My mother just sent me an e-mail saying that she was recently released from the hospital after experiencing a mild stroke. I never realized how close Death and how real mortality is until an encounter is experienced by a loved one. It's a strange feeling when one realizes the inevitable transience of life... For a moment, my head felt high. My mind felt numb. My body tingled as if it had fallen asleep. Is it what they call disbelief? Doubt?
After the initial shock, my mind goes back to doubting death. It goes back to hoping, perhaps even silently pleading. It's not a sharp pain or even excruciating. It's a dull, mind grinding pain. It's like a sort of pain that one should get used to and be able to ignore after some time... but one never does. It feels as if you're on the cliffhanger waiting for impending doom to occur. Yet you still hope for the best. Even pessimists hope.
After the doubt, my mind cycles back to the reality of the matter. What will happen next? What if something much worse happens? Who will take care of my family? Who will take care of my little sister? I'm in a totally different country, a totally different continent. What can I do? Why am I so helpless? Who will hold the family together? My mother was the one that held us together even when she wasn't physically there. Yes, at times we dreaded the gravitational pull she had on us, but subconsciously I knew... I knew that it was home. Where my heart was, where she was, it was home. No matter how much I wanted to prove my independence, to show that I could survive without her, without any of my family, I still wish for them to be by my side nonetheless.
I'm not emotionally close to my mother. I love her and respect her, but I stopped telling her I loved her when I was around 11 years old. At that point, I thought that sort of love was implied. I believed that it didn't need to be said. In the past I've thought of how my parents' passing is inevitable. I thought of how I should, how I must, savor every moment I have left with them. My mother's face will be preserved in pictures, but her voice, her warmth, her presence will certainly fade. Once my parents are gone, the world will truly be uncertain as my generation, as I, will have to completely reign over life and guide it with the voice left by what will soon pass.
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
I Was Afraid
I stopped writing because I was afraid. I was afraid of how I was portraying myself. I stopped writing in this blog because I found myself to be so depressing. Even when I wrote things that were intended to be positive and lighthearted friends would ask, "Kenneth, why do you sound so sad?" It would catch me by surprise or confusion because I thought I was happy. I thought that I had masked over the tinge of sadness quite well. However, the more light I shined upon myself, the greater the shadows seemed. The more inevitable and prominent it became.
I tried to escape my own mind by stopping the narration of certain aspects of my life. I thought that the negativity was perpetuated by my writing and its ability to recapture and dwell on fleeting memories... memories of bliss but also of pain. I believed that this blog, this area, this "thing" that has become an outlet for certain parts of my mind and heart had become stained. I saw it as a canvas that had become mistakenly stained by a pitiful darkness within myself. It became an apparition of my mind outside of my mind, therefore taking a life of its own. From this, it held a gentle grasp on me, to hold me where I was and to keep me writing of sorrows that allowed such an entity to exist.
I believed that if I walked away from this, my sadness wouldn't be such a threat, such a prominent figure in my life. I thought that if I started with a new canvas to write and perceive myself, I could steer it from gaining the same pattern as this blog had. Unfortunately, I was wrong. It didn't matter where I went or how I wrote, the sadness was still there. By walking away and shrouding over different fragments of my life, I neglected myself as a whole. Yes, I get sad. Sure, I get lonely. Certainly, I can be contemptuous. These things are me along with introspective, passionate, compassionate, intelligent, and progressive.
Life isn't as simple black or white, neither is one's soul. What I'm saying is that I've returned. I've come back with an improved perception of self. I admit to being imperfect, but I still see the life I live and my humanity as beautiful. What I must do is live with a heavy heart and mind... a heart heavy with emotions and a mind heavy with thoughts and curiosity that validate my status as a free-willed being.
I tried to escape my own mind by stopping the narration of certain aspects of my life. I thought that the negativity was perpetuated by my writing and its ability to recapture and dwell on fleeting memories... memories of bliss but also of pain. I believed that this blog, this area, this "thing" that has become an outlet for certain parts of my mind and heart had become stained. I saw it as a canvas that had become mistakenly stained by a pitiful darkness within myself. It became an apparition of my mind outside of my mind, therefore taking a life of its own. From this, it held a gentle grasp on me, to hold me where I was and to keep me writing of sorrows that allowed such an entity to exist.
I believed that if I walked away from this, my sadness wouldn't be such a threat, such a prominent figure in my life. I thought that if I started with a new canvas to write and perceive myself, I could steer it from gaining the same pattern as this blog had. Unfortunately, I was wrong. It didn't matter where I went or how I wrote, the sadness was still there. By walking away and shrouding over different fragments of my life, I neglected myself as a whole. Yes, I get sad. Sure, I get lonely. Certainly, I can be contemptuous. These things are me along with introspective, passionate, compassionate, intelligent, and progressive.
Life isn't as simple black or white, neither is one's soul. What I'm saying is that I've returned. I've come back with an improved perception of self. I admit to being imperfect, but I still see the life I live and my humanity as beautiful. What I must do is live with a heavy heart and mind... a heart heavy with emotions and a mind heavy with thoughts and curiosity that validate my status as a free-willed being.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
My Grandmother Had a Stroke
It has been a while since I've written... I know that I start every post with a similar phrase if not the same. Oh well, it gives my blog a sense of uniformity I guess. In any case, I haven't really had anything to write about. I go to school and I go to work. I make money, then I spend money I should be saving up for my trip to Rome, Italy. People ask me what's new with me and I really don't have an answer for them. The events of my life have been undulating from minor highs to lows. My love life has been non-existent and I am satisfied with that. Nothing in my life has really stood out in the past few months.
This morning, my mother told me that my (maternal) grandmother had a mini-stroke. It made me realize that life is always moving. Things break down, fall apart, and sometimes they can't be perfectly mended. It made me realize that if anything did ever happen to my grandmother... if she were to die, my family would push a generation forward. My parents would then be at the forefront of life, the ones that would be face to face with mortality. And once they are gone, it would be me, my sisters and I, who would be leading our family towards an uncertain future.
My reaction to my mother's news reminds me of Camus's Meursault who started the novel L'Etranger by saying, "Aujourd'hui, maman est morte. Ou peut-être hier, je ne sais pas." There's a sense of apathy or perhaps an inability to the sensitivity of the matter. I cry when I see tragedies in movies and I become anxious when I hear of misfortunes happening to others distant from me, yet when things happen to me (e.g., illness or death of someone close to me), I feel numb. I feel no reason to cry, to worry, or to even feel sorrow. This is the woman who raised me from early infancy to the age of five while my mother worked abroad. She was basically my surrogate mother since birth to the age of five. I remember her taking me to the fish markets during the weekends. I remember the mornings when we would sit on her veranda in the countryside and watch the sunrise. She loved me unconditionally and gave me unconditional positive regard... perhaps even more so than my own mother. However, I am more focused on asking myself questions than actually feeling vulnerable. Perhaps it's a defense mechanism of mine to not suppress emotion, but to completely rid myself of it.
Perhaps, in truth, I have no sympathy for anyone but myself.
This morning, my mother told me that my (maternal) grandmother had a mini-stroke. It made me realize that life is always moving. Things break down, fall apart, and sometimes they can't be perfectly mended. It made me realize that if anything did ever happen to my grandmother... if she were to die, my family would push a generation forward. My parents would then be at the forefront of life, the ones that would be face to face with mortality. And once they are gone, it would be me, my sisters and I, who would be leading our family towards an uncertain future.
My reaction to my mother's news reminds me of Camus's Meursault who started the novel L'Etranger by saying, "Aujourd'hui, maman est morte. Ou peut-être hier, je ne sais pas." There's a sense of apathy or perhaps an inability to the sensitivity of the matter. I cry when I see tragedies in movies and I become anxious when I hear of misfortunes happening to others distant from me, yet when things happen to me (e.g., illness or death of someone close to me), I feel numb. I feel no reason to cry, to worry, or to even feel sorrow. This is the woman who raised me from early infancy to the age of five while my mother worked abroad. She was basically my surrogate mother since birth to the age of five. I remember her taking me to the fish markets during the weekends. I remember the mornings when we would sit on her veranda in the countryside and watch the sunrise. She loved me unconditionally and gave me unconditional positive regard... perhaps even more so than my own mother. However, I am more focused on asking myself questions than actually feeling vulnerable. Perhaps it's a defense mechanism of mine to not suppress emotion, but to completely rid myself of it.
Perhaps, in truth, I have no sympathy for anyone but myself.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
I Wanted to Kill Myself
In the middle of my freshman year of university I wanted to kill myself.
I thought about killing myself, about not existing, at least five or so times a day, everyday. I thought of how it would be better not to feel anything or to even have a sense of consciousness... I felt constant anxiety. I felt alone.
I did reach out. I did try to find comfort in my friends. But they couldn't understand the situation I was in. I was often met with blank stares or blank promises that everything would be all right.
So what was the problem? Why did I feel like killing myself? Because of a bully.
She made my life hell. She verbally would attack me on Facebook along with her friends, she prank texted my cellphone, she posted rumors about me on online gossip boards for my school, and she would pass rumors around school. For example, she told people that I stuck anal beads up myself, that I was a whore, and she hoped that I would get an STD/STI; she posted links to my video blog on a school gossip board telling people how pathetic I was, encouraging people to watch it, ridicule it, and comparing it to a car crash that "you don't want to look, but can't help but watch." She truly put great effort into hurting me. That thought is what hurt the most: her extremely driven intent to cause me emotional harm.
I felt degraded by this girl and I felt like no one was out there to help me. I had friends and I had people that told me things would be all right, but for this specific situation I felt alone. I was alone. It hurt. I told myself that I hated her, that I wish she would just stop. But it didn't stop.
From September til October, I fell into greater depression until someone I barely knew reported me to my school about my pattern of depression. I was made to go to the psychologist on campus, who couldn't help but scribble notes on her notepad as I would pour my heart out to her. It felt good to talk to someone, but the feeling of comfort didn't last since her constant scribbling convinced me that her compassion wasn't genuine. I was nothing more than a case study to this woman.
After all that had occurred, I don't think I found immediate closure. I don't know if I ever will. I know that I've become stronger and wiser. At the same time, however, even the thought of seeing her still makes me slightly anxious.
As fate would have it, I ran into her today. I was walking with a friend and she was holding tightly onto her friend. I didn't recognize her at first, but in the back of my mind a sense of familiarity clicked. As soon as I remembered who she was, I couldn't help but look away. Her friend laughed as soon as they both passed by me...
After that encounter, I stumbled upon her Tumblr account as I was curious as to whether she has recently written anything slanderous about me. I found a blog post that showed me her vulnerable side. A part of her that I didn't know existed. She wrote about breaking down and all of her insecurities. It made me feel better after reading all she had written. I didn't feel better because I was happy for her suffering. I felt better because it made me realize that she was human too. It shattered this notion in my mind that she was some untouchable entity that could hurt me, but could not be affected herself.
