Upsie Daisy, Downsie Daisy

Upsie Daisy, Downsie Daisy

Sometimes life's good. Sometimes life's bad. And sometimes I feel queasy, because I really can't tell if things are going up or down -- I know it's definitely motile, even if it's just resonating back and forth. I recently came upon Tinka's blog, and found myself. It felt like looking through a mirror! How exact are her words, in describing how I'm feeling? All her uncertainties, frustration, her endurance and her yield of control -- I don't know what it is, but her blog seems to say all the things that I am afraid to admit in my own blog. It's kind of spooky, actually -- it felt like some sort of alter-ego voice telling me that I need to be more honest with myself.

I'm feeling a bit low these days, obviously because of the gargantuan amount of work that I do. Had it been something more meaningful, like something to give me experience in my future career, or like saving the world, I would not be this stressed and unhappy. There. I said it. I'm unhappy. Many things are not going right, and I've been putting up with them silently. I've been bitching and moaning on my blog for sure, but I was in denial. I am unhappy, and now I admit it.

While I certainly do feel ready for a relationship, sometimes I doubt myself. I am conflicted. There's a conflict of interest. Am I wanting to get into a relationship because I truly seek my other half (or temporary space-filler, at the least) or because I'm just really really lonely and utterly lost? It's one of those things I ask myself frequently. If I were dating a man (hypothetically speaking -- long term), and he proposed, what would I say? My biggest fear would be that I would say yes. Normally, that would be a cause for celebration, but underneath the very bottom layer of my heart, I would be questioning myself. Am I marrying this man, because I truly love him, or am I marrying to get myself out of this horrid situation (a.k.a. "go fuck yourself USCIS!")?

Perhaps that is the reason for my growing ill-sentiment for marriage. It is one of my greatest fears, to be lying to myself. But sometimes, it's not as simple as thinking things over a night of sleep. How can I admit that I am only seeking a relationship because of sheer, utter loneliness, when I really don't know? How would I know if I am truly ready for such human bonding?

I always want to bust out of this "it pays the bills" job and do the things I really want to do -- I was meant to do. But I don't know what it is! It's the most difficult thing. For a good 10 years, all I ever wanted to do was become a doctor. Become an MD, and work in third-world countries. Fight AIDS. When I get too feeble and old to work under harsh conditions, I will come back and teach, to install the same passion for humanitarianism to the younger generations. For 10 years, that was what I wanted to do! But a second passes by. 60 of those are a minute, and then 60 of those are an hour, and 24 of those are a day, and years passed by. Now I am turning 24 (again with the age thing!), frightened out of my mind! I am getting older each year, without becoming any wiser. The clock is ticking, and I still don't know where I'm going.

This whole "going to medical school" business was as good as set in stone for me. I could not imagine myself doing anything else. It was my "calling." I was so happy to have found my "calling" because I know so many people who wander aimlessly, just doing what feels "ok" -- not even what feels "right" -- and wasting their precious time on this planet -- people, we get, at the most, about a century, and that's if we're lucky. It would be nice if we could live until we were 600 years old like Moses, but apparently, that's not too commonplace these days! Also, it seems that nothing is "set in stone" unless it literally is.

My dreams of medical school flopped. Now I have drifted away from the sciences and math. If I ever get my bachelor's degree, I would be in my late 20's. Would I ever make it to medical school? I am not so sure -- I have lost faith in my greymatter. I can no longer recite page after page from memory for the sheer joy of shocking my classmates. Heck, I can barely stay awake through a paragraph. And I also have more fun reading for English classes, rather than biology texts.

So now that my life-long planning has flopped, where to, and how? Would I be as passionately motivated? So many quesitons, so little answers. I used to be one smart kid. Now I'm an astonishingly average, mediocre young adult, and pretty soon, I'll be old and the twinkle in my eyes will have dulled to a mirky brown color, reflecting the muddiness of my capabilities as a human being. How can I have a relationship when I'm so uncertain? I don't know whether I'm coming or going. How can I break loose from the hells of a cell phone store, when I really have no clue if there's something better out there?

Speaking of outrageous fears... I know I'm digressing again, but somehow, I feel like this is the time to write it out.

Every child has fears. Most have fears of the boogey man, vampires, monsters. Fortunately, no monsters hid under my bed to devour me the moment my parents went to bed and the lights were off. I feared no monster, no ghost, no werewolves. I feared murderers who escaped from prison. I feared psychopathic child-molesters. I feared rapists, at an age when I did not know what rape was.

When I grow up, and make a whole lotta money, I need to go plop down on a psychiatrist's couch and start my much-needed, years of therapy.

I won't go into details, but at that tender, sweet age (ok, so I don't remember the exact age) of seven or so, I was wronged. I don't know what the word would be to describe it. It wasn't rape. Sexual assault? Can you sexually assault a 7-year-old who doesn't know what sex is? If a man grabbed your child-self and threatened with a sharp blade in the middle of the night, and you don't remember it for the next 6 years, did it still happen? Sometimes I ask myself if I am imagining things, because sometimes I do. I imagine bad things, to see if they seem real enough -- it's my personal gage to measure whether or not a certain bad misfortune could happen to me. Like becoming paralyzed in a car crash. I try to imagine that happening to me, but I can't make it feel real. So in some mystical, internal way, I tell myself that it won't happen to me. I try to imagine myself leaving the US, never to return. No matter how hard I try, I can't make that image become alive. So I tell myself, if I can't even imagine it, it won't happen. But can I see myself with a man, not even a man, a boy, just twice my age of seven, to do things to me that I can't even write, let alone say? Too often, I see myself in the same predicament, and the story plays out exactly the same, every time.

