

My mother's health is fast deteriorating. She has many ailments, and she's grown quite frail in her old age. She's been solely dependent on my Dad to get by each day even ten years before. Her condition has only gotten worse. She's lost a lot of weight, never has appetite, and everything pains her. She now practically does not leave the house except to go to doctors' appointments.

I tell my boss (to justify my frequent leaves of absence) that 1 year to older folks are like 5 to regular adults. It is true.

My Mom is still very much plagued by OCD and idiosyncrasies, and the assumption that all should bend to her will. But she's also become less controlling somewhat because she's no longer physically able. Sometimes when she smiles and laughs, I now see the child in her, which I never saw before.

How can you get mad at a child?

Both my parents have gotten much more emotional in their 80's, more remarkably in my Mom's case, because she's been so emotionally constipated up till this point. The guardedness has worn off to some extent, and she verbalizes how she feels more readily. Some might say it's typical to revert to childlike qualities at this stage, closing the circle of life. But still phenomenal in my book.

On one occasion, as my mother and I are seated in my parents' bed, half-heartedly watching TV before bedtime, I forget what the trigger was, but she reached out with her very bony hand and brushed my cheek, smiling brightly and innocently. Like she cherished me and was really happy I was there. I was moved, and naturally reached out to her cheek as well. It was such a tender moment. Honestly I can't say I'd ever had one with her earlier in life.

On one hand, I am so grateful, I am incredulous. On the other, Why has it taken 50+ years for us to have a loving relationship? Only when she is near death's steps.

But... to have had love at all... is truly a gift.

I've read recently that love is not lost. It is never lost. It helps to remember that, since time is not linear, every moment is ALWAYS there. As you are living, you are also already dead, and you are also unborn. Savor every moment as if it's eternity, because it is.

Quote 304

Help me create ever-enduring love
from my persistent dissonance with the world.

- Czeslaw Milosz

And You May Quote Me 68

 Her longing was as unrelenting as the Arctic sun in August.

Quote 303

It is not easy to find happiness in ourselves,
and it is not possible to find it elsewhere.

- Agnes Repplier

The Big Terrible Thing

I've been reading Matthew Perry's memoir, and it's been affecting me more profoundly than I would have imagined. I become very emotional at times, so much so that I've wanted to drink to alleviate the pain I so relate to and feel deeply.

It is very curious, this trigger. I haven't exactly struggled with the temptation that is drinking since I became "clean" on Jan 22 this year.

But on Dec 22, exactly 11 months since striving relatively free of demons, I did slip up and have a multi-beverage night. I had been having major anxiety at work, having shitty feelings about life in general. So I gave in. It was days and days of shitty feelings leading up to it. The next morning, I had a terrible hangover which lasted till 3:30 p.m. Just like the old days. I had forgotten how terrible hangovers were.

The light research I've done on addiction has piqued my interest even more. Some older notions are being challenged these days apparently, such as an "addictive personality". Also, addiction is a spectrum, like many other things. This is news to me and very eye-opening.

Matthew Perry's dis-ease, as he called it, was way, way on one end of the spectrum. To learn all about his difficult journey is gut-wrenching, all the more so since he has died in October this year. All hope is now lost.

The book was published in 2022. He seemed to be doing so well. And then a year later: dead.

I've heard someone recommend the audible book version of his memoir as Perry had done the reading himself. I can imagine: his story, his delivery, brutal honesty with humor - that would be killer. "Just like listening to a friend," that blogger had said. I couldn't bring myself to listen to his voice now. Not this story. That would be too heartbreaking.

I think about how charming he was as Chandler on Friends, not in a contrived, I-know-I-am-awesome way, but with a vulnerability that was very endearing. RJ had this endearing quality when we met (and still does), and I married him.

A lot of people have posted about Perry since his unexpected demise which occurred only a couple of months after his 54th birthday. Almost every one of those posts has made me tear up. There's just something about how he's hidden his pain all his life, how alone he's felt, that really resonates.

