Keeping to myself and keeping it simple

It’s been a couple of weeks since I’ve cut my Facebook activity to close to nothing. So far it’s been alright. It took me a little effort to keep from tapping the FB app on my phone. Sometimes I would slip and the app would start, but then I’d press the Home key before it loaded up. There are times when I take a quick look, but only because Facebook sends me notifications on my phone. Excited, I would check it out hoping that someone was trying to contact me, only to find out that was not the case. Thank you, FB, for trolling me. 

But then I close the app and move on. I don't think about it after that. I consider that a victory. 

The main reason why I’m keeping a low profile (ha ha) in social media is because it isn't serving my needs. I tend to focus on others, even above myself. I go out of my way to read status updates that comes my way. If I thought I had something clever to say, I would take the time to craft a response. I used to spend a lot of time doing this, even at work or in the place of other activities like reading, or cooking dinner, or laundry. Eventually this lead to sinks full of dishes and a really dusty room (thanks to my psoriasis flaking off) - resulting in a consistently bad mood. 

Neglecting my own ego was fine as long as I got likes and acknowledgements for the things I post. But lately those have dried up, in part to Facebook's tendencies to not broadcast my posts, and without a healthy lifestyle to fill the void (thanks to all that negligence), the lack of attention made me even more sad. 

So I decided to take a step back and be my own cheerleader for the time being. It may seem extreme to remove myself in near totality from social media but I had to shake things up a bit. It’s hard to break out of a negative mindset when you don’t know you’re in it. Pulling myself out of FB jolted me out of that sad reality and allowed me to look at things from outside that system. 

I’ll get into what I’ve been doing to with my time in another post. But for now, all I want to say is that I’m sticking to the basics. I need to focus on showing up to work on time, cooking my meals (instead of always eating out) and doing my laundry (instead of wearing the same shirt twice in a row). I will add more complexity to my life, such as writing projects, classes, and maybe even cleaning my apartment, after I can comfortably do the things that I need to pay rent and eat ramen.  

As I said last time, I stretched myself way too thin in 2014. I'm going to try to keep myself together this time around. 

A Few Thoughts on a Recent Bout of Loneliness

My dog laid on my couch as he watched me pack my things. He had his legs tucked underneath him and, with his fur spread out to his sides, he looked like he sank into the couch cushions. He knew the score, I was leaving again. I guess, in contrast to his usual, hyper-active jumps and trots, he opted for this motionless stance, his attentive eyes betraying an otherwise still body. 

Leaving my parents house after a visit is something that I really dislike. I never liked how sad my dog seems, even though I only live in the next county and I am able to see him often. But that is also something that happens all the time, and none of those times have left me sad for long. At least until now.

Maybe it's the fact that today is Christmas, but as I pulled away from my parents house and drove onto the freeway, I was faced with the strong sense of loneliness. I didn't have anything to help me deal with it: no dog, no television, and no radio (my car radio having been dead for a few years now). I didn't even have my phone near me so I could play music off of it. I had no distractions; just the steady, stinging sensation of loneliness.

It's an awesome feeling to be sure. That stinging sensation lived in my core, but the energy from that moved throughout until it seemed to hover around my body. It was an aura so thick that my mind couldn't stop obsessing over it. I knew that it was a need easily fixed by being near another person, but nothing like that was available to me and could not be found at this moment. Mulling over that thought just made the emotion more present. It's a feeling so awesome that it hurt.

My reactions to this were complex and varied in intensity. At the least, I wanted to see my dog, my parents, a friend, or perhaps go to a bar and talk about random crap over a mug of beer. At worse I thought of death, which caused my mind to spiral through memories of depression, which followed with constant reminders of strategies I have used to overcome them. Ultimately, I quickly reminded myself that death would kind of mess up the act of living, which is the reason why I am able to think about all of this in the first place.

It still sucks, though, and there's really nothing I can do or say to change that at this moment (somehow, the mechanical keyboard I'm typing with isn't exactly hug-able). I'll be able to cope later by looking at cats on YouTube or playing a little guitar. Hell, even writing this post has done much to take the edge off. But it's still going to be there for a while and I guess that's okay. Like the old ass cliche of being pinched to see if you're awake, having loneliness crop up is a prickly way of reminding me that I'm alive. It's just another thing that I'll take in as experience. And cherishing experience is something that I am ready to do now.