No matter how much I could be upset with how she treated me, I couldn't hate her or find pleasure in her pain, even though she had driven me to thoughts about suicide. At this point, I finally could find myself to forgive her for all she had done. At the same time, I feel as if I've allowed myself to be liberated from the fearful grasp she had on me.
I'm glad I didn't kill myself.
____________________________________________
(The following is the entry written by her.)
Tonight I messed around with a substance I haven’t touched since last summer. I can’t say that I regret it, but it made me feel excited and nostalgic in some way before I even indulged in it. I’m not sure if it’s the steady approach of another year of school or the absence of my boyfriend, but the strange waves of my mood since he left for Florida some days ago have me dysfunctional and restless, but so so tired. Last night I was in the kitchen of the bar I work at, folding silverware, thinking about my life, or the lack of stability within it, and began to cry. Fifteen minutes later I was pounding shots like a champ and went home feeling pretty empty, despite the fact that I spent the next hour engulfed in a rather heavy conversation with a female ex-coworker of mine. I have always known that despite all of my battles, I am very lucky to have the life I live. It is true that the grass appears greener on the other side, but I think of all the people I know who are blessed in terms of money and familial relationships, and I realize I am so rich in experience, strength, and my ability to connect to the smallest and faintest of things. There are moments, however, like this week, when I crumble thinking about how 90% of my peers have no idea what its like to work 60 hours a week as a 21 year old full-time college student, so what - I can pay for my medical bills, receive an education for my ever promising future, and afford the rent to a studio I hardly live in? Meanwhile, I’m accused of being a golddigger and a heartless bitch roughly every 3 months without fail from a bitter kid who has not a clue who I am anymore, but somehow manages to dig up the most insane shit to slander my name a year and some later. I am in tears as I pour out my soul to this blog that I’m sure no one reads except for my crazy ex boyfriends and the insecure Asian girls who strangely envy me. Sometimes I can’t help but indulge in self-pity as I accept that this life is not at all the reality I had hoped for 4 years ago, this is not the reality I had known could even exist 4 years ago, and that my parents would be crushed if they learned that their little girl works until 5am every day because they finally lost the war. I think that it has be awful that I can’t seem to think of a person I could say all this too. My words fall not on ears but a screen, in a box with a scroll bar that keeps reducing in size as these terrible thoughts seize my mind. I wish my boyfriend was here to make me feel better, because as much as it pains me to say something so cliche and trite, his arms really are the safest place for me - where my only worries are whether or not all boys sweat this much and how late I will be to do my next ‘to-do’ if he keeps squeezing me this way. I think, if he were here, that he would scoop me up and ask if I wanted to eat ice cream. I know that I would hesitate a little bit in fear of seeming childish before I nod kind of excitedly. It makes me smile thinking about it, and again, I realize how lucky I am and want to delete this entire blog post all together. And as always, it all ends with me being a hopeless lover with a sleeve full of emotions. Sometimes I think I was born to be living in a world of rainbows and unicorns and I really hate myself. I still really hate myself actually, because if I hadn’t wasted the last hour analyzing my uncompromising feelings, I could have called him before he fell asleep and would feel at least slightly better about being a poor 21 year old who jaded long before her time. GOD FUCKING DAMMIT.
I thought about killing myself, about not existing, at least five or so times a day, everyday. I thought of how it would be better not to feel anything or to even have a sense of consciousness... I felt constant anxiety. I felt alone.
I did reach out. I did try to find comfort in my friends. But they couldn't understand the situation I was in. I was often met with blank stares or blank promises that everything would be all right.
So what was the problem? Why did I feel like killing myself? Because of a bully.
She made my life hell. She verbally would attack me on Facebook along with her friends, she prank texted my cellphone, she posted rumors about me on online gossip boards for my school, and she would pass rumors around school. For example, she told people that I stuck anal beads up myself, that I was a whore, and she hoped that I would get an STD/STI; she posted links to my video blog on a school gossip board telling people how pathetic I was, encouraging people to watch it, ridicule it, and comparing it to a car crash that "you don't want to look, but can't help but watch." She truly put great effort into hurting me. That thought is what hurt the most: her extremely driven intent to cause me emotional harm.
I felt degraded by this girl and I felt like no one was out there to help me. I had friends and I had people that told me things would be all right, but for this specific situation I felt alone. I was alone. It hurt. I told myself that I hated her, that I wish she would just stop. But it didn't stop.
From September til October, I fell into greater depression until someone I barely knew reported me to my school about my pattern of depression. I was made to go to the psychologist on campus, who couldn't help but scribble notes on her notepad as I would pour my heart out to her. It felt good to talk to someone, but the feeling of comfort didn't last since her constant scribbling convinced me that her compassion wasn't genuine. I was nothing more than a case study to this woman.
After all that had occurred, I don't think I found immediate closure. I don't know if I ever will. I know that I've become stronger and wiser. At the same time, however, even the thought of seeing her still makes me slightly anxious.
As fate would have it, I ran into her today. I was walking with a friend and she was holding tightly onto her friend. I didn't recognize her at first, but in the back of my mind a sense of familiarity clicked. As soon as I remembered who she was, I couldn't help but look away. Her friend laughed as soon as they both passed by me...
After that encounter, I stumbled upon her Tumblr account as I was curious as to whether she has recently written anything slanderous about me. I found a blog post that showed me her vulnerable side. A part of her that I didn't know existed. She wrote about breaking down and all of her insecurities. It made me feel better after reading all she had written. I didn't feel better because I was happy for her suffering. I felt better because it made me realize that she was human too. It shattered this notion in my mind that she was some untouchable entity that could hurt me, but could not be affected herself.
No matter how much I could be upset with how she treated me, I couldn't hate her or find pleasure in her pain, even though she had driven me to thoughts about suicide. At this point, I finally could find myself to forgive her for all she had done. At the same time, I feel as if I've allowed myself to be liberated from the fearful grasp she had on me.
I'm glad I didn't kill myself.
____________________________________________
(The following is the entry written by her.)
Tonight I messed around with a substance I haven’t touched since last summer. I can’t say that I regret it, but it made me feel excited and nostalgic in some way before I even indulged in it. I’m not sure if it’s the steady approach of another year of school or the absence of my boyfriend, but the strange waves of my mood since he left for Florida some days ago have me dysfunctional and restless, but so so tired. Last night I was in the kitchen of the bar I work at, folding silverware, thinking about my life, or the lack of stability within it, and began to cry. Fifteen minutes later I was pounding shots like a champ and went home feeling pretty empty, despite the fact that I spent the next hour engulfed in a rather heavy conversation with a female ex-coworker of mine. I have always known that despite all of my battles, I am very lucky to have the life I live. It is true that the grass appears greener on the other side, but I think of all the people I know who are blessed in terms of money and familial relationships, and I realize I am so rich in experience, strength, and my ability to connect to the smallest and faintest of things. There are moments, however, like this week, when I crumble thinking about how 90% of my peers have no idea what its like to work 60 hours a week as a 21 year old full-time college student, so what - I can pay for my medical bills, receive an education for my ever promising future, and afford the rent to a studio I hardly live in? Meanwhile, I’m accused of being a golddigger and a heartless bitch roughly every 3 months without fail from a bitter kid who has not a clue who I am anymore, but somehow manages to dig up the most insane shit to slander my name a year and some later. I am in tears as I pour out my soul to this blog that I’m sure no one reads except for my crazy ex boyfriends and the insecure Asian girls who strangely envy me. Sometimes I can’t help but indulge in self-pity as I accept that this life is not at all the reality I had hoped for 4 years ago, this is not the reality I had known could even exist 4 years ago, and that my parents would be crushed if they learned that their little girl works until 5am every day because they finally lost the war. I think that it has be awful that I can’t seem to think of a person I could say all this too. My words fall not on ears but a screen, in a box with a scroll bar that keeps reducing in size as these terrible thoughts seize my mind. I wish my boyfriend was here to make me feel better, because as much as it pains me to say something so cliche and trite, his arms really are the safest place for me - where my only worries are whether or not all boys sweat this much and how late I will be to do my next ‘to-do’ if he keeps squeezing me this way. I think, if he were here, that he would scoop me up and ask if I wanted to eat ice cream. I know that I would hesitate a little bit in fear of seeming childish before I nod kind of excitedly. It makes me smile thinking about it, and again, I realize how lucky I am and want to delete this entire blog post all together. And as always, it all ends with me being a hopeless lover with a sleeve full of emotions. Sometimes I think I was born to be living in a world of rainbows and unicorns and I really hate myself. I still really hate myself actually, because if I hadn’t wasted the last hour analyzing my uncompromising feelings, I could have called him before he fell asleep and would feel at least slightly better about being a poor 21 year old who jaded long before her time. GOD FUCKING DAMMIT.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Let Go
My esthetician told me that I need to get my stress in check. She said that the source of my problem is predominantly a combination of the day-to-day stress I experience and the constant shifts in weather. She advised that since I can't control the weather, I need to keep my stress in check. She added that puberty is probably no longer the primary culprit in making my hormones go haywire, but constant stress. It makes sense.
I'm neurotic. I worry about things that I know are out of my control. I've always thought of the worst case scenario when walking into situations, thinking that I'm preparing myself. I'm always living in my head trying to over analyze the world outside of it. I constantly try to predict how the world perceives me, when in truth what the world thinks of me is not my business. The gist of it is that I just need to let go.
In a few days, I'll be starting school. In a few months, I'll be leaving for Rome. It's time to let go of the things that should not and do not matter. I need to get a grasp of who I am and what is truly important.
I'm neurotic. I worry about things that I know are out of my control. I've always thought of the worst case scenario when walking into situations, thinking that I'm preparing myself. I'm always living in my head trying to over analyze the world outside of it. I constantly try to predict how the world perceives me, when in truth what the world thinks of me is not my business. The gist of it is that I just need to let go.
In a few days, I'll be starting school. In a few months, I'll be leaving for Rome. It's time to let go of the things that should not and do not matter. I need to get a grasp of who I am and what is truly important.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Death
I'm afraid of death. Who isn't, right? It's like a debilitating fear, for me, however. I've mentioned it before and labeled my situation as "thanatophobia". Should I be labeling it as such? A part of me believes it to be true, but another part of me perhaps just doesn't understand or know how to live...
Whenever I think of death, I find myself saying, "What's the point of it all?" What's the point of building myself up if all that will happen will simply crumble through death? What's the point of loving, attaching myself to others, or even finding what I'm passionate about if such things will inevitably flee from me? It scares me and makes me want nothing more than to crawl into bed and not get up. In a sense, I feel as if I'm trying to fight against death by trying to make sure that death would have nothing to take from me...
Then I realized: I'm giving away my life into the nothingness. Each moment, each passing second, each possibility I don't grasp is a portion of life I'm voluntarily letting go by staying idle.
