Glaced

I hope Denisse doesn't read this. I have no intention of causing distress. I still need to write as if nobody is reading. This is my last haven.

Yesterday Denisse and I went out for drinks. It'd been ages. We have so many fond memories of meeting for happy hour, getting really happy, bonding over a drink, or two, or four if we're out dancing at clubs. What good times we've had! They feel brief now in hindsight. But I wouldn't trade them for anything.

We went to this hip and happening strip that we'd been to many times. I used to be able to pretend that I belonged. For some time, it felt like that we did, be it a chilly Saturday night or a warm Sunday afternoon. I'd be so charged, I could skip.

We weren't as carefree on this day. But I did enjoy being outside and the people-watching. We'd joked over lunch, "Who cares about food? The ultimate goal is the drinking." Denisse had laughed. And she'd lamented that, if drinks were two hours away, it was too long.

At last, after strolling past many stores whose goods we couldn't afford, we settled at a cool, open-air bar. We selected our cocktails. They were artisanal and delicious. Our bartenders were friendly and cute. I savored each mouthful, careful not to oversip. I looked around at this beautiful place and stared out at the glaring sun. I was happy.

Denisse wasn't talking. Our "usual" was that we'd open up after a few sips and bitch about whatever had been bugging us, or be sharing silly anecdotes. We'd get giddy. We'd giggle.

But Denisse stayed quiet. I wasn't sure: did the alcohol bring her down? Or was I just now noticing -

Well, I did get giddy. After telling Denisse that my parents had been up to something, hiding the true reason they hadn't been around for our weekly Skype calls, I noticed our reflections on the chrome surface of a beer tap right in front of us. Full funhouse effect. I took a photo and laughed. I promised I'd post it later.

"You're easy," said Denisse, referring to the effect of one single drink on me. I confessed that when I am out drinking, it doesn't take much. The last time I met up with Jean Henri, I had only two glasses of wine over the course of over two hours. I was so high, I had to be mindful taking a short trip to the restroom so as not to stumble. It was embarrassing. Also exhilarating.

My theory is that our mindset BEFORE the intake matters. (Not an original insight, I realize.) If you're already in a good mood, having a few sips can elevate that mood exponentially. If you're drinking to drown your sorrows, and I speak from experience, of course, ain't no magic potion gonna lift your spirit. Primo champagne is not gonna make you happy if you're not already happy.

Which reminds me of the sad fact that so many of us with an addiction circle back in search of that high. No substance can get you back there. Nothing beats sweet memories. Nothing will compare.

And so it hit me: Denisse wasn't happy.

I've known this for quite some time. She is not UNhappy. But she is definitely not happy by definition. Even though this pseudo-epiphany caused no consternation, it saddened me.

I told her that her drink was weak compared to mine (we'd tasted each others').

Comes to memory one of the nights early in my friendship with the now deceased Sherry (so many nights were a blur). I forget the context, but I said something to the effect of "You have to surrender and become susceptible to your poison", which made Sherry laugh her hearty laugh. It was a great memory, making my friend laugh.

Years ago, when I experienced heartbreak like I'd never experienced heartbreak before, I couldn't believe the pain. How EVERY second would hurt. There was no relief. I wanted to curl up in fetal position and rock myself to oblivion. I came across one of those quotes that seemed such pearls of wisdom. Little did I know that some time later they would be a dime a dozen on Pinterest and the like.

The quote was:
Everything is going to be okay in the end.
If it is not okay, it is not the end.

I was blown away. It offered solace, a respite from the unrelenting pain I was acutely feeling.

Now I chew on it. "The end". That's death, isn't it? So are we saying, in essence, we're all looking forward to "the end"? The end of our daily struggle, the end of not knowing what fucks you next, the end of suffering? The end of our last breath.

Buddha offers a path to end suffering while one is on this earth. But that's too much work. What works for me is knowing "This, too, shall pass." And when it all passes, it's the end of the road. We'll get there, all in good time.

I care for Denisse like a sister. It is unsettling, the knowledge of her unhappiness. But we are all unhappy one way or another (except those enlightened creatures amongst us). RJ is unhappy, I'm unhappy. I know my love can't fix unhappy. And I'm okay with that. But I am also happy, in my own way. You can be both. It's not contradictory. Human beings are complicated.

