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.

Some Writing Goals for 2014

I have set some writing goals for the next 365 days. Here they are:

To write down details without having to pause for 10 minutes every paragraph to figure it out.

This really kills momentum. When I try to plow through the story without the details, I find myself wandering so far off course that I lose what made me excited about the work.

Increase my writing endurance/focus/attention span to an hour.

Dude, writing is tiring, yo.

Learn to use smaller words more frequently. Let's say, 80% per piece.

I tend to lean on 10-dollar words. I blame the fact that I'm an immigrant.


I tried to be as specific as possible. By having measurable goals, it makes it easier for me to come up with tasks and routines to achieve them. Even now, I can see that I need to do some pre-writing to help with the first goal. Does that mean I outline? Freewrite? Think about the topic more prior to the first draft? I have clear options at least.

Also, being specific about my goals helps me to keep track of any progress. Because if I can't keep track of progress then I'll lose interest very quickly. I need to keep myself excited about the process, and the only way that I can think of doing that is to show myself that my effort isn't in vain.

Anyway, hope this works out.

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.

Getting Ready for Anime Expo

Today is Anime Expo. I've always classified myself as a geek and a nerd and I'm sure I've sprinkled in hints of that through my various conversations and posts. But I think this will be the first time when I've fully come out as one by doing this write-up. Regardless, the point is that I'm going and I am super stoked. It's been about five years since the last time I've gone and I can't wait to see how things have changed or stayed the same.

The last time I went, during the mid 2000's, people carried paddles with "Yaoi" and "Yuri" (words that, roughly, mean erotica between same sexes) embossed in the wood and they were used to spank people in public. Glomps were also a thing. I got glomped a lot during my last stay there. Luckily, glomp was just another word for hug.

I looked at the schedule this year and I've mostly filled out my 4-day itinerary. I didn't think I'd be interested in a lot of stuff at AX because of my age, but the world always finds a way to surprise me. Here are a few notable ones:

How to Survive Your First Convention (Day 1, 11AM) 

I've been to a lot of conventions, and everything I've learned about going to them has been through friends that I went with and on my own. I am interested to see what a panel can teach me

Nerd Courting (Day 1, 9PM)

This is essentially a "how to get a date panel" catered to nerds. The schedule says 18+ probably due to frank talks about relationships and sex. I want to go because there will be full of people who have this passion for their interest, but have no clue how to express that to someone that they like.  The panel is bound to have discussions about isolation and its remedies, much like a support group would. I'm sure I would go to this panel even if I was in a committed relationship as being around so many compassionate people gives me a lot of emotional energy. 

This one is around the same time as the Anime Music Video competition, so I still haven't penned this in as a sure thing.

Anime's Girls and Women (Day 2, 9:30AM)

If this panel is a frank discussion about how girls and women are portrayed in Anime, especially how problematically sexist it is then I'll stick around. If it's just a panel ogling animated boobies and prepubescent upskirts I'm out.

Cosplay is NOT Consent (Day 2, 3PM)

I'd like to learn how prevalent the sexual harassment/battery has been towards cosplayers. I'm also interested to see how they are addressing that in this panel.

Writing about Anime: Anime Journalism and the Web (Day 2, 5PM)

A panel about writing? Sign me up!!

The History of Anime and Manga Studies in Japan (Day 3, 11:15AM)

History? Sign me up!! I'm secretly hoping that "studies" is a typo and what they meant were "studios." That would be a much more interesting topic, in my opinion (sorry scholars).

Borrowing and Changing: What and How Anime Takes from the West (Day 3, 1:45PM)

I feel like one of the reasons why we have AX is to further integrate a foreign culture into our own consciousness and creative works. I love to see how that happens in reverse.

GameTrailers Presents: Kingdom Hearts, Pop Fiction, & More (Day 4, 11:15AM)

I like the GameTrailers website and I visit it often. During those visits, I've been barraged their ads for this panel so many times that I'm compelled to go. Thanks, marketing!

That's more than a few, isn't it?

I'm willing to give up some of these panels if I meet up with some of my friends. Some of the panels are non-negotiable (Nerd Courting or AMV contest??  Aaargh!!!). However, if I end up as a lone-wolf the entire 4 days, at least I can take comfort in knowing it'll be a full experience for me.

Will I come back to you with a write-up on any of these panels, or the AX experience as a whole? I wish I could confidently say yes, but as always my head has a way of messing me up. It's taken me a lot of energy just to write this out as it is. But maybe exposure to the outside world will help clear up the mind fog a little. We'll see.

Oh man, my brain is such a variable. The suspense is killing me!