Reboot Post (a.k.a. Hobbies Are Nice)

I've let this blog go way dormant and for the same reason as before - I'm way too hard on myself when it comes to my writing skill and the topics I want to tackle. So, I'm trying this again. And I'll try to go easy on myself.

What motivated me to start writing was something not writing related. I started to teach myself guitar for the first time in 14 years and so far it's going well. When I first tried to learn guitar, I had approached it like I had done with other instruments back at my high school band class. I picked up books and tried to learn the technical stuff, like scales and reading sheet music. I'd play the scales over and over while I tried to memorize their note positions in the sheet music. I made sure that I got the first note patterns down before I moved on to the next. I needed to make sure that I was getting those scales down correctly.

People who are self-taught can already see the problem here: I wasn't really playing anything. The end goal was technical mastery, but I wouldn't have learned a single song by the end of this approach. I had set up a regimen that wasn't any fun and wouldn't even result in something tangible that I could enjoy. This was ok in a class setting, where you had other people to talk to and work with, but it was a boring routine to try when you're by yourself.

Thinking about this now, it's a small wonder why I hung on to that system for about a year. Why did it took me so long to quit?

My approach this time is different. When I started again a few months ago, I insisted to myself that I learn a song - any song. Hell, I made it real easy for myself by typing out "easy acoustic guitar songs for beginners" on Google (yes, even Bing) and I came across a whole lot of tutorial videos and tablatures for music that is not only attainable to play at my level, but fun too. I was even pleasantly surprised to have found a couple of songs that I knew and loved growing up (post-grunge era alt-rock & new wave 80's... yeah!). Then I tried to play, knowing full well that I'm going to sound like crap. However, I made sure to note any improvements in my playing, no matter how small. It was important for me to see that my hours of practice were not in vain.

So far, I can sort of sing and play a passable version of "Mad World" (a rendition of Gary Joules' cover of the Tears for Fears song, aka "the Donny Darko song") and play and butcher the lyrics to "Wonderwall," by Oasis. I'm also working on "Blackbird," by the Beatles because, why not?

Working on "Blackbird" has been the most fun so far. I can kind of play all the riffs to the song now, and even sing it... kind of. I remember how hard I struggled with just the first three chord changes. Seeing how far I've come since then applies a level of significance that can fuel my motivation. Sure, playing the song is still like driving in stop and go traffic at the moment, with a lot of pauses between riffs to re-position my wayward fingers, but I hope to smooth it out with a lot of practice. I'm just happy that the practice has been a lot of fun.

As I started to improve my skills at guitar, my mind turned toward writing. I know I stop short of typing out a single word because I feel like my ideas aren't any good. If I do come across a good idea, I stop short of writing it down because I'm afraid that I'll muck it up in the execution. What's worse is that I feel like I'll never get any better than where I am right now. I liken it to being stuck in a fog, with no road or sign post to show the general direction of where I should be going.

This is in contrast to how E.L. Doctorow had put it. At least he had a road. And headlights.

I think the reason why I feel stuck is because I'm still not used to the idea of writing as being a process. I've grown up writing as a student in a binary way, my essay is either finished or not finished. So, I have learned to ignore the little adjustments I've made to any given work. It doesn't help that I have not written with any regularity, so that neural pathway (or whatever) in my brain that recognizes progress has atrophied, either due my perfectionism or low self esteem. This has lead to writing attempts which the only motivation was to get it finished, which, upon failure, didn't do my sense of worth any good. All I had to show for when I failed this task was that I screwed up. I had forgotten how to sift through the mess to find the good bits that tell me "hey, writing is totes worth trying again."

At any rate, my other hobby has kind of pried that pathway open a bit, enough for me to want to give this writing thing one more go.