I just hope that Denisse, in her unhappiness, lives with happiness as well. Our time on earth is a constant battle. But what is the alternative? The end.

Dogeared

I hope, when I am not engaging, Alley knows that it is not her. It is me.

Alley is a good dog. So docile. Couldn't be more submissive. I reminisce the times she and I would run out the backyard on a hot summer night, both of us naked, and just run around like maniacs. I'd run, pretending that I could out run her. She'd get a kick out of it. I'd call out to her, and she'd come. Sometimes she got so excited she'd paw me and scratch up my thigh. Oh, good times.

We had a sizable backyard then. It was not ours. It was rented. But it was ours.

And now we're all cooped up in a condo. It affects all of us. RJ grew up in a rural area when he ran around exploring hills and streams all day, just like my father, a fisherman's son, did, growing up. RJ is a lot like my father in temperament. Go figure. You marry your parent of the opposite sex if you're hetero, right? Textbook.

Imagine the guilt. Going from that kind of openness to having to take the elevator all day just to walk the dog. None of the serenity. It's a fall from grace.

Dog's older now. She doesn't play catch anymore. I drive by the park in our old neighborhood once a week when I see my new acupuncturist. It is where we used to take Alley and send her off-leash. RJ threw the ball so far. She ran so fast you couldn't see her legs. She and her crazy eyes. There is this wonderful photo of her in which she's catching a ball in midair. She is closer to the photographer than RJ. It is as if she is levitating. She appears monstrous. A freak of nature.

These days I rally to take Alley somewhere where she can be set off-leash, at least once a week. But it doesn't always work out. And it's not the same. A dog needs to be off-leash, dammit. It's their nature. Freedom, however brief, is the least we can give her.

So many fond memories, the three of us. Those years at the house were the best times of my life. The way I'm taking a trip down memory lane now, you'd think she's dead. She is not. It'll be terrible when she dies.

I hope, when I am not engaging, Alley knows that it is not her. It is me.

Grimace

2 weekends ago, RJ and I went to a wedding & spent the weekend away. I had dreaded it and looked forward to it. When we came back, I suffered from "bone-crushing" depression, as JD used to call it.

In the almost 7 years since RJ and I had been together, I hadn't experienced depression this bad. Unshakable, thick - rendered me lost in despair and compelled me to question my existence. Thoughts of suicide returned. I was weepy for no reason. I had been struggling with a cold. Lethargic and devoid of joy, I wanted to call in sick. Forever.

The first two days after our return home, I couldn't even articulate any thoughts. RJ would ask me, "Are you okay?" I would shake my head. We would hug. I couldn't explain if I wanted to. Late at night, RJ would ask, "What is it?" I said, "So many things."

The overwhelming sadness and the conviction that the sadness was uncalled for and therefore did not matter - tormented me.

It had been a beautiful wedding - the town was beautiful, and we were surrounded by beautiful, friendly, kind people. I cherish times like this, simple, sweet moments with pseudo family, as moments with real family are few and far between, and riddled with anxiety.

Despite everything, I love weddings. Even at my most jaded, seeing two people in love and surrounded by their supportive families, now joined as one, always filled me with hope and faith in the human race in general. This particular weekend was intensified as these are people that RJ cares about, his blood (and extended blood). Even when family can be complicated, love knows no bounds.

The trigger might have been Quimby, RJ's stepdaughter, of whom he is very fond. They have a special relationship unconstrained by typical parental authoritative dynamics. She was about 7 when RJ became a fixture in her life. RJ reminesces, in amazement, how weightless and fast she was as a gymnast at that age. As Amelia gleefully recalls, at age 10 Quimby would piggyback-ride on RJ. They just have this closeness. He watched her blossom into a attractive, highly successful woman. Even though they don't see each other often, whenever they do get together, they never skip a beat.

Several years ago, Quimby moved to the Big City from another where she'd had a penthouse loft and a promising career. She works hard and parties hard and is not afraid of change. Name a major cultural (cool) event and she's been there. Name a daredevil, death-defying activity and she's done it. She's a connoisseur of sorts, has great taste in food, wine, clothes and men.