He writes that he could be fine all day, but going to bed alone terrified him. That was totally me! He drank himself to a stupor so he didn't have to ponder this loneliness. Me! Leave him alone in an apartment in front of the TV at night, and the devil that is alcoholism moves in fast. This gal! 'Cept for me it was the computer monitor.

And after a while you choose to be alone to hide the shame and guilt that comes with drinking, and the need to drink. And that leads to more loneliness, which leads to more drinking.

I never planned to drink nightly for 18 fucking years. It's unbelievable.

And when I read Perry's memoir, it's believable. It makes me remember. He hits the nail on the head.

I am lucky it did not take as much effort and peril before I turned back. Stepped away from the sinking ship. Took long enough, though.

When we are suffering and we believe we are suffering alone (as often is the case with humans), much harmful behavior can arise (toward ourselves as well as others).

Every once in a while I miss oblivion - the state of bliss of not caring and not hurting which alcohol helped ascending to (or winding down to). But now I know that is not a solution. When you sober up, your problems are waiting for you.

These days I am addicted to caffeine and sugar. Not ruining my life, but I can't function without the daily intake. 

Cue the best Bond movie title, The World is Too Much. To me, the world is always a bit overwhelming. People are. Got to ease the central nervous system and attempt at a semblance of euphoria somehow.

There are worse things to get hooked on. Hell, even Perry put his foot down and wouldn't touch heroin.

This said, I am going to study addiction for a while. Mighty intriguing.

If only more of us could be enlightened and okay on our own and didn't need any damned mind-altering agents to get through the day! 

Perry believed in God and the afterlife. I don't. But if his consciousness remained in existence in one form or another, he'd be pleased to know that his book continues to help people obtain insight and likely will for a long time. In this sense, he is immortal. And he doesn't have to wonder about his worth any longer. He is, indeed, more than enough.

And You May Quote Me 67

Between the minerality of blood and the je ne sais quoi of phlegm, I thought I'd tasted oyster.

The Upside of Anger

I have said in the past that anger is my least favorite emotion.

There's cultural influence too. We've been conditioned to regard anger as a negative emotion not to indulge in. 

It's like if you get angry, you're a bad person.

I've certainly been trained to think this.

In the past two years I have sought to understand anger so that it does not rule or ruin me.

It is very human to feel angry. All emotions serve a purpose. You will find that, as evolution has it, all comes back to survival. Instead of labeling an emotion "positive" or "negative", it is more helpful to understand each emotion's purpose.

It seems that in my case anger tends to fester to protect my psyche from having to deal with other, more difficult emotions, such as fear.

Once I realize this, it becomes a daily exercise to hit pause when anger wells up, to take a breather and examine what the underlying emotion is. Sometimes it's sadness that anger is masking.

The underlying emotions may not be obvious at first. Words like "injustice" or "helplessness" or "unappreciated" may come to mind. Dig deeper, and you'll get to what's under those.

Why does rejection feel like such a big deal? Because in ancient times, being shunned by your clan literally meant death.

Once you get to that next level of emotions, you'll often find that they are all about survival. That's how we are programmed. When we see that, we can forgive our brains.

Suppressing or ignoring anger definitely does NOT work. It will just resurface with a vengeance, adding resentment to the mix. "Venting" may seem to help at first glance. But there is a high likelihood of leading to more violent manifestations since the deep-seated anger has not dissipated. If anything, it's been given permission to escalate. Instead, if we acknowledge the emotions hidden behind anger, like magic, anger instantly cools off and loses its potency.

That "A-ha!" moment can be transformative.

A bonus is I find myself more mindful of when I have taken, or am about to take my frustration out on someone. When we do this, it's usually with someone close. Yes, it's those closest to us we hurt the most, because who else have we got? Thus it is critical to know oneself, to know where that anger is stemming from, and not attribute this emotion to an unrightful source.