I'm going to try to be kind to myself and I'll try to note progress. Learning to write isn't too much different than learning guitar in that there is a final picture in my mind's eye that I'm going for. But I feel that image is far more complex than any pop song that I can play, full of tiny details that I can easily obsess over and lose my way by. I have to remember that that image is just a temporary thing and, much like playing a cover of a song, I'm allowed to deviate and re-deviate from it as many times as I like. Bonus points if that effort looks and sounds good in the end.

Apparently, Now I'm Posting Weight Loss Stories

I've been so frustrated with writing that I decided to try other projects for a while like, for instance, weight loss. One thing led to another and now I was compelled to write a little about my progress so far. Below is the first post in my myfitnesspal.com blog. I'm reposting it here because, well, why the hell not?

I restarted my weight loss journey toward the end of November 2013 on the notion that I’d give it “just one more go at it.” That casual attitude helped me move past my normal anxiety about starting things and before I knew it I dropped 5 pounds the following week (as expected due to the drop in water weight from reduced food and sodium consumption), and a steady two pounds per week till I ended up at 217lbs from my starting weight of 229lbs. The 11lb loss really lifted my spirits and brought in a warm sense of well-being. That wonderful feeling came with the thought that losing the weight was very possible. It also gave me the false notion that it was pretty easy, as the lifestyle change was relatively painless. Or so I thought.

The holidays arrived and I was inundated, as many of us have been, with so much good food. A lot of it was cooked by other people too, so a lot of the portions that I recorded on my food diary were estimations at best, and wild guesses at worst. There were definitely a few days where I got tired of guessing portions and didn’t log in food for the day. The first day I didn’t log in any food was the most frustrating – I thought, “Was I giving up on the whole thing?” But I recognized the irrationality of that line of thinking (something therapy has trained me to notice). I told myself that I was just going through an emotional ride and that I can make things right once things settle down a bit. I had to put in extra effort in willpower and awareness in order to keep from losing myself in all the holiday craziness.

Now that it’s been about a week since the start of the new year, I’m happy to say that I’ve only gained 1 pound back. If I were to compare this minor regress with the progress I made the first three weeks, I’d be devastated - probably devastated enough to just outright quit. But, again, I recognize how irrational that is, so I pat myself in the back and try to accept the fact that had I not tried at all, I could have fallen off the wagon completely. I consider the fact that I didn’t a victory.

I thought I could keep a perfect weight loss streak going, to the point that I could have lost 70 pounds in 7 months. But the holidays has taught me that it's never going to be perfect. I'm liable to slip every once in a while. I've learned that in order to get back on track I’ll have to start really paying attention to what I'm doing on a weekly, or even daily basis. Part of that increased effort is being grateful, not just when I lose weight, but when I cut myself some slack for slipping up. I still have a goal in mind (150lbs by October of this year), but I'm not giving up if it looks like I'm not going to make that goal. After all, I still lost a total of 11 pounds. If I was still 11 pounds under my starting weight by the end of this year, I'm still 11 pounds better off than I was before.

My Non-Facebook Experience: What I've Learned So Far

It's been about three weeks since I dropped Facebook (for reasons that I will post about later... that essay is the longer project I'm working on) and it feels very freeing to unplug. However, I've also ran into some limitations. Here are a couple:

1. I can't access my goodreads account since it's attached to my Facebook account. Deactivated Facebook account = can't brag about my reading list.
2. My 750words.com account is also attached to Facebook. That means no bragging about my writing productivity!

As more and more online services require a Facebook account to activate or use, I'll find myself enticed to reactivate my account. That's just how things go, I guess.

Granted, the joy of being able to share things with people is undeniably profound. However, for me, the drive to constantly find something interesting to post or say has nearly destroyed my sense of self worth. I needed to remove myself from FB and drop most of my friends so I can find some peace. 

And with that solace will come assessment, action, and happiness.

I hope.

Learning by Not Doing

I ran into this:

http://www.marcandangel.com/2011/12/11/30-things-to-stop-doing-to-yourself/

I was so affected by the link that I thought I'd make a few lists based on it. You should too! It makes a good self-assessment tool.

Warning, this post is going to be a long one. Please, bear with me. This will contain lists with just a series of numbers, so please take the time to open up the link so you can play along.