I'm afraid of death. Everyone is. I don't have a say as to how my life will end... However, I do have control over how my life could be lived. I still don't understand life. Ultimately, I don't understand myself.
Whenever I think of death, I find myself saying, "What's the point of it all?" What's the point of building myself up if all that will happen will simply crumble through death? What's the point of loving, attaching myself to others, or even finding what I'm passionate about if such things will inevitably flee from me? It scares me and makes me want nothing more than to crawl into bed and not get up. In a sense, I feel as if I'm trying to fight against death by trying to make sure that death would have nothing to take from me...
Then I realized: I'm giving away my life into the nothingness. Each moment, each passing second, each possibility I don't grasp is a portion of life I'm voluntarily letting go by staying idle.
I'm afraid of death. Everyone is. I don't have a say as to how my life will end... However, I do have control over how my life could be lived. I still don't understand life. Ultimately, I don't understand myself.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Staying True to Myself
Since my last post, I've quit my retail job. I did a no-call, no-show last night, to be exact. I wrote up my two weeks notice and was planning to turn it in during my shift Friday night. However, I decided against it and decided that sleeping on it for another day would be wise. I'm sure the fact that my new hot coworker asked for my number that same night had something to do with it. Also, my shift that night wasn't too bad, which made me realize that I should thinks things through a little more. However, in the end, I decided that working in retail just wasn't for me. I couldn't endure going back in for another day, so enduring another two weeks was really out of the question. Yes, it was unprofessional of me to abandon my job, but I really couldn't put myself through anymore of it.
Hey, I wasn't under contract and both parties have the liberty to cut ties with no fair warning. They could fire any employee without any warning, often on the spot, which I'm sure they do. On the contrary, rarely does an employee practice his/her freedom to cut ties with a job in such a manner. (Way to rationalize)
1) I dreaded coming in everyday.
2) I didn't feel happy on the job for the most part.
3) The customers were inconsiderate.
4) Some of my coworkers were overly-pretentious beyond their payroll.
5) Even seeing my check couldn't make me say, "It's worth it."
The managers loved me and most of the employees loved me as well, so I didn't leave because of conflict or anything like that. After my first day on the job, one of my managers said that she'd love to suggest me for a promotion me due to my exemplified work ethic, ability to adapt quickly, and my positive attitude. The job itself was going well for me in terms of my ability to do the job, but the job just didn't resonate with what I wanted out of my time... or life.
Before getting this retail job, I idealized the idea of working in fashion retail. Being able to dress up, not having to physically strain myself, and gaining fashion-related knowledge as well as experience seemed so attractive to me. Unfortunately, it wasn't what I expected. I became more self-conscious... more than I would have liked. I was mentally, emotionally, AND physically exhausted after each of my shifts.
I believe that I was pushing myself to be something I wasn't or didn't want to be. I had this ideal self-image of being fashionable and working in retail in the city. After obtaining the opportunity to be "that person", I felt so out of touch with myself. I found myself more stressed, temperamental, and simply unhappy. I realized that I was trying to force myself into a mold I simply could not fit into. I was starting to resent myself and not even realize it.
A few hours before my last attended shift, I went to Evanston to watch a movie before heading to work. I had an hour or so to spare before my movie showing, and since I was in the area I visited my previous employment to say hi to my former coworkers. My general manager was there and I chit-chatted with her a bit. I became pretty nostalgic and started to compare my time there and my experiences at my retail job. With the former, I may have felt physically exhausted by the end of my shifts, but I enjoyed what I did. I laughed, joked, and really felt a sense of family with them. On the contrary, with my retail job, I felt like an outsider. Sure, it was a new job and everyone feels like an outsider when starting at a new place. However, I felt like even when I would try to include myself and be open, I would be disrespected. There was a sense of authenticity and warmth lacking whenever I would interact with a few of my retail coworkers. It was a job and we can't always expect to like where we work, but when I couldn't even say that the money or experience was worth it, I realized that I was exposing myself to unnecessary hardship.
So I quit. I'm happier. I find myself more at ease. I came to the conclusion that I don't have to work with clothes at minimum wage in order to feel good about myself physically or to consider myself fashionable. If I do have an interest or passion for fashion, then it's something that should be exemplified by my lifestyle in general, and not something I have to explicitly force on myself.
I believe that I've chosen the right path for me by letting go of my exaggerated ideal self-image.
Sure, jobs are hard to come by and there are those that aren't fortunate enough to be hired in this economy, but why waste your limited time in this world enduring a job you are unhappy with? No job is worth crying over, losing sleep over, or stressing over when you're not even on the clock. I want to work to live, but not live to work.
Hey, I wasn't under contract and both parties have the liberty to cut ties with no fair warning. They could fire any employee without any warning, often on the spot, which I'm sure they do. On the contrary, rarely does an employee practice his/her freedom to cut ties with a job in such a manner. (Way to rationalize)
1) I dreaded coming in everyday.
2) I didn't feel happy on the job for the most part.
3) The customers were inconsiderate.
4) Some of my coworkers were overly-pretentious beyond their payroll.
5) Even seeing my check couldn't make me say, "It's worth it."
The managers loved me and most of the employees loved me as well, so I didn't leave because of conflict or anything like that. After my first day on the job, one of my managers said that she'd love to suggest me for a promotion me due to my exemplified work ethic, ability to adapt quickly, and my positive attitude. The job itself was going well for me in terms of my ability to do the job, but the job just didn't resonate with what I wanted out of my time... or life.
Before getting this retail job, I idealized the idea of working in fashion retail. Being able to dress up, not having to physically strain myself, and gaining fashion-related knowledge as well as experience seemed so attractive to me. Unfortunately, it wasn't what I expected. I became more self-conscious... more than I would have liked. I was mentally, emotionally, AND physically exhausted after each of my shifts.
I believe that I was pushing myself to be something I wasn't or didn't want to be. I had this ideal self-image of being fashionable and working in retail in the city. After obtaining the opportunity to be "that person", I felt so out of touch with myself. I found myself more stressed, temperamental, and simply unhappy. I realized that I was trying to force myself into a mold I simply could not fit into. I was starting to resent myself and not even realize it.
A few hours before my last attended shift, I went to Evanston to watch a movie before heading to work. I had an hour or so to spare before my movie showing, and since I was in the area I visited my previous employment to say hi to my former coworkers. My general manager was there and I chit-chatted with her a bit. I became pretty nostalgic and started to compare my time there and my experiences at my retail job. With the former, I may have felt physically exhausted by the end of my shifts, but I enjoyed what I did. I laughed, joked, and really felt a sense of family with them. On the contrary, with my retail job, I felt like an outsider. Sure, it was a new job and everyone feels like an outsider when starting at a new place. However, I felt like even when I would try to include myself and be open, I would be disrespected. There was a sense of authenticity and warmth lacking whenever I would interact with a few of my retail coworkers. It was a job and we can't always expect to like where we work, but when I couldn't even say that the money or experience was worth it, I realized that I was exposing myself to unnecessary hardship.
So I quit. I'm happier. I find myself more at ease. I came to the conclusion that I don't have to work with clothes at minimum wage in order to feel good about myself physically or to consider myself fashionable. If I do have an interest or passion for fashion, then it's something that should be exemplified by my lifestyle in general, and not something I have to explicitly force on myself.
I believe that I've chosen the right path for me by letting go of my exaggerated ideal self-image.
Sure, jobs are hard to come by and there are those that aren't fortunate enough to be hired in this economy, but why waste your limited time in this world enduring a job you are unhappy with? No job is worth crying over, losing sleep over, or stressing over when you're not even on the clock. I want to work to live, but not live to work.
Friday, February 25, 2011
A New Dawn
It's been over week since I've written. Frankly, I just haven't had the energy to actually manifest the things I've felt and thought into words that others could understand. For the past week or so, I would think about writing, but I found myself unable to act on it. I believe that I just needed some time to get get away... some time to escape from analyzing and admitting to what I've been feeling and thinking. To write means to become fully cognizant of what I feel, believe, and think; that is what writing means to me and I just had to stop before I sank myself too deep into my emotions.
I compare the past week or so to the progression of the day from dawn to morning. For the past week, I felt as if I had woken up too early in the day and the sun had yet risen. Dawn, that time in the day when everything around you is still encased in darkness, everything is silent, still, and it's too cold to get out of bed; that is how the world has felt for me in the past week or so. I found myself separated from the rest of the world as I looked out from the warmth and certainty of my figurative bed. I detached myself from the world because it was just too much for me to handle. It was just too sad.
Fortunately, recently, things have gotten better. I've surrounded myself with friends that have been showing me a better, more optimistic perspective on life. My friend A., especially, recently showed me that the world isn't necessarily the enemy nor is it the bearer of misfortune. It's interesting that she's come across her fair share of heartache, betrayal, and sorrows, yet she can still smile back at the world. Previously, I was only aware of my perspective of the world (cold, selfish, manipulative, and perhaps even menacing) and those that shared the same view. What I solely knew was what I considered to be a universal truth; I knew no better. After my conversation with A., she made me realize that the way I saw the world was not as objective of a view as I previously thought. She made me realize that it's not the world that hurts us, but ourselves. It reminds me of the psychology term "self-fulfilling prophecy". We see ourselves being hurt and betrayed, therefore we unwittingly put ourselves on the path of being hurt and betrayed.
Sure, there are those that intentionally hurt us, but it's how we see the experience that matters. To be deliberately hurt for reasons far from justified reason, or the lack of any reason at all, can be painful, but the pain is only temporary. What is long-lasting, perhaps even permanent, is what we take from it. Do we fight back? Do we hold a grudge? Or do we move on, decide that we were the better person in the given situation(s), and live our lives free from the weight of scorn?
I've lived far too long holding my fists in front of me. Frankly, I feel as if being on the defensive for so long has kept me from truly living. I want to let the world in: the pain, the happiness, the sorrow, the bliss. Whatever happens, as long as I make sure that I did the best I can to live virtuously, compassionately, and lovingly, I can tell myself that my life was worthwhile.
The best I can do and should do is open my heart. The rest is left for the world to decide.
I compare the past week or so to the progression of the day from dawn to morning. For the past week, I felt as if I had woken up too early in the day and the sun had yet risen. Dawn, that time in the day when everything around you is still encased in darkness, everything is silent, still, and it's too cold to get out of bed; that is how the world has felt for me in the past week or so. I found myself separated from the rest of the world as I looked out from the warmth and certainty of my figurative bed. I detached myself from the world because it was just too much for me to handle. It was just too sad.