She has a bucket list and she enjoys adding to it as she crosses things off on the regular. She's a go-getter, a doer, and mover and a shaker. She's the kind of person whose dating profile I'd read and be like, Seeesh, What CAN'T you do? Gimme a break!

But Quimby and I get along. For the most part. I feel that I bore her, though. She's just too refined.

Over time, resentment grew. It started small. I recognized it right away. I shared my sentiments with RJ and acknowledged how irrational I was being: I was jealous. Plain and simple.

And yet I haven't been able to outgrow the resentment. I see her updates on Facebook and she's literally The Most Interesting Woman in the World.

Why would I even compare myself to this unattainable ideal of a woman? I'm not that person. I am not driven. I struggle to be social. I don't make friends easily. I'm no Quimby and never will be. All my traits I have known for years. Why let them bother me now?

I was here first, I thought. I was supposed to conquer the city, do all the fun things. And Quimby just swooped in and I'm nobody.

You know what Eleanor Roosefelt has been quoted to have said, "Nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent." So really it is just my pesky insecurity that never left.

I had a few years of super confidence, when I was rail-thin. Since thin is often equated with beautiful in our society, I rode that wave. I was fearless. But it was all a delusion. Confidence should not ride on looks. It should ride on substance.

So back to that age-old quandary of not feeling intrinsic worth.

The night of the wedding, as guests danced the night away, I found myself aching to join in. I had missed dancing so much. A few glasses of wine down, I mustered up courage to approach the floor.

By now Quimby had become BFF's with the groom's right-hand woman as well as the two bridesmaids. Of course she had. I had watched from a distance like a hopeless stalker, wishing I could be like them, dancing like no one was watching, having a grand time, 'cause the night was young, and they were young, and all was beautiful.

Later I would learn that Quimby had Spotified the playlist that night, tapping into her DJ persona. She had masterminded the entire musical backdrop! Of course she had.

I stared at her blond curls, red lips, 5-inch heels and what looked like a 22-inch waist.

Long story short, I didn't dance. I retreated like a cowardly soldier abandoning a post.

What was I thinking? I was never a cool girl. I never fit in.

Recollections of my teenage years surfaced: I always feel the loneliest in a crowd. Introverted and awkward by nature, I didn't yearn to hang out at gatherings. Best size groups were a party of 4, myself included, or fewer. Preferably fewer.

Years later RJ and I would come to the realization that we were both introverts by definition. We'd always had an easy relationship and accepted each other as we were. We hadn't grasped how similar to the core we were. I am not sure even Amelia, brilliant and disturbingly observant as she is, has noticed.

One night over the wedding weekend, Amelia and I had an uncomfortable (for me) conversation circling back to RJ's infidelity when they were married.

"He was always searching for something different," she offered, still appearing perplexed.

I wasn't sure about "different". She pondered and semi-concurred. "Something," she reiterated.

Pretty sure he was still looking for himself. Like me, he had been lost. Now we are lost together.

After two doses of St. John's Wort (the stuff really works for me and RJ), I was able to start talking about what I referred to as my "post-holiday blues". That's easier to deal with than a brutal midlife crisis when doubting oneself is nothing new.

"Do you think you feel intimidated by people like Quimby and Amelia because they're successful and they've made so much of their lives?" Asked RJ.

My eyebrows furrowed and I thought hard. "Sure," I replied. "That's part of it." This didn't help.

It's occurred to me that at various stages of my life, I needed to create archenemies in order to feel alive. And by alive I mean sad and/or angry:
1. JY, my baby cousin who drew all the adults' attention from the rest of us.
2. Cool girls in high school.
3. Cool girls in college.
4. Cool girls at work.
5. Exes of exes who I imagine must be SO much cooler and funner than me.

I see a pattern here.

Wanting to be included and liked and the aversion I feel toward people is a killer combo. I've set up my own purgatory.

Most introverts work so hard to pass as, well, not. Because it is such a stigma. It is a congenital combination of personality traits. You can't fight it any more than you can eye color. Well, you can fight, but you can't change your configuration. You can fool them, though.

I have fooled the best of them. It gets exhausting. Sometimes I am filled with hatred for the pain that I feel. Toward people, toward myself, toward life. And I hate that I have these thoughts. The self-loathing continues.