My relationship with anger has changed. Not to say I never seethe and become blind with rage. But with practice I'm able to pull back and observe before the pesky amygdala goes berserk on me. Or, if I do go overboard, I can regroup after the fact and gain some insight, and hopefully do better next time. Sometimes there is a comic effect when I notice how absurd the whole thing is.

Oh, the human condition. Gotta luv it.

Throes 2

When I was working at the startup Rumble* 10 years ago, Moiselle** the CEO was my mentor. As I mentioned then, 2 decades my junior, she was driven and brilliant. Time would prove that she was meant to thrive professionally. She went on to make national news, interviewed by various magazines.

I think about this moment often:

On my fist day of training, I posited a difficult scenario which had no obvious solution, and asked Moiselle what one was to do.

"You figure it out," she replied, after pausing for only a second. 

She had this look on her face that I would never forget which is hard to describe.

Years later, I would realize that you are hired to solve problems. Your value as an employee lays herein. Entrepreneurs solve BIG problems. The bigger the problems you solve, the larger the monetary reward.

This is a novel idea, to say the least, to someone who is in the habit of running away from problems as long as she can remember.

Fast forward to about two weeks ago. On our weekly conference call with the 'rents, my brother W told this story of how every country has its own tax laws which may seem very convoluted to an outsider. For instance, even as close as Canada: W apparently has had coworkers explain the ins and outs to him, and (as intelligent as W is) the details are over his head, he reports.

I was all too eager to agree. My current colleague and friend JL and myself have mused time and again: "Home is where you know how to pay your power and water bill, and taxes." Learning these skills all over if one moves to a new country (or even just another state) elicits immediate pain and aversion.

As I made this statement on this day, W jovially conferred, "No, I mean, it may take a while - 6 months tops, perhaps, but I'll figure it out."

There it was, the exact phrase edged in my brain, courtesy Moiselle, from 10 years ago.

In awe and wonderment, I thought to myself, "Indeed, this is the difference between a successful person and one who's not - the mindset."

*Not its real name
**Not her real name

Chiaroscuro 2

Can't believe that it's been a year and a half since I last blogged. Certainly was not my intention.

In my soi disant content research I started to feel many things weren't worthy to write about, especially when I knew so little.

Only yesterday I opened my folder to see what subjects I had touched upon, roughly in this order:

Body language
Deception
Boredom, burnout, depression
Evoluntionary necessity of laughter
Anger
Self-esteem
Compassion
Self-compassion
Mental well-being
Emotional intelligence
Purpose
Stress management
Zen
Mindfulness
Interbeing
Grief
Anxiety
Anger

Yes, anger did appear twice.

As a result of this unintended 1.5-year, ongoing research, overall I have learned some tools to deal with unhelpful thoughts. I have learned that feelings are not "good" or "bad", that brushing away pain does not heal it.

As a result, I have stopped abusing alcohol for about 10 months now. I saw a therapist again this spring and summer, after a 15-year hiatus. Back in the day, as soon as healthcare professionals learned of my drinking habit, that was all they would focus on. This year, by contrast, my therapist actually agreed with me that the problem is in your mind (not to downplay addiction as a powerful thing). When my thinking changed, I didn't need the crutch anymore. And that's the keyword: you may "want" to drink, but you don't "need" it.

And this was something that I had always believed in. (I'm aware a lot of addicts swear they can stop.) I believe I can have control in how much to drink, if I choose to drink (as I did when I was young, when my mind was in a good place). Unlike the traditional all-or-nothing mantra with the likes of AA where you can never touch a drop again. Yes, I believed in my will power.

And turned out I was right.

So that's something.

Quote 302

 Vengeance is a distorted cry for empathy.

- Marshall B. Rosenberg

Rapeseed

Back in the day, consent was not a thing. By extension, we are all children of rape. (Great, great, great grandchildren of rape.)

And there is nothing great about that.

I read an article (probably in the New York Times magazine) in recent years that all the suffering and trauma your ancestors went through are in your blood. If your clan has endured generations of tragedy, it's always with you.