Fortunately, recently, things have gotten better. I've surrounded myself with friends that have been showing me a better, more optimistic perspective on life. My friend A., especially, recently showed me that the world isn't necessarily the enemy nor is it the bearer of misfortune. It's interesting that she's come across her fair share of heartache, betrayal, and sorrows, yet she can still smile back at the world. Previously, I was only aware of my perspective of the world (cold, selfish, manipulative, and perhaps even menacing) and those that shared the same view. What I solely knew was what I considered to be a universal truth; I knew no better. After my conversation with A., she made me realize that the way I saw the world was not as objective of a view as I previously thought. She made me realize that it's not the world that hurts us, but ourselves. It reminds me of the psychology term "self-fulfilling prophecy". We see ourselves being hurt and betrayed, therefore we unwittingly put ourselves on the path of being hurt and betrayed.
Sure, there are those that intentionally hurt us, but it's how we see the experience that matters. To be deliberately hurt for reasons far from justified reason, or the lack of any reason at all, can be painful, but the pain is only temporary. What is long-lasting, perhaps even permanent, is what we take from it. Do we fight back? Do we hold a grudge? Or do we move on, decide that we were the better person in the given situation(s), and live our lives free from the weight of scorn?
I've lived far too long holding my fists in front of me. Frankly, I feel as if being on the defensive for so long has kept me from truly living. I want to let the world in: the pain, the happiness, the sorrow, the bliss. Whatever happens, as long as I make sure that I did the best I can to live virtuously, compassionately, and lovingly, I can tell myself that my life was worthwhile.
The best I can do and should do is open my heart. The rest is left for the world to decide.
Friday, February 11, 2011
You Don't Deserve Me.
You are beautiful to me. You were once kind, gentle, and caring. You comforted me when I felt alone. You gave me affection when no one else could or would... But you don't deserve me.
Here I am, offering myself to you, but you don't want to listen. I've traveled into unknown territory just to hand you my love. You didn't seem to care. You couldn't understand how much you meant to me then and you still don't comprehend. In words and in actions I tried to give you my love and affection. I made myself vulnerable to you... I degraded myself and offered you my dignity.
I once hurt you because I told you the truth. I did not love you when you first professed love and I told you. It hurt you to hear the truth. You cried because I was honest. You wanted me to lie. You wanted me to give you what I did not have. You despise me, you hate me, you hold a grudge against me because I told you what I knew then as the truth. I did not lie to you. I did not deceive you. I told you the truth and for that you see me as your enemy... For that, you don't deserve me.
I love you. You don't seem to care. You believe that I deserve to suffer like you did. You want to hurt me like how you hurt. Please remember, it was the situation that hurt you, not me. Here we are, here I am, professing my love to you. All you can think about is how to serve me what you think I deserve. You cried, but not for me. You cried because you could not get what I could not give. You did not love me, you loved the thought of being loved by me.
One thing is certain, dear, you don't deserve any part of me.
Love knows no hate. Love does not associate with Regret. Love hopes, but never expects. I know that I love you. Even though you deny me, I hold no grudge. I don't regret anything I've done to show you my love. I don't expect you to still feel the same for me, all I can do is hope for the best.
I wish I could make the world a better place for you. I wish I could fix all of your problems. I wish I could take every blow the world has given you, but all that I can offer is myself. It seems as if it's no longer good enough... If you think I'm not good enough for you, then you don't deserve me... I deserve better. I deserve to be loved as much as I loved you.
You may be better looking than me. Everyone may not notice me like they do you. Some days I feel lonely. Some moments I feel inferior. But I know that I deserve more than what you've given me. I don't deserve to be put on my knees to beg, but you let me. You don't deserve me or the love I can give, but I still offer it to you.
Every moment at the moment is occupied by you. I showed you the secrets to my heart, but you didn't understand. You want me to feel the pain and jealousy you felt. That will never happen. You hold a grudge against me because you regret the love you professed for me. I don't regret what I've done to prove myself to you. I don't feel deceived, tricked, or swindled. I don't have the desire to make you suffer what you're doing to me. All I offer is my love and I don't expect anything from you.
I willingly give you my love and only that. From me, that is all you will ever receive. You don't deserve my love, but it's something I'm willing to give. Just please remember dear, you never deserved me.
Here I am, offering myself to you, but you don't want to listen. I've traveled into unknown territory just to hand you my love. You didn't seem to care. You couldn't understand how much you meant to me then and you still don't comprehend. In words and in actions I tried to give you my love and affection. I made myself vulnerable to you... I degraded myself and offered you my dignity.
I once hurt you because I told you the truth. I did not love you when you first professed love and I told you. It hurt you to hear the truth. You cried because I was honest. You wanted me to lie. You wanted me to give you what I did not have. You despise me, you hate me, you hold a grudge against me because I told you what I knew then as the truth. I did not lie to you. I did not deceive you. I told you the truth and for that you see me as your enemy... For that, you don't deserve me.
I love you. You don't seem to care. You believe that I deserve to suffer like you did. You want to hurt me like how you hurt. Please remember, it was the situation that hurt you, not me. Here we are, here I am, professing my love to you. All you can think about is how to serve me what you think I deserve. You cried, but not for me. You cried because you could not get what I could not give. You did not love me, you loved the thought of being loved by me.
One thing is certain, dear, you don't deserve any part of me.
Love knows no hate. Love does not associate with Regret. Love hopes, but never expects. I know that I love you. Even though you deny me, I hold no grudge. I don't regret anything I've done to show you my love. I don't expect you to still feel the same for me, all I can do is hope for the best.
I wish I could make the world a better place for you. I wish I could fix all of your problems. I wish I could take every blow the world has given you, but all that I can offer is myself. It seems as if it's no longer good enough... If you think I'm not good enough for you, then you don't deserve me... I deserve better. I deserve to be loved as much as I loved you.
You may be better looking than me. Everyone may not notice me like they do you. Some days I feel lonely. Some moments I feel inferior. But I know that I deserve more than what you've given me. I don't deserve to be put on my knees to beg, but you let me. You don't deserve me or the love I can give, but I still offer it to you.
Every moment at the moment is occupied by you. I showed you the secrets to my heart, but you didn't understand. You want me to feel the pain and jealousy you felt. That will never happen. You hold a grudge against me because you regret the love you professed for me. I don't regret what I've done to prove myself to you. I don't feel deceived, tricked, or swindled. I don't have the desire to make you suffer what you're doing to me. All I offer is my love and I don't expect anything from you.
I willingly give you my love and only that. From me, that is all you will ever receive. You don't deserve my love, but it's something I'm willing to give. Just please remember dear, you never deserved me.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Do You Know that Feeling?
Do you know that feeling? When your palms start sweating, yet a cold sensation begins to creep from your fingertips? Do you feel it as every joint on every limb quiver in weakness and anxiety? It slowly creeps and caresses, silently crawling on your skin. It creeps further, its hold grows stronger, colder, relentless; its claim on your sorrows begin. Your mind wanders from one thing to the next as it tries to flee the very thought and emotion resting in your chest...
Yes, right there, in there, in that deep cavern of flesh and bone, do you feel its weight? Do you feel your heart trembling in pain as some mysterious, unknown hand reaches in, grabs hold, and impales the very organ with its intangible fingertips? Yes, it has its grasp on you and it slowly, excruciatingly pulls the organ of your soul lower and deeper until it snaps separate and free from your chest into the depths of your bowels.
Do you feel it? Your spine aches and tenses as your body fears what it cannot face. Behind you, always behind you, it hides and feasts. With one hand it claimed your heart, with the other it possesses your soul. Do you feel the emptiness, the emotionless, guiltless grip it has on you? Every vertebrae grinds on the other as you feel your every position in discontent. Bone clashes and grinds on bone, the sound of it grumbling dully and horrifically.
Do you feel fear? The fear of the open space, the darkness, the loneliness that surrounds you? Your skin trembles as it feels Nothing. Your heart aches as it feels Nothing. Your mind falters and falls into entropy as it succumbs to Nothing. You see Nothing. Darkness can no longer be differentiated from Light. Nothing becomes something, as it is the only existence you know and can find solace in. Can you stop it? Can you stop what you feel, but cannot reach? What is this malady whose symptoms you feel?
Your head grows heavy, yet your body refuses to retire. It hangs low and defeated as the willow that weeps. Your neck, weighted and shackled to the earth, subjugating you, forcing you to bow down to it as subject to Master. Your body fails to hold you any longer as your weight simply becomes a burden from God. Do you feel it? Do you feel what I feel? Do you feel the wet, sharp, blistering burns that sears my eyes shut?
Do you feel my sorrows? Can you hear my lament?
Do you feel it?
Yes, right there, in there, in that deep cavern of flesh and bone, do you feel its weight? Do you feel your heart trembling in pain as some mysterious, unknown hand reaches in, grabs hold, and impales the very organ with its intangible fingertips? Yes, it has its grasp on you and it slowly, excruciatingly pulls the organ of your soul lower and deeper until it snaps separate and free from your chest into the depths of your bowels.
Do you feel it? Your spine aches and tenses as your body fears what it cannot face. Behind you, always behind you, it hides and feasts. With one hand it claimed your heart, with the other it possesses your soul. Do you feel the emptiness, the emotionless, guiltless grip it has on you? Every vertebrae grinds on the other as you feel your every position in discontent. Bone clashes and grinds on bone, the sound of it grumbling dully and horrifically.
Do you feel fear? The fear of the open space, the darkness, the loneliness that surrounds you? Your skin trembles as it feels Nothing. Your heart aches as it feels Nothing. Your mind falters and falls into entropy as it succumbs to Nothing. You see Nothing. Darkness can no longer be differentiated from Light. Nothing becomes something, as it is the only existence you know and can find solace in. Can you stop it? Can you stop what you feel, but cannot reach? What is this malady whose symptoms you feel?
Your head grows heavy, yet your body refuses to retire. It hangs low and defeated as the willow that weeps. Your neck, weighted and shackled to the earth, subjugating you, forcing you to bow down to it as subject to Master. Your body fails to hold you any longer as your weight simply becomes a burden from God. Do you feel it? Do you feel what I feel? Do you feel the wet, sharp, blistering burns that sears my eyes shut?
Do you feel my sorrows? Can you hear my lament?
Do you feel it?
Saturday, January 22, 2011
What's a Fag to a Fag Hag?
During the welcome week of freshman year, I was a total social butterfly. Once I had all my stuff in my dorm, I kept the door open greeting anyone that would pass by. I made so many friends and I would often hear my name being called left and right. I had people constantly calling my phone asking me to come join them in whatever it was they were doing. I honestly thought that everything would be different compared to high school; it was a new school, a new opportunity to be what I wanted to be without the limits set by reputation and parental control. From the moment I would wake up, I felt like I had something to look forward to, people I couldn't wait to see.
This school year is/was different. The people I called my dearest friends from last year are no longer around. A few of them, I haven't seen or heard from in the past 4-5 months, yet they live less than two blocks away. Is it because I no longer wish to go out to the bars and drink every weekend like they do? Was I truly even a friend to them as they are to one another?