Oh, one more thing. The list is about 30 things to stop doing to yourself, but for the purposes of this list, just pretend that you removed the word "stop" from every activity. Bah, why did I even bother to explain this? You're all really smart people.

Things That I Still Do (according to the list):
1, 7, 11, 12, 19, and 23

Things That I Am Actively Working On:
2, 5, 8, 10, 13, 17, 20, 21, 22, 25, 28, 29, and 30

Things That I Used to Do:
3, 4, 6, 9, 15, 18, 26, and 27

Things That I Never Did (to my knowledge):
14, 16, and 24

So there's the list, but what does this all mean for me (and for you, should you participate)?

While all of the lists show a sense of self-awareness, the first list is an acknowledgement that I do have flaws. And [ac]knowledge[ment] is half the battle! You'd be surprised how difficult it is for some people to admit their flaws.

The last list is similar to the first, in that it takes some effort to be truthful about your strengths. It's also a good reminder that I wasn't born a completely broken mess.

Where the first list is simple recognition of my flaws, the second list involves active participation. Seeing this list is both intimidating and a relief. This list is HUGE, and I have to admit that I'm really just fumbling in the dark when it comes to fixing most of those issues. At the same time, it shows that I still have an interest in my life and that I'm willing to push on. It's important to remember that I haven't given up.

The third list shows my accomplishments. Where the second lists shows that I'm trying to live, this list shows that I am quite capable of doing it. It may seem funny to some people that I need to say that I'm capable of living, but it's a necessity for a depressive like me.

Still there? Glad you can make it to the end of my blog post (that was originally a Facebook status)! If you really pored through this thing, then you've just learned a little more about me, didn't ya?

Even if you didn't want to know me, that's fine. What's more important is to see how this link would help you. Make your own lists and post them in the comments!

Rainy Days

I like rainy days. I like them a lot, actually. And I think my bias towards rainy days comes from the fact that they are a novelty, especially where I live. In Southern California, where even in the winter the average weather is about 75 degrees and sunny, rainy days are rare, and I cherish those rare moments. I've grown to love those moments so much that I know they have affected the way I think.

This is especially true with my memory. I remember the best moments in my life as cloudy days. When I pull up memory from my brain, the images that come out are grainy and muted in color. Mental replays of first kisses, graduations, and long, thoughtful gazes toward the Pacific horizon have been altered into a gray-blueish color pallet, with the sun either completely obscured by clouds, or its round, fiery glow subdued in the dark sky.

This seems like a dreary way to look at the world, but it's not that way to me. Rain means water, and water stands for life, fluidity, and sailing paper boats on a small stream running through street gutters (which really did happen on a rainy day). Given that, I'd say that I'm quite content with the way things look to me.

Note:
If you had expected this to be a St. Patrick's Day related, I'm sorry to disappoint. The FB computers didn't read into the context of my status update and decided that my post had something to do with the holiday. I love technology!

Flu, Blah

So, I’m sick. As much as I feel like crap at the moment, I also feel kind of relaxed. Sure, I probably feel this way because my entire body is so busy fighting off disease that it can’t process my five senses. This leaves my poor brain to sift through a mixed set of neural messages, which ultimately results in mass cranial confusion and then euphoria -  in the wake of impending death.

Or maybe it's simply that the flu just drained me of all energy... and good ways to describe the flu, apparently.

There are a few other good things about being sick: the long hours under the covers, the chicken noodle soup breaks, and the constant calls from my parents and girlfriend that break me from my naps in order to remind me to take medication - medicine that I have already taken just an hour prior to their call. The last one may seem annoying and/or tedious, and they are. But they are also reminders that I'm not completely alone, even though my illness forces me inside and away from others.

Bah, how sentimental. Must be the flu that's talking.

I have a lot to say about things, apparently.

It's the start of a new year, and around this time I make it a point to do something I haven't gotten around to in 12 months, which is to organize. As mundane and boring as that seems, I actually look forward to the work. One of the tasks that I want to do is to organize my e-mail. This is the chance to make filters and labels to reduce clutter in my inbox. I can even color some of the more important messages. The end goal is to make my inbox look like something akin to a color swatch. Once that happens, I can spot e-mails in a manner that is as accurate as it is pretty.