There are good days when I don't think in extreme, negative terms. But I am never healed.

This afternoon, as I dove into writing as way of catharsis, I told RJ, "I'm exorcising demons." He nodded knowingly. Truth is: I can't exorcise my demons.

Recently, a friend of Amelia's (another cool kid in my book) posted grateful thoughts on therapy on Facebook. RJ called the post "effusive".

In a nutshell, the friend expressed that he would have saved so much money and have had some totally different, magnificent experiences, if he hadn't stuck with therapy for 25 years. (25 years! Did he really say that?) Yet he doesn't wish different. He is glad for the journey and for the person that he is today.

Sounds like such a cliché but it was very moving. And it touched a sore spot.

Perhaps I should have stuck with therapy. But what do I know.

Earlier, I came across an article in the New York Times by Lily Brooks-Dalton touching on love and loss, and going through rough patches. In the end, she wrote, "This isn’t the happy part of the story, but that’s O.K. This story isn’t finished."

It was utterly refreshing and it made me, dare I say, giddy inside. That is the bright side, isn't it.

I often joke that at least there's death to look forward to. Sounds morbid, but if it helps grappling with the day-to-day, why not? To each his/her own.

Sheen

It's been a long time since I've blogged, or written anything "real". I've wanted to, but it's felt like something futile and pointless to do. Times are changing. I don't feel nearly as anonymous or protected behind the computer screen. There's so much hate, the English language has evolved so much, political correctness has been elevated to such heights, I might as well censor every single thing that I have to say. And that would go against the entire notion behind the birth of this blog. Which is why I chose silence.

Besides, not like people read blogs anymore. So, basically, I fear that I won't be read. And at the same time, I fear that I will.

On the evolution of the English language, the other day, I asked RJ, "Is 'awesomesauce' one word?" It is. And why? And who cares?

In addition, my brain feels like molten lava at times. There's so much to get out, but the flow... yikes, it's like in slowmo. And back to the very cynical "What's the point?" I look at the world in general, and the country I live in. I question everything. Why am I here? In every sense of the word "here".

Not that this is new. I've been wondering the meaning of life since about age 9.

Taylor once asked, "Why must life have meaning?" That is a very good question. Why do some of us assume that life has to have meaning? So, yeah, the fact that this may actually be all random, an accident, and by the way, the universe IS going to end, just blows me away.

Denisse might be moving away. She's mentioned recently via text. But to hear her reiterate in person today was something else. The shock sank in quite a bit later.

Denisse moved out here 10 years ago (holy wow, it's been that long!) Today Denisse brought up the cliché that time flies. Yes, it does. My brother W, who is even more morbid than I, if that's possible, would follow that with, "Yeah and soon enough we're gonna die." We'd burst into boisterous laughter while I'd secretly find comfort in the knowledge that, yes, all this misery will end. And soon.

In merely 10 years a LOT of happy memories in my adult life have been thanks to Denisse. With her, I experienced SO much that I never would have otherwise. I more than made up for my boring 20's.

See how 10 years can be "that long" or "merely" depending on the perspective?

It is true we take for granted somebody is going to be around forever. You'd think that I would've learned this by my ripe old age. I forget.

Now, the move is still up in the air. But why put off grieving when you can start now? (Ha, ha.)

I don't do separation well. Never have. And nothing compels me to write like separation anxiety (and the pain and angst that comes with it).

I already do not have a lot of friends or family close by to begin with. Denisse and I, after our partying years, don't hang out as much. That's just part of growing up. But it's always been comforting knowing that she's near. The thought of not having her near anymore is pretty hard.

In fact I am all choked up and teary-eyed just "talking" about it.

I realize, though, while I value Denisse as a human being, not being able to, or not wanting to, part ways, has more to do with me than her, of course.

It is true. When you miss someone, you really miss how you used to feel when you were with that person. Realizing this has helped me get over the most painful breakups in my life.

Now I am not saying this is the case with Denisse. Speaking of pain, Denisse was there for me through some really tough times, both physically and emotionally speaking. I don't know what I would do without her.

We have all thought this: "I don't know what I would do without him/her." Give it time, though, you look back and you realize every time you have said that, you got through it just fine. Things are always easier in hindsight.