I often blame myself for what has happened. I expected all of us to be a family of some sort, but I guess it wasn't the sort of friendship they were looking for. The close intimate relationship I wanted with them wasn't the sort they wanted from me. Why would they? The whole group consisted of girls, where I was the only guy. They were ignorant to the instances where I was left out because I was the one that was different, not them. No matter how I put it, I am a guy and I was hanging out with a bunch of girls. Yes, I am gay, the diplomatic bridge between men and women, but I still have a penis hanging between both my legs and certainly a full-fledged man. Whether they were conscious of it or not, it was a common trait between them (i.e. their femaleness) that provided a deeper connection for them to share.
Yes, a gay is a girl's best friend, but at what point is a girl a best friend to the gay as much as he is to her? The television show Sex & the City comes to mind. One scene in particular, Carrie, Charlotte, Samantha, Miranda, and Stanford were watching a fashion show when Stanford overheard Carrie talking about going out later that night. Stanford enthusiastically asked Carrie, "Where are we going?" Carrie hesitantly responded, "Oh, I thought it would be just a girl's night out, is that okay?" Often, those were the sort of situations I'd find myself in. I found myself investing so much time and effort in maintaining friendships with these girls that I came to think of them as my central group of friends. But when I realized that the feeling wasn't mutual, I found myself at a loss. Gays were always too nasty and unjustifiably competitive with one another, I was socially conditioned to stay away from heterosexual boys, and the girls I spent so much time with didn't see me as an equal, whether they were cognizant of it or not...
To try an put it in clearer terms... I accepted the fact that I was gay at a very early age, at an age where I was the only gay person I knew; I was 11 years old. At that point, guys made fun of me and they often ostracized me. If one guy showed any sympathy for me or try to befriend me, other guys would ridicule him, so I basically became a social leper to the guys of my school. At that point, girls were the only friends I could turn to. As far as I knew, they were the only ones willing to interact with me. As time went on and the guys continued to share their apprehension towards me, I never really got the chance to develop my social interaction skills with other guys. They feared that I would perhaps turn them gay or try to make a move on them. I knew that this would never happen because I was never attracted to straight guys. Nonetheless, I habitually learned to stay away from them. It was ingrained into me that me being gay scared guys and I didn't want to bother them or get myself rejected and be humiliated, so I stayed away. In the end, girls were the only people I came to depend on.
Unfortunately, as the years went on, I came to realize how gendered society was depending on age groups. Now in my early adulthood, it seems clearer to me that girls have their solid group of female friends as their central group, men have their solid group of male friends as their central group (which I never felt welcome to join), and I'm stuck in the empty space between these two spheres of gendered society.
Is there something wrong with me? Am I that much of a social failure?
This school year is/was different. The people I called my dearest friends from last year are no longer around. A few of them, I haven't seen or heard from in the past 4-5 months, yet they live less than two blocks away. Is it because I no longer wish to go out to the bars and drink every weekend like they do? Was I truly even a friend to them as they are to one another?
I often blame myself for what has happened. I expected all of us to be a family of some sort, but I guess it wasn't the sort of friendship they were looking for. The close intimate relationship I wanted with them wasn't the sort they wanted from me. Why would they? The whole group consisted of girls, where I was the only guy. They were ignorant to the instances where I was left out because I was the one that was different, not them. No matter how I put it, I am a guy and I was hanging out with a bunch of girls. Yes, I am gay, the diplomatic bridge between men and women, but I still have a penis hanging between both my legs and certainly a full-fledged man. Whether they were conscious of it or not, it was a common trait between them (i.e. their femaleness) that provided a deeper connection for them to share.
Yes, a gay is a girl's best friend, but at what point is a girl a best friend to the gay as much as he is to her? The television show Sex & the City comes to mind. One scene in particular, Carrie, Charlotte, Samantha, Miranda, and Stanford were watching a fashion show when Stanford overheard Carrie talking about going out later that night. Stanford enthusiastically asked Carrie, "Where are we going?" Carrie hesitantly responded, "Oh, I thought it would be just a girl's night out, is that okay?" Often, those were the sort of situations I'd find myself in. I found myself investing so much time and effort in maintaining friendships with these girls that I came to think of them as my central group of friends. But when I realized that the feeling wasn't mutual, I found myself at a loss. Gays were always too nasty and unjustifiably competitive with one another, I was socially conditioned to stay away from heterosexual boys, and the girls I spent so much time with didn't see me as an equal, whether they were cognizant of it or not...
To try an put it in clearer terms... I accepted the fact that I was gay at a very early age, at an age where I was the only gay person I knew; I was 11 years old. At that point, guys made fun of me and they often ostracized me. If one guy showed any sympathy for me or try to befriend me, other guys would ridicule him, so I basically became a social leper to the guys of my school. At that point, girls were the only friends I could turn to. As far as I knew, they were the only ones willing to interact with me. As time went on and the guys continued to share their apprehension towards me, I never really got the chance to develop my social interaction skills with other guys. They feared that I would perhaps turn them gay or try to make a move on them. I knew that this would never happen because I was never attracted to straight guys. Nonetheless, I habitually learned to stay away from them. It was ingrained into me that me being gay scared guys and I didn't want to bother them or get myself rejected and be humiliated, so I stayed away. In the end, girls were the only people I came to depend on.
Unfortunately, as the years went on, I came to realize how gendered society was depending on age groups. Now in my early adulthood, it seems clearer to me that girls have their solid group of female friends as their central group, men have their solid group of male friends as their central group (which I never felt welcome to join), and I'm stuck in the empty space between these two spheres of gendered society.
Is there something wrong with me? Am I that much of a social failure?
Saturday, January 15, 2011
In the Eyes of the Beholder
Last night, rather than being a productive individual, I spent my time looking through profiles on a certain social networking/dating site. As I glanced through profiles, one in particular stood out: that of a severe burn victim. As an individual's picture is the first thing one would see, what I initially noticed was the severity of his burns. The first thought that came into mind was, "What happened?" As I further read through his profile, I learned that he is around my age, he's going to school for his bachelors in psychology (like me), and he had spent over a decade at a burn victim camp.
What I found to be really fascinating was the optimism he had displayed throughout his written profile. He wrote about going to school for psychology, his desire to become a counselor at the camp he attends and help other burn victims, his love for laughter, etc. Even though he had gone through something so tragic, he is still able to face the world with certainty and confidence; he truly exemplifies what it means to be resilient.
It has definitely made me reevaluate my own situation and the way I perceive my life. Yes, I was always cognizant of the fact that there are others who are not as fortunate as me in some way or another. Unfortunately, it's hard for me to close or even bridge the empathy gap between myself and those that are supposedly in worse situations. I have always told myself that I should live for those that were not fortunate enough to have the same liberties and opportunities as me; it's similar to when your parents tell you not to waste food because there are starving children in the world, but the thought is more self-driven. I can appreciate the significance of such a statement. Previously, bringing such concepts to the forefront of my awareness never made much of a difference. I have the great fortune of going to university, I have parents that financially support me, I have a home to return to whether it be on campus or at my parents', yet I must admit that I don't appreciate them as much as I would like to. To know that I am in a better position in society compared to others should motivate me to take full advantage of what I have been fatefully given, yet I find myself slacking.
Previously, my focus was often on what others have better than me and what my misfortunes are. I criticize myself for having mild acne that leaves superficial scars, being a minority in the gay community and not being seen as attractive by the majority subgroup within said community, etc. By identifying with the man mentioned above, I'm able to see the world in a more universal perspective. Also, I've come closer to setting my priorities straight and I'm increasingly gaining the motivation to strive for something. I believe that I am no longer just cognizant of my great fortune and liberty, but I can actually use my knowledge and awareness to actively live. There was no emotional connection with what I knew, hence why I could not appreciate and/or take full advantage of what I have and what I know I can attain.
By disregarding the opportunities and fortune fatefully (or arbitrarily) given to me, I would be disrespecting not only my own self-interest, but also those that are in less fortunate situations than I am. I can pay homage to those that could have best utilized what I have by living my life the best that I can.
What I found to be really fascinating was the optimism he had displayed throughout his written profile. He wrote about going to school for psychology, his desire to become a counselor at the camp he attends and help other burn victims, his love for laughter, etc. Even though he had gone through something so tragic, he is still able to face the world with certainty and confidence; he truly exemplifies what it means to be resilient.
It has definitely made me reevaluate my own situation and the way I perceive my life. Yes, I was always cognizant of the fact that there are others who are not as fortunate as me in some way or another. Unfortunately, it's hard for me to close or even bridge the empathy gap between myself and those that are supposedly in worse situations. I have always told myself that I should live for those that were not fortunate enough to have the same liberties and opportunities as me; it's similar to when your parents tell you not to waste food because there are starving children in the world, but the thought is more self-driven. I can appreciate the significance of such a statement. Previously, bringing such concepts to the forefront of my awareness never made much of a difference. I have the great fortune of going to university, I have parents that financially support me, I have a home to return to whether it be on campus or at my parents', yet I must admit that I don't appreciate them as much as I would like to. To know that I am in a better position in society compared to others should motivate me to take full advantage of what I have been fatefully given, yet I find myself slacking.
Previously, my focus was often on what others have better than me and what my misfortunes are. I criticize myself for having mild acne that leaves superficial scars, being a minority in the gay community and not being seen as attractive by the majority subgroup within said community, etc. By identifying with the man mentioned above, I'm able to see the world in a more universal perspective. Also, I've come closer to setting my priorities straight and I'm increasingly gaining the motivation to strive for something. I believe that I am no longer just cognizant of my great fortune and liberty, but I can actually use my knowledge and awareness to actively live. There was no emotional connection with what I knew, hence why I could not appreciate and/or take full advantage of what I have and what I know I can attain.
By disregarding the opportunities and fortune fatefully (or arbitrarily) given to me, I would be disrespecting not only my own self-interest, but also those that are in less fortunate situations than I am. I can pay homage to those that could have best utilized what I have by living my life the best that I can.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Am I Going Insane?
Ever since my recent panic/anxiety attack while taking an afternoon nap, it has been somewhat difficult for me to get a good night's sleep (or even falling asleep for that matter). I'm afraid of experiencing another attack. I'm afraid of laying myself down in bed and having those few minutes to think before actually falling asleep. I'm afraid of relaxing and actually letting my mind wander since it could possibly lead to me thinking about death, therefore another attack.
Like I've said before, I'm not afraid of death itself. What I'm afraid of is the idea of the unknown and its uncertain arrival. In truth, I am just as afraid of consciously living for an eternity as I am dying unexpectedly (whether it be tomorrow, in a few years, or a few decades). I don't know how to explain it; the concept of being eternally conscious or unexpectedly just going black makes my stomach sink. I tried to Google what I am experiencing and the closest thing I could find was something called "thanatophobia," the fear of death.