Still, it requires a lot of work, and I plan on spending about an hour a day to get this done. But, believe it or not, I'm used to this level of drudgery - not just from doing several iterations of the same algebra problem, but from the video games I enjoy. MMOs are a good example of the latter. In games like these you, as the all powerful, world saving adventurer, are sometimes tasked to collect 10 digital hides from 10 digital boars, then run them back to a digital tanner in a digital town for 10 digital gold. To be successful in such a game, you have to repeat quests like these ad naseum. How heroic! Still, the game is good at selling tasks like this as "fun." You are not only compelled to do them, but are convinced that there is a sense of accomplishment in their completion.

Sure, collecting hides is menial work, far less appealing than slaying a centaur turtle (a Turtaur?), and absolutely results in no benefit to life outside the game as a whole, but a player is put in the mindset that work itself is a game. Once that mindset is established, a person could will him or herself to do anything. It's a common trick that overachievers use to get through the bonus homework that their parents force upon them. The trick is to figure out how to apply that to the real world, which is quite the task, isn't it?

But I digress.

This post started out with color coding e-mails, huh? Damn. All I wanted to do was talk about how lame my life is and I end up writing mini op-ed piece.

The junk in my trunk (and my life, thus far)

As I sit down to write this post, I notice a barely used scanner on my desk. It’s one of those handheld ones shaped sort of like a wand, with a control panel of buttons on one side and couple of slits on the opposite, business end where the scanner takes its images. It costs $99, plus tax. I’ve only used it twice.

And now that I’m in the thick of writing, I am starting to see even more of the crap that I’ve accumulated in the three short months that I have lived on my own. I can name a few more that are lying around, and these are just on my desk:

1. A USB gamepad that I took from my parent’s house to play games on my PC, but never used it because most of the games I wanted to play don’t support the thing.
2. Several caps from jars of various moisturizers and creams I use to combat my psoriasis.
3. A stack of cards, which includes expired driver’s licenses, a Dave and Buster’s Power Card, to a MyPanera card that I totally thought I had lost.
4. The first four books of George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire saga. I’m glad to say that I’ve started A Game of Thrones and I’m totally digging it.
5. Birthday cards from my birthday/housewarming party last October. I have yet to use the Best Buy gift card that my good buddy, Robert, had given me.
6. Several post-it notes containing names of pop culture icons, and some containing freakish drawings that I can only guess were created in a state of drunkenness. I have yet to put them up on a memory board so I can remember how awesome that party was.

I know comedy usually works in three’s, but there is so much stuff worth mentioning I am barely able to restrict myself to just six. 6 = 3 X 2... so maybe that means my list is twice as funny? Doubt it. At least I get to show the extent of how messy my life has gotten.

It’s my mess, though. It’s nice to see how I’ve naturally gathered things that say, “This is who I am, and this is what I’m about.” When I lived with my parents, even with my own bedroom, I still felt like my identity was at odds with the other strong personalities in the house. I’m glad I finally have a place where my ego can stretch out a bit. Hell, I might even grow from this. 

That’s too positive of a statement, I think. Positive statements give me the willies. But, it’s kind of a fun feeling to have, this personal growth thing. I feel like this junk kind of represents the experience I’ve collected in this stage of my life. Still, I better learn to organize, or all of this experience (and stuff) is going to overwhelm me. Also, my girlfriend would appreciate being able to walk through my apartment without tripping over something. 

As for me... I like an unexpected fall now and again.

This one's for my mom.

I've mentioned my sister, Joan, here a few times and anyone who has known me knows what all that entails. There's no doubt that her condition has been very difficult for myself and my family, as would any family that had a member that required constant care.

This isn't about my sister, though. This one is about my mother, Josie.

While I was a student at UC Riverside, I had a conversation with a visiting professor to which the subject about my sister and how my family came up. As the conversation got rolling, to the point where we had ended up in his office and sitting in chairs, I told him about my mom, and how she took care of her.

He responded by saying, "Your mother is a saint."