Oh yes, the pain. The years of suffering. Not really. I'm a tough cookie, as Christopher says. I don't want to become the next basket case woman who cried wolf. Even I read magazine articles of women, who had been date-raped and what-not, and roll my eyes, and say to myself, "not another one." Rape doesn't make you special. Getting touched in your special place by Michael Jackson doesn't make you special. I don't want to be Hellen Keller. I don't my biography to say, "despite all her misfortunes... blah blah blah."

I'll tell you what my biggest misfortune is. It is this curse. That I have to write. As I child, I read a story about a girl who bought a pair of red shoes although she was warned not to. She puts on the red shoes and dances forever and ever, through thorny vines and all, and finally has to have her feet amputated and replaced by wooden pegs or something. I'm hazy on the details, but you get the picture. I'm the girl who has to write and write and write and write, to no avail. On the surface it seems therapeutic, but the more I get into it, the more of my ugly self I see, and the devastation is just too gory for me to bear.

Yes. I'm a nutcase. I bask in the juices of my misery, smothered in the gross tar pit of my own despair.

Nightmare

T H U M P. . . THUMP. . THUMP. . thump, thththththththththth...

The beating of my heart at a speed of 200-beats-per-minute woke me -- it thumped so hard that there was pain. When my eyes adjusted to the brightness around me, I knew I was free, at least temporarily.

When will it stop? These nightmares -- the brutal killings, sinister villains, and my own impotent measures for escape -- come more frequently than ever. Even as a child I was never one to cry awake in the middle of the night from a bad dream. In fact, I was such a sound sleeper, I barely even remembered some dreams, and those that I remembered were just gae-ggoom, a dog-dream, which means a dream that has no meaning.

Now an adult, I wake up because my own piercing shrills awaken me from what shouldn't be called slumber. The dilated blood vessels form red cracks in the whites of my eyes, and I am always left panting for air. The moon floods the room with an iridescent light, and it is the witching hour. There is momentary silence, a vacuum, if you will, until reality creeps in and I can adjust to it, and hear the chirping of crickets outdoor, and the neighbor's cat making love calls.

Early this morning I had such a dream -- one that also left me out of breath from fright and one that made my eyelids slap open, like one of those blinds that roll up in cartoons when a little string is tugged. I saw the red LED numbers on my alarm clock -- 08:00. It was a dream.

But was it a dream? When you try to explain a dream, the harder you try to make sense of it, the more confusing it becomes. I can only say that mine was of terrorism. Men in head-to-toe orange came in, ravaged women and beat the men, killing them in the most brutal fashion -- no, not kill -- as death would have been too merciful. In my dream people lay with their eyes wide open, forced to watch the continuation of atrocities as they happen -- no solace would be granted. I scream, but no sound is made -- I am in a vacuum. I am in a vacuum because there are two conflicting positions -- if I scream, the terrorists would surely hurt me too -- if I don't scream... how can I not, when a man's skull was cracked open before my own eyes?

Cruel eyes -- why must you see? I want to shut them -- I want to be rid of this, but my lids won't come down, they just won't close -- I have to see. I want to persuade, I want to yell out "stop" but my tongue is frozen solid, and so are my legs, firmly planted where I stood, in the middle of madness, midst of a frenzy that was an overload for my sensory nerves. Too much to handle, and I'll break down. I must do something, but I am paralyzed.

They say that dreams reflect you, at an unconscious level -- maybe about someone you love, or happily eating mountains of carbs, or perhaps your fears. It is only after the nightmare starts to fade that it becomes clear -- I am leading a life of paralysis. I need to move, but I can't, because I am afraid to move, but I still need to move, and I still can't, and I am still afraid. A vicious circle. Paralyzed with fear. The most cruel thing to do to yourself -- and yes, it is something I inflict on myself -- I am a victim of my own doings.

The nightmares come more frequently these nights. I pull up the blankets, upto my nose, with trembling hands, preparing for another battle within.

Perils of Life in Los Angeles (Part 1)

Los Angeles. What can I say about the city of corruption, of filth, of savages? Los Angeles has a reputation, a myth, a legend of sorts -- it is the land of endlessly sunny days, tall palm trees wading in the cool Pacific breeze. People wear sunglasses and smile. The perfect brochure to lure fools searching for gold. Truth is, LA will swallow you whole, and you too, will join and be one with the sordid conditions of the city.

There are Republicans, and even more Democrats, and even more powerless victims. Quarrels ensue in the name of a government for the the people and by the people, but in the end, everyone knows, the scapegoats are plain to see. The deserving poor, the ones not speaking the language, the ones with different colored skin, the ones who don't have houses on the beach. Cut public education. Cut the arts and music. Kill the animals at the shelter, ASAP. Don't give them a chance to be found!

The blaming game continues. Who mishandled what budget and what movie star governor is definitely not terminating his staff, and in fact, increasing their pay. Fingers are pointed, but nothing gets accomplished. A seemingly civilized witch hunt for everything. Outwardly civil, inwardly evil.

You'd think of bronzed gods and buxom beauties, strutting down the streets in a lux saunter, flashing pearly white teeth, waving as though they were on a pageant. Instead, the truth is that toothless and homeless dwell, covered in insane amounts of dirt and dust, overlooked unless they scare you with the flashing of the whites of their eyes.

Restaurants proudly display a letter grade of "A" on their windows, a grade lower and even baser than the scarlet letter, because it is bought not earned. Back alleys are crowded with roach colonies, some big as mice. You can hear them run when you turn on the lights, their hairy legs brushing against the darkness, stealthily.