Writing Challenge - A Post-Apocalyptic Comedy About Mental Illness

Depression has been a big part of my life for a while now. And I think that has been exacerbated by our society's obsession with post-apocalyptic stories. So, here's a writing prompt I thought up that combines the two - maybe the absurd can lighten some spirits:

Imagine a world where, due to a virus that targeted only mentally-well people, that the only ones left on earth are those with mental illnesses. Now, all you have left are tribes of people whose gene pool is packed full of neuroses. Our heroes will have to deal with these traits, and their survivor's guilt, as they navigate their bleak, hostile environment.

Write this out as a comedy. Dark comedy might fit better with the scenario, but if you can insert some slapstick into your piece, I would highly encourage this.

There you have it! Go forth, and let the hilarity ensue. I'll post something too, if I can ever get out of my own head.

And if you find this offensive, well, you've missed the point of the exercise.

Memory and Control: A Walk Through the Ganja Gauntlet Triggers a Sense of Smell and Purpose

I had a memorable walk around my apartment complex tonight thanks to weed, and I don't even smoke the stuff. It was memorable because, on this occasion, I encountered that sharp, organic smell of marijuana about every third building I walked passed (I started counting when I became aware of its constant presence). I don't think I was ever close enough for a contact high, but regardless I was surrounded by the stuff. And as I made my fourth and fifth rounds, my thoughts turned from the stresses of my day to the moments of my past.

It's known that smell and memory are closely linked, and the distinct odor of the herb certainly triggered the wayback machine in my head. I didn't think of past times that I was exposed to weed, though. Rather, the fact that I was inundated with the scent placed my mind to other moments when I was surrounded by smell. It took me back to places like Corona Regional Medical Center, where the sterile molecules from ammonia and alcohol visited my hospital bed while I was recovering from a ruptured colon. My memory took me even further back into the 80's, to the 7-11 near Heideman Elementary, where the scent of particleboard and silicon enticed me to put quarters into the Commando arcade cabinet.

My strongest memories came from presents, especially the electronics. The mixture of foam and shrink wrap had warped my brain forever as I opened the packaging of my Nintendo Entertainment System. It may have been that my excitement for the machine caused my brain to openly accept the petroleum molecules, cementing it in the foundation of my psyche. I believe this to be true, as I experienced the same emotions when I opened up my SNES and Playstation in subsequent years.

It's almost funny how easily I can elicit this euphoria; just buy an expensive gadget and open it. But it's also scary how automatic it is. I'm a reactive creature, being human and all, so it isn't too surprising that I'm a slave to this trigger. Advertisers run their business on this fact, and exploit our irrational processes to great effect.

But I think I can use this seemingly out of control behavior for my own purposes. Maybe a walk through Heritage Park or a hike up Skyline Drive would trigger emotions or memories that can push me into more positive behaviors. As a person who suffers from depression, I know living in a negative environment invokes a sense of despair that encourages dire thoughts and actions. The opposite must be true. Actually, I know this is true, and research has been done on it (look up Cognitive Behavior Therapy for some of the results of such research). I still think this idea is worthy of an experiment, if at least to convince my monkey brain that the research applies to me too.

But for now, it's late and time to relax. I'm pretty happy with the inspiration the weed at my apartment complex has brought to me - and I was freaking sober the whole time to boot.

Apparently, I'm filling out my Facebook profile like it's on a dating site.

What I'm about:

I’m cheerful at first brush, and I am level headed most situations. I’m actually at my happiest when I’m wading through chaos, slipping into the background and slowly putting things back in order. Maybe my attraction to dischord stems from that hidden mad scientist in me. Lucky for everyone, I’m too dumb to cause any damage.

I attribute my quirkiness to the circumstances presented to me. Not everyone’s past has been idyllic, and mine was no different: a sister robbed of normal motor and mental functions because of disease, the ramifications of that event on my family, and the end result on me that I’d care not talk about. There are times when I wish that I had survived my trials a bit more gracefully, so that I would have ended up as a better role model for my siblings and others. At least I got through them. There aren’t any stickers for living past childhood, but I’m okay with the pat on the back I give myself.

But living through crap isn’t the only reward, isn’t it? I’m glad to say that my experiences have pushed me into a number of interests that I hold dear.

Writing counts as one of those interests. It’s been touch and go as of late, damn you writer’s block! Regardless, I get real jazzed when I think about the trajectory of my writing habits. An interest that started with Final Fantasy fan fiction, complete with self-insertion (I was always the roguish dude), shifted to adventures involving my high school band geeks and a trombone, and lately into poems and stories about love and isolation that, to this day, gives my brain a real workout - and headache.

Photography is another thing I love. Most of the themes that I touch on are, well, that whole “love and isolation” thing. Let’s just say that those two things are very present in my mind at the moment.