I can agree with what he said, in the sense that my mother is wholly selfless when it comes to my sister. She's over fifty, and she takes care of what is essentially a toddler in a 27-year-old's body. She will move her from her bed to the bathroom, then back. She grooms her. She talks to her in playful ways that embarrass me. Even as I write this, my sister groans loudly, and my mom responds with her own playful sounds. "Ooy," she says at this moment, "What iiis it? I will beeee there, daarrling."

In better days, when my sister was more mobile and could eat solids, the rest of the family helped share the burden of her care. But in my sister's current state, only my mom and my dad know how to operate her g-tube. I think I do a decent job with the suction machine, used to remove the saliva that Joan can't swallow.

Still, it's my mother that does most of the work, despite her own disabilities. She once had a job at the INS doing paper work (she even processed Martin Short's papers) until her constricted spine, that she had since birth, finally damaged some nerves, almost paralyzing her completely. With time, she is able to walk, but if she needs to move for long periods she has to take a cane with her.

"I see this as a blessing," she once told me, "because now I have more time to take care of Joan." See? Selfless.

Still, she is my mother, and has all the quirks and annoying ticks that any child notices about their parent. She's very judgmental, and emotional to boot... a deadly combination. She mothers me way too much, even when I don't want the help. And her stories (not the ones about her first experiences in the US, they're amazing [and the inspiration for my book/a few stories]. No, just the mundane stuff, especially any kind of gossip) are boring, and she takes way too long to get to the point. Looks like I take a bit after my mother. Sigh.

Regardless of how I or my other two siblings (I obviously can't speak for them) feel about her at her worst, I have to give my gratitude to her for everything else. Though I worry about how her caretaker duties are affecting her own sanity and health, there's no doubt that my family would have fallen apart if she had not stepped up. Also, there is no doubt that Joan would not have lived as long as she does without my mom's constant attention and expressions of love. And, for me, I don't have to focus my worries to my sister, and instead turn it on my own life.

Thank you, Mom.

Update:

Now, with an audio recording!


Update #2:

Apparently, there is no audio recording now!

Huh? What?!

If you’re observant enough, you can catch me staring at the ceiling, or a blank computer screen, or my fingernails, or the wall. If so, you’ve just caught me while I was lost in my mind. Ask me what I was doing, and I’d have a heck of a time trying to tell you.

Fact is, I was gone: from the room, from my senses, and from the moment.

Much of what brings this on eludes me. I’ve tried to think it through, to see where my absentmindedness came from, but I end up in the same place, and with my face pointed in the same direction: toward the ceiling, toward the blank computer screen, toward my fingernails…

While I can’t recall much from my thoughts of the problem, my bookshelf contains evidence of my search. “Dissociation” and “Stress” are words on some of the spines of my books. From what I gleaned by reading, my inattentiveness is how I cope with stress, a mechanism I used to survive some traumatic event as a kid.

Now, I haven’t seen a professional in a while so I’m not diagnosing myself, but this is something I want to explore a bit.

So, I’ve been affected by trauma. It’s something that I try not to admit because I’m afraid I’d use it to get pity, and I hate it when I do that. But, I’ll make that claim for the sake of this topic. I guess the trauma involves my sister's, Joan's, declining health, or the witnessing of it. It’s a topic that I have touched on before, so I won’t go through much of it now. I don’t feel like talking about it anyway.

Even thinking on it for a minute, I can see how I moved myself inward, trying to ignore the partially garbled words of her decayed speech, and successfully ignoring her when her speech turned into garbled moans. It was easier to stare at the wall and pretend that it emitted a white noise, coating all of my senses, drawing me away from the reality of her condition. At the few moments when I'm aware and I hear her gargle her spit, I cringe. It's a reaction that I can’t help.

Perhaps it’s my awkward way of mourning for what she’s lost. I'd like to think so, at least.

I don’t think that this trauma is the sole cause for my loopy mind. I haven’t ruled out the lack of sleep, poor diet, the Internet, and that awful commute on the 91 freeway as culprits or co-conspirators. Also, there’s only so much I can glean from this introspection before I start navel gazing.