"People who are highly intelligent and inquisitive are often at greater risk for this type of thanatophobia, as are those who are questioning their own philosophical or religious beliefs."
Could that be true? Am I developing some sort of phobia or am I just having the occasional panic attacks? Could being quite intelligent and so desiring of uncovering the unknown cause such a problem? Sure, I would say that I've been questioning my religious and philosophical beliefs, but what gay young adult/teen isn't? I am concerned that I'm either going insane or I'm overreacting. Nonetheless, my recent experience(s) has led to my insomnia.
I need someone to talk to, not a professional, just an ordinary person. I don't need some individual shoving the DSM-V down my throat along with a few prescriptions. I just want someone to talk things through with. I want to be reassured that I'm not the only one in this world that has experienced these sort of thoughts. Whatever "this" may be, I don't want it to progress any further.
I guess one must also consider the fact that I've been cooped up in my parents' house all alone for the past week or so. I have only left the house two or three times in the past week, could that possibly have something to do with it? Perhaps I've just had too much time to think.
Like I've said before, I'm not afraid of death itself. What I'm afraid of is the idea of the unknown and its uncertain arrival. In truth, I am just as afraid of consciously living for an eternity as I am dying unexpectedly (whether it be tomorrow, in a few years, or a few decades). I don't know how to explain it; the concept of being eternally conscious or unexpectedly just going black makes my stomach sink. I tried to Google what I am experiencing and the closest thing I could find was something called "thanatophobia," the fear of death.
"People who are highly intelligent and inquisitive are often at greater risk for this type of thanatophobia, as are those who are questioning their own philosophical or religious beliefs."
Could that be true? Am I developing some sort of phobia or am I just having the occasional panic attacks? Could being quite intelligent and so desiring of uncovering the unknown cause such a problem? Sure, I would say that I've been questioning my religious and philosophical beliefs, but what gay young adult/teen isn't? I am concerned that I'm either going insane or I'm overreacting. Nonetheless, my recent experience(s) has led to my insomnia.
I need someone to talk to, not a professional, just an ordinary person. I don't need some individual shoving the DSM-V down my throat along with a few prescriptions. I just want someone to talk things through with. I want to be reassured that I'm not the only one in this world that has experienced these sort of thoughts. Whatever "this" may be, I don't want it to progress any further.
I guess one must also consider the fact that I've been cooped up in my parents' house all alone for the past week or so. I have only left the house two or three times in the past week, could that possibly have something to do with it? Perhaps I've just had too much time to think.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
I Want to Feel Again
Since then—'tis Centuries—and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity—
- Emily Dickinson
I just woke up from a nap. What I experienced soon after waking up is one of the things that makes me hesitant about going to sleep in the first place. It doesn't happen often, but considering the experience itself, it's not something that should ever happen. I felt like my chest was collapsing in on itself, reality seemed much clearer than it had ever been, and impending doom was all that I could think about. I felt as if time was accelerated, yet my mind was stuck on one thought: death and decay. What raced through my head is the fact that I am mortal, I am dying, and I am afraid of the unknown. It wasn't the fear that made it excruciating, but the feelings of deep sadness and hopelessness that followed. In truth, these moments are the clearest that I've actually felt alive. The idea of death doesn't usually bother me except for when I have these attacks.
For most of what I can remember of my conscious life, the days seem like a movie. I feel as if my whole life is something that I'm not living, but watching through a television set. I see and hear my life occurring, but I cannot feel it. It feels as if I am not truly experiencing life. Sure, I cry when I am sad and I laugh when I am happy, but a part of me feels as if I am not feeling emotions to their fullest extent, especially happiness. It's like holding something in your hand while wearing latex gloves; you feel yourself holding the object, but you're not feeling it's texture, it's warmth, etc. All that you know and feel is the simple fact that there is an object in your hand. Sometimes I try to break the glass wall between me and the experience of life, yet when I feel so close to grasping it with my bare hands, it escapes me and I revert back.
When I wake up in these states of panic, life seems so much more real. It's a powerful feeling as if a bullet of emotions had been shot into my chest and head. All I can really do is quickly get up from bed, make a whimpering sound, followed by me telling myself out loud to stop thinking. Sometimes, it's not so bad and all I have to do is distract myself (e.g., get on the computer or turn on the television) in order to stop the attack. Whenever I think of these events occurring, I feel crazy and embarrassed. Not only do I feel embarrassed by the possibility of someone seeing me during such an event, but I also feel guilty that I feel the most alive in such a state of mind.
I don't think it's always been like this. I believe that before I felt "numb" to life, I actually enjoyed and relished in what was in front of me. I don't remember ever experiencing these attacks before the numbness developed either. I do believe that my constant feeling of numbness towards life is linked to these occasional attacks. If it is so, I want to fix it. Some might suggest seeing a psychiatrist and getting prescribed antidepressants or whatnot. The thing is, I don't want to start taking pills to escape this experience. I may be romanticizing the problem, but I do believe that the solution can be found through a more humanistic process. I don't know what that may be, but I am certain that I don't want to chemically alter myself with medication. The world is chemically-altered enough, voluntarily and involuntarily.
Am I crazy? Am I alone in this? Will I ever again experience happiness to its fullest extent? Will these attacks stop? I don't know. I don't fear death. What I fear is life with nothing on my mind, but the coming of the end.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Who We Are: to Ourselves and to Others
I just recently got back from hanging out with my friend Drew. Drew is one of those guys that I would categorize as a "pretty gay." He's tall (over 6 feet), blond hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones, well-dressed, etc. He's the type of person that I have often observed turning heads. For example, earlier this evening, we were in Starbucks. When he walked to the counter to get my coffee or when someone outside would pass by the window where we were sitting, they'd turn their head to look at him. Contrary to the stereotype of good-looking gay guys with bitchy, pretentious attitudes, he's actually the opposite; he's very silly, generous, kind, and quite the gentleman.
Sometimes, gay friends come across a dilemma where a friendship is implicitly expected to evolve into a friends-with-benefits relationship, an intimate boyfriend-boyfriend relationship, or any sort of relationship between them simply dissolves. With Drew, we're comfortable with just being friends. Frankly, the absence of any sort of sexual attraction between us has enabled me to open up to him at a level greater than I have experience with any other friend. Whenever he and I are hanging out, I don't feel pressured to behave a certain way or censor certain thoughts/opinions. With such statements considered, is what he sees of me the truest form of my identity? When we are stripped of expectations and given the chance to behave in any way without fearing rejection, do we come to see our clearest reflection?
After hanging out with Drew a few times, he has stated that I am very sweet, kind, cute, and quite innocent. He questions why I have yet to find a man and all I can do is shrug my shoulders and respond, "I don't know." In truth, am I truly as sweet, kind, and innocent as he says I am? I feel no attraction to him or any conscious desire to please him, therefore I can only conclude that he sees me in my most basic form. With others, I have sometimes found myself having to act a certain way (jaded, overly optimistic, cold, aloof, etc.). I often feel as if I'm emphasizing certain facets of myself with others, whereas with Drew, I am just me.
What I'm getting at is that I want others to see me as he sees me. I want the rest of my friends friends and other men to see me for who I truly am. Some of us find ourselves trying to play roles other than our own. There are times when we want to seem suave to others, therefore we act more aloof, haughty, or obnoxious. Other times, we want to seem innocent, so we act too optimistic, too friendly, or too accommodating. We try to play these roles in order to satisfy other people's perceived expectations, which we can never truly fulfill, and we forget our role as ourselves. One quote that resonates with what I'm trying to say is something that Judy Garland once said, "Be a first rate version of yourself, not a second rate version of someone else." The thing is, the only way to generally succeed in this world is to stay true to ourselves and to take advantage of our own individuality.
With further reflection, yes, I am a sweet and kind-hearted person. I have tried to portray to others a character that seemed cold, aloof, and suave or too optimistic, enthusiastic, or friendly in order to hide my vulnerabilities. In consequence, portraying traits that were on both extremes of what I truly possess, I have come to surround myself with people I could not develop clear, intimate connections with. I found myself confused and not knowing which direction to take in my life because I lost my sense of identity under layers upon layers of supposed expectations.
With all things considered, I think I'm comfortable and ready to be me. I think I can move on forward and be honest with myself (and others) as to who I am.
Sometimes, gay friends come across a dilemma where a friendship is implicitly expected to evolve into a friends-with-benefits relationship, an intimate boyfriend-boyfriend relationship, or any sort of relationship between them simply dissolves. With Drew, we're comfortable with just being friends. Frankly, the absence of any sort of sexual attraction between us has enabled me to open up to him at a level greater than I have experience with any other friend. Whenever he and I are hanging out, I don't feel pressured to behave a certain way or censor certain thoughts/opinions. With such statements considered, is what he sees of me the truest form of my identity? When we are stripped of expectations and given the chance to behave in any way without fearing rejection, do we come to see our clearest reflection?
After hanging out with Drew a few times, he has stated that I am very sweet, kind, cute, and quite innocent. He questions why I have yet to find a man and all I can do is shrug my shoulders and respond, "I don't know." In truth, am I truly as sweet, kind, and innocent as he says I am? I feel no attraction to him or any conscious desire to please him, therefore I can only conclude that he sees me in my most basic form. With others, I have sometimes found myself having to act a certain way (jaded, overly optimistic, cold, aloof, etc.). I often feel as if I'm emphasizing certain facets of myself with others, whereas with Drew, I am just me.
What I'm getting at is that I want others to see me as he sees me. I want the rest of my friends friends and other men to see me for who I truly am. Some of us find ourselves trying to play roles other than our own. There are times when we want to seem suave to others, therefore we act more aloof, haughty, or obnoxious. Other times, we want to seem innocent, so we act too optimistic, too friendly, or too accommodating. We try to play these roles in order to satisfy other people's perceived expectations, which we can never truly fulfill, and we forget our role as ourselves. One quote that resonates with what I'm trying to say is something that Judy Garland once said, "Be a first rate version of yourself, not a second rate version of someone else." The thing is, the only way to generally succeed in this world is to stay true to ourselves and to take advantage of our own individuality.
With further reflection, yes, I am a sweet and kind-hearted person. I have tried to portray to others a character that seemed cold, aloof, and suave or too optimistic, enthusiastic, or friendly in order to hide my vulnerabilities. In consequence, portraying traits that were on both extremes of what I truly possess, I have come to surround myself with people I could not develop clear, intimate connections with. I found myself confused and not knowing which direction to take in my life because I lost my sense of identity under layers upon layers of supposed expectations.
With all things considered, I think I'm comfortable and ready to be me. I think I can move on forward and be honest with myself (and others) as to who I am.
A Future Deferred
For the past few days I've just been hibernating. This past week I have done nothing but watch television, eat, and sleep (excessively). Frankly, I feel guilty for not posting a blog in the past few days. I don't know whether it's because I just don't have anything to write about or I've just given up.