In the early 80's, I prolifically read Ni Kuang, one of the most influential authors in Hong Kong who was known for sci-fi sagas. In a particular collection of short stories, the first one featured was titled "Rape".

I was a tween or in my early teens, and immediately captivated.

The rape victim displays your expected PTSD telltale signs: withdrawal, jumpiness, depression...

As the story unfolds, we learn that there has been no physical rape, but a rape of the mind. Constant, daily, inescapable rape that is how society imposes on and fucks with you.

At the time, I snickered. Oh, please. Drama queen. 

As of late, as I feel suffocated and trapped at my current job, hating most minutes of the day, resenting having to do things I don't want to do, don't agree with, don't enjoy doing, cursing that my time is not mine - my life is not mine... Looking forward to 5 o'clock each day, looking forward to the weekend... Until weekends don't even bring joy anymore... Concluding this is no way to live...

Yes, when you have no control over what shit gets shoved your way, what your body must do, even as it aches and burns, muscles inflamed and torn, your being stretched as if racked in medieval times, spread thinner and thinner until you're certain you are going to break, but you don't break, you subsist and writhe on... One more day. And another, and another...

Indeed. I feel raped. Over and over.

Ni Kuang was right all along.

Jumbo 2

I joke with RJ that sobriety is not all that it's cracked up to be.

Most days are dreary with a stifling sense of despair.

On Mother's Day I reached out to a widow, thinking it might benefit her. There are actually several widows in my life now. But only one is a stranger.

It became obvious that the widow did not need to hear from me. I needed her more that she did me.

I knew her husband but had never met her. He was a popular guy. Big heart, family man, great sense of humor. His departure from the earthly realm was sudden and shook the community.

The theme of my senior prom was "The Best is Yet to Come". I fully believed it at the time.

Now I am sure the best is all behind me, and I have somehow missed it.

My date and I were the last to leave the dance floor. We had one last slow dance while the chaperones looked on. I wanted time to flow slower. It felt like we were the only two people in the world.

Back in the limousine, on a high, I suggested that we drive around until dawn.

Shyly, my date murmured, "The car is only paid through 1 a.m."

I felt defeated then. One of what I considered the early pangs of "poverty".

My parents were not rich but they indulged us with a lifestyle that was the envy of most of our peers. I realize now that I got to equate someone showering me with material things with love.

Honestly I am not sure how I can be happy if we cannot afford to go out, dine out, travel, etc. Sure, I always could stop and smell the roses. That was my thing: to find beauty in everyday life. But in the long run, everyday life is lackluster. It is not a unique experience to need to get away from the mundane, is it?

With my ex Hulmes, one of our favorite things to do was to get lost. This was long before the internet and smart phones. We'd literally start driving and didn't care where we'd end up. It was such a carefree, wild existence. Oh, the sweet state of being young and oblivious.

Later in life it was only when we were away from home, when we could forget our troubles, that we could be happy. I started realizing that, when we ran away from problems, the problems were always there when we returned.

I have been getting antsy again lately, decades since those woeful days with Hulmes.

Part of the predicament is the blurred lines between work and home life, the obliteration of boundaries, since working from home due to the pandemic. My mental health has greatly suffered. My home is no longer my sanctuary.

Even with a loving, supportive husband, it has been a struggle. I feel ever so lonely. More lonely than ever. You'd think that a lifelong introvert would be good at being alone. I am. It is not the same thing.

When I was a kid the loneliest moment was going to bed alone, and pining for my primary caretaker to be done with her day.

I recently realized that I still dread going to bed alone. I'd tell RJ, "It's lonely in there," pointing to the bedroom. And it's worse now that I don't drink. Because with a "night cap", who cares? I'd be out like a light.

I have been sober for only roughly three weeks. I've feared that, when one of us stops drinking, our relationship is going to be altered.

Are we teetering? Maybe I am teetering. I don't know anything anymore. Probably never did.