And if you see me do that, be kind and poke me on the shoulder. Thanks!

If Only I Could

The days I hate the most are when I hear my sister, Joan, cry from her room. Depending on how urgently she needs something, or how much pain she is in, her cries range from whimpers to loud groans. It's the only way she can communicate, having lost her speech to encephalitis (so I've been told) back when she was about nine or ten years old.

What bothers me about those days is the feeling of helplessness. It's been a long and frustrating path of deterioration for her: she lost her ability to walk about seven years back, and her ability to swallow food two years back (this event, in particular, I can write volumes on... when I'm ready). I spent most of my adolescence caring for her. Both of my parents worked at the time. When I came home from school, I waited for her bus; led her to the bathroom, back when she could walk; fed her, back when she could eat; and sat with her in front of the TV. Then I stopped, either because I was too busy or I was tired of the responsibility. Between then and now, I've forgotten how to care for her. It wouldn't matter anyway; given her current state, I wouldn't know what to do for her.

Guilt sets in too. I made the decision to stop, or so I remember. If I was busy, then I stopped because I preferred my own activities over my sister. If I was sick of caring for her, then I placed my need to stop over her needs. Either way, the guilt is persistent and hard to shake off. And it gets worse as she regresses.

What used to keep me sane when I heard or saw Joan was a sense of entitlement. I traded in most of my teen years, so I saw it fair to break away from my responsibilities to her. I earned my right to be guilt-free, I thought. I learned since that this freedom isn't attained that easily or, more likely, at all. I've been sad since she became ill, and will probably be sad even after she's gone. So I live, knowing that I don't have a choice. To move forward knowing that I have little control is the closest I can ever get to freedom, or sanity.

I hope Joan knows this too. There are only a few things she concerns herself with: she's in pain and she groans to let us know; though her strength has faded a bit, she still likes to smile and laugh (especially when she watches "I Love Lucy"); and she continues to see each day, as long as she's here. At least, I hope so. If she worries about her condition, I don't know if I can deal with it.

[Update]
Now with audio!

Up Late

Anxiety has gotten the better of me again, so I'm awake when I really want and need sleep.

What am I so worked up about? A lot, it so happens. I wish I have the energy to explain it all, and I hope to do so in the future. Part of why I mention this now is so I can remind myself to elaborate.

However, I will say this: every time something different happens, beyond the space of my room, my mind obsesses over it. When I start a new book, I lose sleep. When I meet a new friend, I can't rest. When I try a new sleep schedule (for, you know, like a job), I might as well forget about it because I'll never pass out.

In the end, I am left with a feeling that I can't put down.

A Milestone

Last night, I bought books off of Half.com and Amazon Marketplace, via Cheapesttextbooks.com.

I worry that they will rip me off and I won't see my money or my books. Still, I can check off "Saving Ridiculous Amounts of Money Through Unknown, Online Sellers" from my list. I am now aware of one more piece of the Internet; one step closer to knowing what my peers, most surely, have already known for years.

I feel it is my duty to catch up. I can't lag too far behind the times - older people need me.

Delayed News

I didn't want to mention anything until I figured out all my grades, since it would be embarrassing enough to renege if things turned south after this announcement. However, the results are in, so...

I graduated from the University of California - Riverside with a Bachelor's of Arts in Creative Writing.

That was fun to type. I think I'll open up a word document and type it all again a dozen more times.

Okay, I changed my mind.

I’ve been blocked lately.

I’ve found myself cowering from the computer and its word processor. Coming up with words to express on paper feels like a chore. I can’t just throw everything down on the page and call it a day, no. I have to make sure that it’s coherent, not only to me, but to a professor, a classmate, or some friends. To do that is to tap into a part of my mind that’s sick of analyzing sentences and pulling out meaning or significance from them. The need to string ideas together, to create a flow of phrases that culminate into something useful or entertaining to the reader, has, I feel, taxed me so much that I’ve had to stop writing.