I often find myself struggling uphill in order to initiate a task (e.g., blogging, exercise, completing my study abroad essay) unless I get a surge of inspiration from something external; once I've actually gotten myself started, the momentum helps me complete the tasks at hand. I find this to be an unhealthy process because I am always tempted to just do nothing; I'm simply not a motivated person and I don't know how to change that. I want to be a motivated, task-oriented, and to actually get things done. I hate being pressed for time and that sense of pressure often being the only thing that pushes me to complete a task. I want to be driven by my own will and desire, not by some external stimuli or catalyst.
I've come to acknowledge goals to reach for that should fuel my determination and motivation to move forward in the world, yet it seems to not be enough. I'm afraid that this uncertainty in pressing on towards the future will lead to my very downfall. I have dreams, yet I doubt myself. This disbelief that lurks in shadows of my conscious mind seems to have an unmeasurable hold on me. I want to go to Italy next year, I want to have the (realistically fit) body I had always wanted, I want to succeed in school, I want to find a career that works for me. Unfortunately, I find myself so overwhelmed by the challenges that are keeping me from attaining those things; I'm tempted to just give up. It seems as if sleep and simple distractions have become a quick fix. Obviously, they're not actually fixing anything. Instead, they're distracting me from the guilt of being afraid of taking on the challenges before me. I'm leading myself to failure by simply not taking an active role in my life. What can I do? How can I fix this?
Resilience is the word that has been coming to mind recently; to be able to pick oneself up and try again may be the answer for me. Can I do it? Can I be resilient whilst having self-doubts still lurking in my mind? How can I conquer my own reflection?
I often find myself struggling uphill in order to initiate a task (e.g., blogging, exercise, completing my study abroad essay) unless I get a surge of inspiration from something external; once I've actually gotten myself started, the momentum helps me complete the tasks at hand. I find this to be an unhealthy process because I am always tempted to just do nothing; I'm simply not a motivated person and I don't know how to change that. I want to be a motivated, task-oriented, and to actually get things done. I hate being pressed for time and that sense of pressure often being the only thing that pushes me to complete a task. I want to be driven by my own will and desire, not by some external stimuli or catalyst.
I've come to acknowledge goals to reach for that should fuel my determination and motivation to move forward in the world, yet it seems to not be enough. I'm afraid that this uncertainty in pressing on towards the future will lead to my very downfall. I have dreams, yet I doubt myself. This disbelief that lurks in shadows of my conscious mind seems to have an unmeasurable hold on me. I want to go to Italy next year, I want to have the (realistically fit) body I had always wanted, I want to succeed in school, I want to find a career that works for me. Unfortunately, I find myself so overwhelmed by the challenges that are keeping me from attaining those things; I'm tempted to just give up. It seems as if sleep and simple distractions have become a quick fix. Obviously, they're not actually fixing anything. Instead, they're distracting me from the guilt of being afraid of taking on the challenges before me. I'm leading myself to failure by simply not taking an active role in my life. What can I do? How can I fix this?
Resilience is the word that has been coming to mind recently; to be able to pick oneself up and try again may be the answer for me. Can I do it? Can I be resilient whilst having self-doubts still lurking in my mind? How can I conquer my own reflection?
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Bondage and Inherent Liberty
I wonder, what is the purpose of our existence?
I always believed that our ultimate purpose is to find purpose for ourselves. I believe(d) that our reason to be is to find what satisfies our individuality; a presupposition that would argue the existence of our free will. If my beliefs are incorrect, if we do have a purpose set by some higher order, what is it?
I consider myself to be a wandering spirit. I don't like to be bound by obligations, guilt, or expectations. I see so many people struggling and working just to live. When do they actually find the time to live? People look to the far future, to their expected retirement, as the time when they'll finally be able to live their lives as they desire so. I question why people must wait until later in their lives. We were not born as laborers or as servants to those that suppose their superiority over us.
The only masters I can admit to are the hunger and desires of my body and soul. I often feel the hunger and thirst for nourishment. The purpose of nourishing my body is to continue and preserve its existence and the existence of my consciousness. But what is the reason for our continuing existence in body and mind? The soul/heart's hunger for the passion(s) which would satisfy it.
What is my passion? What does my heart and soul hunger for? I must admit that what's hungered and desired by my intangible self is currently uncertain. All I can be certain of is that I want to live. I want to live not as someone's subject or to labor on until my later years in order to live. Why must I sacrifice my life in order to supposedly gain the means of living it? I want my body and my mind to be willed by one another and by no other outside of myself.
I always believed that our ultimate purpose is to find purpose for ourselves. I believe(d) that our reason to be is to find what satisfies our individuality; a presupposition that would argue the existence of our free will. If my beliefs are incorrect, if we do have a purpose set by some higher order, what is it?
I consider myself to be a wandering spirit. I don't like to be bound by obligations, guilt, or expectations. I see so many people struggling and working just to live. When do they actually find the time to live? People look to the far future, to their expected retirement, as the time when they'll finally be able to live their lives as they desire so. I question why people must wait until later in their lives. We were not born as laborers or as servants to those that suppose their superiority over us.
The only masters I can admit to are the hunger and desires of my body and soul. I often feel the hunger and thirst for nourishment. The purpose of nourishing my body is to continue and preserve its existence and the existence of my consciousness. But what is the reason for our continuing existence in body and mind? The soul/heart's hunger for the passion(s) which would satisfy it.
What is my passion? What does my heart and soul hunger for? I must admit that what's hungered and desired by my intangible self is currently uncertain. All I can be certain of is that I want to live. I want to live not as someone's subject or to labor on until my later years in order to live. Why must I sacrifice my life in order to supposedly gain the means of living it? I want my body and my mind to be willed by one another and by no other outside of myself.
Friday, December 31, 2010
The End of my Teen Years
Well, I'm officially no longer a teenager. Yes, today, Friday, December 31st, 2010 is my twentieth birthday. I have to admit that even though I don't feel any different, I do feel somewhat nostalgic. It has been about seven years since I became a teenager. In retrospect, so much has happened in the past decade; events occurred which had permanent effects on who I am and the direction that my life is currently set on.
Since my birthday is the same day as New Year's Eve, it definitely makes me think back to the closing year at greater magnification than others would. I think back to how I have changed, what I have learned, what I have done, and what I expect to accomplish before my next birthday and before the upcoming year is over. It's not only a matter of a year being over in terms of the calendar year, but for me it is also an age that has come to a close, and another that is still unwritten.
Looking forward, a decade doesn't seem like a long time, but looking back, so much has happened. In a sense, I imagine it as if I see the next ten years a block away, whereas the past ten is on the other side of town. I guess here's a chronicle of the most important events of my teen years.
Thirteen - I admitted to myself that I am gay. At first I told myself and my friends that I was bisexual, but after a few weeks, I just said, "To hell with it...," and fully came out.
Fourteen - Entered my first year of high school. Lost my virginity and had my first kiss (same guy, same night) two days before Christmas and eight days before my fifteenth birthday (never heard back from the guy).
Fifteen - Emotional limbo. Where I feel I had lost myself and my motivation for life. I had reached a fork in the road at this age and I unfortunately chose the wrong path.
Sixteen - Didn't get my driver's license.
Seventeen - The second time I had ever had sex; my first time was also my last before this point. Got my first job, ever. Met my first ever boyfriend, Brian (not the same person as the one I had my absolute second sexual experience with).
Eighteen - Became a legal adult. Got my driver's license. Entered my first year of college. Hit rock bottom, where the school was worried that I would commit suicide. Came out to my parents or more like they confronted me about my sexuality. Smoked weed for the first time.
Nineteen - The last of my teenage years. Finally accepted the past and settled my past regrets. Regained the will to live that I had once lost. Truly realized my identity as an independent person.
In what I've written, it doesn't seem as if much has happened in the past seven years. On the contrary, a lot has; a sum of 2,555 days (give or take a few days) had come to pass and each one was as equally important as the other. It's the small moments, those that even I cannot describe in words, which make life so overwhelmingly significant. Each second that has come to past, and certainly those to come, has impacted my very existence somehow. Each second of our existence, in action or inaction, gives perpetuating legitimacy to who we are.
I guess I should just give the past decade a quiet smile of acknowledgment and give a welcome nod to the years to come.
Happy 20th Birthday to me and Happy New Years to everyone else.
KC
Since my birthday is the same day as New Year's Eve, it definitely makes me think back to the closing year at greater magnification than others would. I think back to how I have changed, what I have learned, what I have done, and what I expect to accomplish before my next birthday and before the upcoming year is over. It's not only a matter of a year being over in terms of the calendar year, but for me it is also an age that has come to a close, and another that is still unwritten.
Looking forward, a decade doesn't seem like a long time, but looking back, so much has happened. In a sense, I imagine it as if I see the next ten years a block away, whereas the past ten is on the other side of town. I guess here's a chronicle of the most important events of my teen years.
Thirteen - I admitted to myself that I am gay. At first I told myself and my friends that I was bisexual, but after a few weeks, I just said, "To hell with it...," and fully came out.
Fourteen - Entered my first year of high school. Lost my virginity and had my first kiss (same guy, same night) two days before Christmas and eight days before my fifteenth birthday (never heard back from the guy).
Fifteen - Emotional limbo. Where I feel I had lost myself and my motivation for life. I had reached a fork in the road at this age and I unfortunately chose the wrong path.
Sixteen - Didn't get my driver's license.
Seventeen - The second time I had ever had sex; my first time was also my last before this point. Got my first job, ever. Met my first ever boyfriend, Brian (not the same person as the one I had my absolute second sexual experience with).
Eighteen - Became a legal adult. Got my driver's license. Entered my first year of college. Hit rock bottom, where the school was worried that I would commit suicide. Came out to my parents or more like they confronted me about my sexuality. Smoked weed for the first time.
Nineteen - The last of my teenage years. Finally accepted the past and settled my past regrets. Regained the will to live that I had once lost. Truly realized my identity as an independent person.
In what I've written, it doesn't seem as if much has happened in the past seven years. On the contrary, a lot has; a sum of 2,555 days (give or take a few days) had come to pass and each one was as equally important as the other. It's the small moments, those that even I cannot describe in words, which make life so overwhelmingly significant. Each second that has come to past, and certainly those to come, has impacted my very existence somehow. Each second of our existence, in action or inaction, gives perpetuating legitimacy to who we are.
I guess I should just give the past decade a quiet smile of acknowledgment and give a welcome nod to the years to come.
Happy 20th Birthday to me and Happy New Years to everyone else.