Other traits that were fostered from my experiences: I am loving to a fault (i.e. vulnerable). I am ethical to a fault (as in killjoy). I am detailed to a fault (read: perfectionist). You can say that I’m pretty faulty. I’m quite guilty of that, actually. I come from a Catholic background.

This leads me to the thing that I struggle with the most: though I’ve been granted a number of good quirks and traits because of this life, the one real bad thing is that I am too harsh on myself. I have a tendency to catastrophize my situation and, as a result, I literally make my life worse than it should be. It’s a major bummer. I work so hard to make good with people I like and know, only to panic at my good fortune and purposefully withdraw or alienate myself from it all. I basically slice off my Achilles tendon just when I’m about to win the 500 meter dash - metaphorically speaking, anyway.

Some people see me as a mess. Hell, most of the time I see myself as a mess and find it unbearable. But on good days, like at the time of this writing, I see my chaos as an opportunity to confuse and delight anyone who will listen.

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.

Is there a lotion for apathy?

Thank goodness I’m not susceptible to paper cuts. I've lucked out on the genetic lottery, with a skin that’s tougher than average. This is probably due to its tendency to wrinkle in thick layers. It’s definitely saved me from a lot of close calls with the copier. Granted, I also end up with skin texture that is somewhat smoother than a dried peach. But, I'm less likely to moisturize myself with my blood, so I’d say that’s a win.

Still, my workstation is full of loose paper - ready to cut through my natural armor with their ragged edges. Logic would suggest that I could reduce the chance of harm by organizing my area. But my will to do that is weaker than my capacity to reason. It's also way flabbier than my rough, dermal exterior.

But I'm working on the Craft of Effort. I'm finding myself celebrating small achievements, like waking up on time or going for a walk. It's these little things that count. Working on this blog post deserves some self praise, even if I don't finish it. It's all about doing anything that will make me feel productive.

It's these little things that will kick the more damaging cut of depression.

I know I'll need a lot of time and a lot of rubbing against my own resistance. It's kind of like a callous, actually. But, this callous is all mental - meant to protect against self-defeat and lethargy. It's gonna have to be a thick barrier but, as long as I keep going, it'll likely get there.

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!

A Memory Musing

Let me tell you of a place in my mind.

It is Huntington Beach, or at least it is of one that I have pulled from memory. The sand is hot because it is midday and, unlike most places in my mind, the sky is very sunny. I step onto the sand with no shoes on. It does not burn. There are a lot of thick callouses on my feet. I am seven-years-old, and I walk barefoot almost any chance I get. Even the broken glass underneath the sand does not bother me, they just dent my scaly feet. It is 1989 in the middle of July. There is a lot of broken glass these days. This is the Orange County that I remember. This is the Orange County that I will recall should I tell you that I lived there.

The sun sets as soon as I have both feet in the sand. There is a fire burning in a fire pit. I do not know if there were fire pits in 1989. I do not remember any. So, I submit this paragraph as imagination - an ideal. I walk to the fire pit. The heat from the fire begins to sting and broken glass still pokes at my feet. The fire itself is bright. It is all that I can see in this darkness. I am short at seven-years-old, the fire is as tall as my shoulders. There is a murmur behind the fire. They are the mixed voices of my family: parents, their siblings, my siblings, cousins, and their friends. Their sounds fill the quiet like an unseen wind ensemble. Only the fire snaps its resistance to the music.

This next part is also imagination. I reach the fire and sit next to it. I still can not see my family behind the fire. I do not know if they can see me. They do not speak to me. I do not bother to talk. My face grows hot from the fire. I close my eyes as I lean toward the fire. I feel all the dirt and salt and sand burn off my face. Warmth enters my lungs and bleeds into the rest of my body. I am coated by heat, surrounded by voices I can not hear, darkness I can not see, and glass shards I can not feel. My thoughts are gone. The only presence is the fire - its smoke holds a taint of sweetness from the burned wood.

Quotes - E.B. White

I've been on a non-fiction kick lately so I pored through The Art of the Personal Essay: An Anthology from the Classical Era to the Present, compiled by Phillip Lopate.

Here are a few words pulled from E.B. White's wonderful essay, The Ring of Time:

For the writers among us (or maybe for anyone, really)

It has been ambitious and plucky of me to attempt to describe what is indescribable, and I have failed, as I knew I would. But I have discharged my duty to society; and besides, a writer, like an acrobat, must occasionally try a stunt that is too much for him.

For everyone

The only sense that is common, in the long run, is the sense of change - and we all instinctively avoid it, and object to the passage of time, and would rather have none of it.

I've glossed over a lot of the essay, especially regarding the African-American Civil Rights Movement (which has, apparently, been left out of some of the reproductions found online).  Overall, the essay is masterfully written, and well worth reading in its entirety.

Oh, and "plucky" is a word that needs to grow into regular usage. Who's with me?

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!