I’ve missed turning in a paper, a thesis submission, and many writing sessions on my notebook. I think it’s burnout, but I don’t want to call it that. I want to think that my mind is overwhelmed. My standards for my writing have changed. I demand more of it, but I don’t feel like I’ve improved to my expectations. Even this blog is starting to look like a gigantic mess to me. I am disheartened.

I hope this is just another problem to get through, a hitch to overcome if I am to ever call myself a writer. Framing it this way makes the whole thing seem less despairing, less pointless. It’s still painful though.

Yeah, yeah, yeah... Writing's hard. I really should just deal with it, huh?

I'm blocked because I'm not keeping my pen to the paper long enough.

Well, I guess it's time to go to work...

Into the Darkness I Go

I’ve been blocked lately.

I’ve found myself cowering from the computer and its word processor. Coming up with words to express on paper feels like a chore. I can’t just throw everything down on the page and call it a day, no. I have to make sure that it’s coherent, not only to me, but to a professor, a classmate, or some friends. To do that is to tap into a part of my mind that’s sick of analyzing sentences and pulling out meaning or significance from them. The need to string ideas together, to create a flow of phrases that culminate into something useful or entertaining to the reader, has, I feel, taxed me so much that I’ve had to stop writing.

I’ve missed turning in a paper, a thesis submission, and many writing sessions on my notebook. I think it’s burnout, but I don’t want to call it that. I want to think that my mind is overwhelmed. My standards for my writing have changed. I demand more of it, but I don’t feel like I’ve improved to my expectations. Even this blog is starting to look like a gigantic mess to me. I am disheartened.

I hope this is just another problem to get through, a hitch to overcome if I am to ever call myself a writer. Framing it this way makes the whole thing seem less despairing, less pointless. It’s still painful though.

Because Cliffhanging Isn't One of My Strongest Traits

I have a bad habit, and it’s screwing me up.

I procrastinate. As my readers, you know this. I don’t want to do things, even though I know I’d feel better if they’re done. I get depressed, and let myself slip into a rut, only to snap out of it when I feel that the last thread of my lifeline is about to break.

I love it, though. There’s a part of me that wants to see how close I can get to the edge – how miserable I can make myself before I do something productive to keep from feeling useless. Even though it’s stressful, rising from the brink is fun. It’s an existential game of “Chicken.” Indiana Jones could probably relate.

But I know it’s wearing me down. It’s becoming harder to bounce back from these episodes. I'm afraid that I’ll soon fly off that edge and lose control of myself, like Kurtz did in Heart of Darkness, had he become a sloth instead of a tyrant. My horror would be the conclusion that I'm no good to anyone.

So, I’m trying my damn hardest to keep on top of things. I hope this blog post is an example of that. It seems like a lot of work, but if there’s one quality that I’m willing to admit, it’s that I have tenacity. I had better put it to good use.

Back in the Bike Seat

I know I haven’t updated in a long time (again). It’s hard to write about writing when I haven’t been doing much of it. And I don’t want to get into rants about not writing. Whining doesn’t get anything done, and I don’t want this blog to dive into fruitless complaints.

But I’ve had plenty to complain about. I avoided writing, like the plague, for the past two months because I was afraid of the time it took to polish it. The inactivity did a number on my self-esteem, however, and I got into a rut. It was this depressing situation that brought me back to writing. My sludgy mood buried my perfectionist nature just long enough to get something down on paper.

So I currently have a muse. Granted, it’s the “eh, what the hell, do it” kind, but I’ll take it. The problem is now I have to keep it alive. Its life support consists of some reading, a little free writing and, maybe, blogging. My girlfriend gave me Ray Bradbury’s Zen in the Art of Writing, while I pulled out of my own collection Hooked, by Les Edgerton; both books on writing. I like books on writing more than I like actual fiction, but that’s where my tastes lie for the moment. I’m running out of topics for my freewrites though, so I may pore into some stories for inspiration.

Freewriting leads to rough drafts, but then it leads to revision. I hate revising, only because it baffles me. Every time I try to polish my first crap draft, my head swims. I don’t even know how to clean my room, much less organize my language. I guess I’ll just have to hammer it out. If I can do that, then I think I’ll finally have what it takes to be a writer.

Then again, I’ve said that on many other occasions…