I know that no matter what happens, that's life, and I'll have to deal with it. Not much you can do about the changes in life anyway. It's all transient. You can kick and scream and what good would it do?

A Korean chef I used to work with comes to mind. Whenever there'd be something sucky, out of his control, against his wishes, he'd say, "No choice!" Indeed. No choice. It is not your choice. Life happens. You have to accept.

In the meantime, if you'll excuse me, I'll grieve.

Vignette 29

This morning RJ crept into bed in the wee hours, as he usually does.

I woke, as I usually do during those wee hours.

I studied his eyes. His eyes are one of the things I most relish about him. I couldn't quite focus on his face since he was too close, or so it seemed. Oh, those blue eyes. I wanted to stare into them every chance I got.

During the wee hours is when RJ is most alive. And happy.

"Are you surprised to see me?" He asked, with an endearing grin.

"Yeah!" I replied, always honest.

Taken aback for but one second, he said, "But I live here."

I smiled then. This is EXACTLY how I'd want it to go down - when his ghost visits me.

My Weight in Gold

Depression will never leave me. I understand that now. And that's okay.

Depression is largely cyclical now that my menses has returned, which makes it more predictable and somewhat manageable.

About a week ago, I came upon a brief paragraph that described what it was like to be anxious and depressed at the same time: the anxiety makes one restless, whilst the depression paralyzes one from doing anything to remedy, and that inability creates more anxiety, etc.

I couldn't have said it better. Although having been asked many times, I haven't considered myself "anxious" per se. But the paralyzed state and the guilt of not being able to do something, anything, I know very well indeed.

Denisse's wedding that was supposed to carry on in August didn't. Her fiancé, Guy*, who happens to be my age, for the first time in his life, had an epiphany, became introspective, and decided that he needed therapy as a person before he could take up more in life. For the first time, after years of being a pushover, he defied public opinion, stood up for himself and sought professional help.

The point of the story is that the therapist, among many other things, asked Guy if he was depressed.

"I'm not sure," Guy replied.

At this point of the account, as told to me by Denisse, she exclaimed, "Why would anyone answer yes?"

Whoa, what?

She went on to explain that in all her years of dealing with patients, NO ONE has ever answered yes to that question.

I was flabbergasted. "I did," I told Denisse. In fact that was the very reason I knew that I needed therapy those years back.

Guy and Denisse are working their way through their difficult times. When I saw Guy last, he seemed SO much happier than I'd seen him in such a long time. Maybe ever. He was smiling, making eye contact, being engaged, ALIVE.

I walked in that night to our scheduled dinner ready to hate him - a reasonable guttural response, one might concede. But, as soon as I saw how he'd blossomed and grown within a matter of days, all ill feelings vanished. I was so touched by the transformation, I felt genuinely proud of him and glad for him. I was able to see him as a person, once lost, trying to find his way. You know, not unlike me.

Such warm emotions overwhelmed me that I approached him, placed my palms on his shoulders, and with all sincerity, uttered to Guy, "I just wanted to give you some love." And I meant every word.

Soon after my parents left following their brief visit (another essay awaits, perhaps), Jean Henri*, whom I jokingly called my "work husband", was leaving the company. I don't do goodbyes well. Never did as a child, and at my ripe present age, apparently still don't. On top of this, a business associate with whom I had been communicating, become close friends with (or so I'd thought) was becoming distant and lukewarm. I reached out a couple of times, didn't try too hard, and considered it yet another lost cause.

In hindsight, the trifecta hit me harder than I had expected. It's been SO hard to make friends in the past decade or so. It's starting to feel futile: why even bother trying? People leave. They always do. (Abandonment issues.)

I go through extreme periods of how I deal with food - cooking like a maniac as if my life depended on it, or not cooking at all. Not being able to cook, that is, at all. Must I mention, again, that it is never about food. My current boss, Mila**, a remarkable woman and a wonderful boss, albeit sometimes narrow-minded, could never understand that. Having known me for only slightly over a year, she'd casually say, referring to me, "Oh, but you don't cook..." She means nothing of it. But those words hurt deeply. She doesn't know me at all, my ups and downs, all my struggles. Few do.