Jumbo

The past six months I have busied myself in an unprecedented manner and yet not been very productive. I find myself chastising myself for consuming content instead of creating it.

There is no fantasy, no escape, no happy place. 

Been many things I should have blogged about. All seemed pointless. 

Some months ago I found out that my (maternal) grandfather was not a pushover. Due to his suicide, I might have pigeonholed him with stereotypes. He was no helpless wimp, no wallflower. He stood up for his friends. Like a scene from a movie starring De Niro and Pacino. He confronted some mob boss, all on his own. Mano a mano.

So that's something.

I learned that my (paternal) grandfather had been a sailor at some point. I had known only that he was a fisherman.

Turned out both my grandfathers had been fishermen at some point.

Last weekend I went chasing fatayer (when it was introduced to me, eight years ago, it was spelled "fatayir"). No matter. It was not fatayer I'd missed, but my Palestinian friends. I found my fatayer. They were not nearly as delicious as I remembered them.

I miss having friends.

I recall two instances of bonding with someone by bursting into song at the same time. There is laughter. That utmost absurdity of a real life musical moment that's genuine and fierce. And comical.

I miss bonding with people.

Most people act like the pandemic is over, that the virus doesn't exist, or is no longer deadly. 

This isolation has changed me. But I feel blameless, and there is no one to blame. I feel like I have been voluntarily imprisoning myself. With no end in sight.

I quit drinking about three weeks ago. To make a good story, I am going to say I quit on Cinco de Mayo. How ironic, no? It actually might have been on the 4th. 

Actually probably shouldn't say "quit" because I will probably get back to it.

JD used to say "When you take away the booze, all that remains is depression".

I feel numb. Everyday I walk and feel like a moping zombie. When I was bipolar at least there were some ups along with the downs. Now it's a flatline.

I feel that I should go to a support group. But what am I supporting?

I've had so many labels for so long. I feel utterly lost.

I thought being sober I'd magically feel healthier. I do not.

Had a conversation with IA, my best friend from high school, and learned that her brother, who I am going to call PW, had been diagnosed to be on the spectrum. (I may have blogged about them before and it is near impossible to search what I might have called them prior.)

The news put me in a dark place for a few days. I am self-diagnosed on the spectrum. PW and I used to be friends. I valued his friendship A LOT. It was like a bleeding wound calling for my attention again.

I wrote IA a letter. She responded with more facts and questions. I promised to write another letter to address. And never did.

I still might get to it.

How did I become such a giant waste of life?

When I have thought about doing something I love for a living, I have thought, perhaps I could write. But. If you write one bestseller, it doesn't stop there. You've got to write another, and another. Did you know that?

My favorite author is Agatha Christie. I used to think it was special that I loved her. Turned out no. She's outsold by only the Bible and Shakespeare. So she must be a lot of folks' favorite author.

Agatha Christie has written 80 crime mysteries plus plays and short stories. Let's say her career spanned 6 decades. That is A LOT of books.

I watched a documentary on Christie. I think she'd get an idea for a story, then pour her time and energy for a few months dedicated to finishing the book and getting it published. Then she's set for a year. Then it starts all over again.

Even if I was talented and had endless ideas (I am not lazy I swear!) that sounds exhausting. I dunno.

When studying the habits of successful people I am forced to face that I do not share these habits. Of course, they'll tell you that habits can be cultivated.

I dunno. That sounds exhausting.

Oh, the thought of being doomed to a lifetime of ordinary!

I tell RJ time and again that I pity the one who has to write my obituary. There will be nothing to say.

No friends. No family. No achievements.

RJ has reminded me, "There need not be an obituary."

Every week is a roller coaster of confidence and diffidence. "I can do this! I can still make a change!" to "I can't do this! I am fucked."

Henry Ford is credited to have said:
"Whether you think you can, or you think you can't – you're right."

I am a big girl. I don't need rescuing. But I am not sure I can save myself.