KC
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Familial Homophobia
Earlier tonight I was watching Glee with my eight year old sister. At some point, a scene came on where Kurt (the gay guy) was interacting with Finn (the sensitive jock). After seeing Kurt make a few comments to Finn, she randomly commented, "Eww, did you know he's gay (referring to Kurt)? He moves like a girl." I simply gave her an affirmative response, which she responded to by asking, "Are you gay?" Again, I gave her a simple answer, "Yes." Her response should have been obvious to me, but for some reason I was taken aback when she responded with, "Ew." The most salient thoughts I had in mind at that point was, "Oh God, is she going to tell my parents that I told her I was gay? Where is this going to lead? Did she seriously respond in revulsion to me being gay?"
Sure, children around the age of my sister are repulsed by the very idea of attraction between two people, but this was different. My sister's reaction was not a response to the idea of two people being attracted to one another and contracting cooties, but to the particular concept of two men having mutual interest in each other. How can a child react with such disapproval and/or disgust? As the concepts of dichotomous systems of sex and gender are social constructs, I can confidently say that her response was not an inherent reaction, but something socially learned. Who could she have learned such a response from?
One person came to mind as to who my little could have learned modeled her response from: our father. Throughout my childhood, and even to this day, my father refers to people (whether they be acquaintances or strangers) that seem effeminate or who are confirmed homosexuals as "bakla." In my native language, "bakla" means gay or homosexual, but it holds a more negative connotation in comparison to the English word "gay" or "homosexual." Frankly, there is no word in our native language that objectively means to be individuals (specifically men) that are attracted to the same sex/gender. Bakla doesn't just hold this definition, but is also followed by the implication of weakness, femininity, and perhaps even sexual deviance.
My parents have never directly expressed to my little sister their disapproval of homosexuality, but nonetheless, I know that my sister has picked up on their attitudes towards homosexuals. Children are easily influenced by the social microsystem they inhabit; as they perceive how those closest to them react to certain individuals and situations, they interpret those reactionary behaviors as relative social norms or even as the "correct" response.
It's interesting and disappointing at the same time as my family knows (whether we speak of it or not) that I am gay. Even with this in mind, my parents' homophobic attitude has not changed even when confronted by their son's homosexual identity. I am gay, but to them I am not a part of such a group identity, but an exception. They accept me as their son, but they do not accept a facet of my identity that has a salient presence in my life. Therefore, conceptually, for them, gay people are still repulsive and I am just an exception to such a judgment.
From time to time I hear would my father exclaim how a person on the television is "bakla," expressing a negative opinion of the person through the word's negative implications rather than the latter's alleged sexuality. It hurts to hear him make these statements even though he's talking about me. It hurts because in a sense he is indirectly expressing an opinion of me. If a gay person that is not me is as repulsive as he claims or acts towards them, then without the condition of being his son, does he not hold the same opinion of me? For I am also gay?
I truly do believe that it is too late to change and/or improve my father's opinion of homosexuality. He is a bigot, a sexist, and a racist, traits he is not ashamed to display. I just hope that it is not too late for my sister; I am her older brother and it would be heartbreaking if my little sister came to hold the same opinions as my father, considering that I basically raised her from when she was an infant.
Sure, children around the age of my sister are repulsed by the very idea of attraction between two people, but this was different. My sister's reaction was not a response to the idea of two people being attracted to one another and contracting cooties, but to the particular concept of two men having mutual interest in each other. How can a child react with such disapproval and/or disgust? As the concepts of dichotomous systems of sex and gender are social constructs, I can confidently say that her response was not an inherent reaction, but something socially learned. Who could she have learned such a response from?
One person came to mind as to who my little could have learned modeled her response from: our father. Throughout my childhood, and even to this day, my father refers to people (whether they be acquaintances or strangers) that seem effeminate or who are confirmed homosexuals as "bakla." In my native language, "bakla" means gay or homosexual, but it holds a more negative connotation in comparison to the English word "gay" or "homosexual." Frankly, there is no word in our native language that objectively means to be individuals (specifically men) that are attracted to the same sex/gender. Bakla doesn't just hold this definition, but is also followed by the implication of weakness, femininity, and perhaps even sexual deviance.
My parents have never directly expressed to my little sister their disapproval of homosexuality, but nonetheless, I know that my sister has picked up on their attitudes towards homosexuals. Children are easily influenced by the social microsystem they inhabit; as they perceive how those closest to them react to certain individuals and situations, they interpret those reactionary behaviors as relative social norms or even as the "correct" response.
It's interesting and disappointing at the same time as my family knows (whether we speak of it or not) that I am gay. Even with this in mind, my parents' homophobic attitude has not changed even when confronted by their son's homosexual identity. I am gay, but to them I am not a part of such a group identity, but an exception. They accept me as their son, but they do not accept a facet of my identity that has a salient presence in my life. Therefore, conceptually, for them, gay people are still repulsive and I am just an exception to such a judgment.
From time to time I hear would my father exclaim how a person on the television is "bakla," expressing a negative opinion of the person through the word's negative implications rather than the latter's alleged sexuality. It hurts to hear him make these statements even though he's talking about me. It hurts because in a sense he is indirectly expressing an opinion of me. If a gay person that is not me is as repulsive as he claims or acts towards them, then without the condition of being his son, does he not hold the same opinion of me? For I am also gay?
I truly do believe that it is too late to change and/or improve my father's opinion of homosexuality. He is a bigot, a sexist, and a racist, traits he is not ashamed to display. I just hope that it is not too late for my sister; I am her older brother and it would be heartbreaking if my little sister came to hold the same opinions as my father, considering that I basically raised her from when she was an infant.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Stepping Away from the Past
I'm done with my third semester of college and I'm back at my parents' house for winter break. As my grades are coming in one by one, I come to realize that I've actually made some progress. Not just academically, but at a personal level as well. I believe that I'm actually starting to regain the momentum I lost almost five years ago.
I've told this story of the First so many times, to myself and to others, in an attempt to make sense of all that had happened. A part of me blamed myself as I accused myself of being too foolish or too naive. Another part of me blamed him for he knew that I wanted a love. Every failure and every regret I've come across I have blamed on the First and his mistreatment. I blamed him for breaking me, for stealing from me, and ultimately for fooling me. I was a freshman in high school and he was a senior from a different school. He seemed perfect. He was a gentleman. I felt as if my fantasies of being swept away by some prince came true. I was happy and did not question it. I associated being gay with finding a man, and I believed he was that man. I gave myself to him because I couldn't fathom future harm, especially being inflicted by him who I thought to be perfect. I thought it to be absolutely unlikely that the first man I'd allow to touch me would actually be the one that could hurt me; no man, no person, has ever hurt me as much.
For a few years I just coasted through life. I refused to seek life as I was too afraid of possibly being hurt again. For a long time, I thought that I'd never gain closure. I never saw him after that time and I thought that the only way I could move on was to see him face-to-face. For years I imagined seeing him in person and the things I would say to him. Being a psychology student, I was always tempted to diagnose him with some sort of psychological disorder to explain his behavior towards me. I realized that I would be giving him too much credit as a person; the First was nothing more than a jackass sans the disorder.
I kept myself from moving on with my life because I wanted to believe that the same man may change his mind someday. I kept one foot in the past because I wanted to believe that all my bad experiences would amount to something of worth. Ironically, by keeping myself stagnant, I was subjecting myself to more hurt and sacrifice. Yes, sometimes to reminisce for a few short moments means to feel a small tinge of pain from my past, but it's just enough to keep me from going back.
I'm moving on and the sense of self I've recently gained is liberating. There were times that I feared acceptance of my past, believing that it would lead me to become jaded, hopeless, and defeatist. It's the other way around, actually. The past has happened and the events are rigid and limited. I cannot change the past even if I try to find a different, more ideal answer from what is certain and absolute. The future, on the other hand, is still uncertain. Scary and mysterious, yes, but full of possibilities and hope for sure. I have a new found hunger and curiosity for life and possibilities. I want to live and feel again.
I still believe in love and I know I'm still capable of love. I was badly hurt once and it's one of the deepest of the pains I've experienced because he was my first, but I can't let my past demons control me or it will become a cycle of pain that finds legitimacy in itself. Tomorrow will be the five-year anniversary of when I lost my virginity, when my expectations of life, love, and men seemed to have shattered and fallen apart. But I refuse to let regret keep its hold on me any longer. From all the broken pieces I can make a beautiful mosaic.
No matter what, even if the fallen and shattered pieces don't fit perfectly together, somehow I can make something beautiful from them.
I've told this story of the First so many times, to myself and to others, in an attempt to make sense of all that had happened. A part of me blamed myself as I accused myself of being too foolish or too naive. Another part of me blamed him for he knew that I wanted a love. Every failure and every regret I've come across I have blamed on the First and his mistreatment. I blamed him for breaking me, for stealing from me, and ultimately for fooling me. I was a freshman in high school and he was a senior from a different school. He seemed perfect. He was a gentleman. I felt as if my fantasies of being swept away by some prince came true. I was happy and did not question it. I associated being gay with finding a man, and I believed he was that man. I gave myself to him because I couldn't fathom future harm, especially being inflicted by him who I thought to be perfect. I thought it to be absolutely unlikely that the first man I'd allow to touch me would actually be the one that could hurt me; no man, no person, has ever hurt me as much.
For a few years I just coasted through life. I refused to seek life as I was too afraid of possibly being hurt again. For a long time, I thought that I'd never gain closure. I never saw him after that time and I thought that the only way I could move on was to see him face-to-face. For years I imagined seeing him in person and the things I would say to him. Being a psychology student, I was always tempted to diagnose him with some sort of psychological disorder to explain his behavior towards me. I realized that I would be giving him too much credit as a person; the First was nothing more than a jackass sans the disorder.
I kept myself from moving on with my life because I wanted to believe that the same man may change his mind someday. I kept one foot in the past because I wanted to believe that all my bad experiences would amount to something of worth. Ironically, by keeping myself stagnant, I was subjecting myself to more hurt and sacrifice. Yes, sometimes to reminisce for a few short moments means to feel a small tinge of pain from my past, but it's just enough to keep me from going back.
I'm moving on and the sense of self I've recently gained is liberating. There were times that I feared acceptance of my past, believing that it would lead me to become jaded, hopeless, and defeatist. It's the other way around, actually. The past has happened and the events are rigid and limited. I cannot change the past even if I try to find a different, more ideal answer from what is certain and absolute. The future, on the other hand, is still uncertain. Scary and mysterious, yes, but full of possibilities and hope for sure. I have a new found hunger and curiosity for life and possibilities. I want to live and feel again.
I still believe in love and I know I'm still capable of love. I was badly hurt once and it's one of the deepest of the pains I've experienced because he was my first, but I can't let my past demons control me or it will become a cycle of pain that finds legitimacy in itself. Tomorrow will be the five-year anniversary of when I lost my virginity, when my expectations of life, love, and men seemed to have shattered and fallen apart. But I refuse to let regret keep its hold on me any longer. From all the broken pieces I can make a beautiful mosaic.
No matter what, even if the fallen and shattered pieces don't fit perfectly together, somehow I can make something beautiful from them.
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