This past week, as told to RJ, "depression descended upon me like dense fog". Work is a nice distraction. But when I am home, I become bored, antsy, and don't know what to do with myself. It doesn't help knowing that there's a ton I could do. I didn't want to. Even though I desperately wanted to. Makes sense?

In the advent of our house guests' return for the remainder of the long weekend, yesterday, I resumed my reading. I was a little over two months behind in newspaper, magazines, and free publications that I religiously pick up weekly. Once I started, the flow was natural... even though, boy, you should  have seen my stack. The sight was quite intimidating.

This afternoon, after all the dust has settled, and all is quiet again, I sit at "my" table, my favorite reading spot. I think, Wow! I still love to read. I still feel enriched. I still have passion. I still have thirst! I guess I'm not a lost cause. What a relief!

I peacefully sit, read, and marvel. I don't take this peace for granted at all.


*Not his real name
**Not her real name

For Whom the Koshi* Tolls

Today I turn 44. Technically, since I was born in Asia, I turned 44 yesterday as of 9 a.m. Which means that I celebrate two days in a row.

I have felt 44 for quite some time now as I habitually round up. The number 44 seems significant - I am not sure why. The only remote reason that comes to mind is the legendary Chinese beauty Xi Shi 西施 who allegedly passed at age 44 - although the credibility is in question as the source of this claim is a relatively well-known tongue twister: 西施死時四十四 (a legit tongue twister in Mandarin only, as far as I know).

I am by no means hinting that I should find myself anywhere near the league of the renowned beauty. I have been called morbid. And there is just something about those who die young - they never stop haunting us (although 44 is arguably not young). So there you have it.

Last year, one of my oldest friends wished me a happy birthday on FB (I'd set my birth date invisible by then). Then of course came an onslaught of birthday wishes. It was bittersweet. Obviously one keeps this date from public view for a reason. I am, for the most part, not an attention seeker.

This year, said friend wised up. Along with those who truly know me, she PM'd me her well wishes instead. I appreciate that.

But it is still semi-bittersweet. The few days prior to my birthday, I couldn't help but feel forgotten. I wasn't hearing a peep (it was not unusual to hear pre-mention of impending special occasions) from anyone. Not even birthday promos from restaurants to whose newsletters I subscribe (incidentally, if that doesn't scream lonely, I don't know what does.)

Not even from my dear husband, RJ.

Before we continue, this is not a passive-aggressive passage to berate the poor man.

A couple of times, I came close to discussing my antsiness with my work buddies. But I decided against it. This is not their burden. And it is very, very petty. After all, I purport not to care about birthdays anymore in my ripe old age.

When I repeated asked RJ during the week what we were doing on Saturday (as I do every week), his manner in responding left me convinced: he had forgotten.

But it is not possible! Not RJ. Is it possible?

And then I beat myself up for getting hung up on something so stupid and trivial. So, I do the next best thing: I plan our Saturday (RJ thinks I tend to shoot down his ideas; he's stopped making suggestions. Sigh...) And I decided to enjoy the day for what it was - and we did. I concluded that any day that RJ does the driving and I get to sit back and relax and watch tall redwood trees fly by my car window is a damned good day!

In fact, I was in effervescent spirits. I have always enjoyed RJ's company and our conversation, no matter what we are doing. At a spiritual bookstore in a ethereal setting, we happened upon a wind chime with such pretty song that we stopped to admire it.

"Would you like to have it for your birthday?" Asked RJ, seemingly out of nowhere.

"You remembered!" I cried, grinning widely.

An alarmed look hijacked his face. "Is it the 14th?" He asked gingerly.

I confirmed. And he was devastated. He apologized profusely. The look of shock and, dare I say, fear, cracked me up. I stood there, chuckling, while he stood there, facing me, guilt-ridden and adorable. With all sincerity I assured him that it was okay. And no, I didn't need the wind chime.

On the way home, RJ uttered he hadn't registered that we were "past the single-digit dates" on the calendar. With further clarification, I realized that, when he asked "Is it the 14th?" at the bookstore, he didn't mean "Is your birthday on the 14th?" He knew THAT. He thought it was the 14th THAT DAY. It wasn't.

Both of us were relieved he hadn't veritably forgotten my birthday. He'd forgotten what day it was. There is a difference.

He remembered. That's all I ask.


*koshi.fr