Friday, February 25, 2011

Today I had a whole day to my self, but there was no where to go and no one to see. So I ended up searching the internet for people I could hang out with -- and failed. MeetUp.com offered up a local D&D group; it meets up on Tuesdays at Cape Fear Games (THE location for all my Magic the Gathering needs). However, the lack of the car for the day rendered me shackled indoors. 


I could've gone out for a walk again, true. I've been taking Kyle's parent's dog, Kona, out on frequent walks as of the past two weeks (no doubt attempts to escape the monotonous scenery behind the doors). Still, aimless wandering alone can get risky around these parts. Plus, chances were that Front street wouldn't be as populated with vital life/activity quite yet. I did fancy going up towards the College area, though, and attempting to spark up some random conversation with anyone interesting I happen to come upon. Still, the more I chewed on the idea, the less appealing and more awkward it seemed to be. Eventually, I ruled the idea out altogether. Hence, I turned to the internet, the world's largest information resource, in attempts to find any otaku or gamers in the area -- those being the basic interests that would hopefully yield awesome people (Nerds are, after all, awesome).


Still, as I searched and clicked, nothing of value seemed available. Even Facebook, with its self-proclaimed Networking prowess, couldn't let me search for friends via interest. Disheartened a bit, I reluctantly resigned my endeavors for the day and came to write about them instead. What's making me so hesitant?


I could go down and read by the pier? Chances are I'll just end up attracting creepers, though. The thought of being hit on bothers me at the moment. I don't want to attract lascivious minds; I want to find the simple, fun, and intelligent. How to? LoL.


 I'd like to hang out with our older friend, Robert, more. He's a philosophic type and I can tell we'd have good things to talk about. The only problem with that proposition is that I've only really met the man once. Plus, I don't feel quite comfortable intruding (since I don't have his contact information), especially without building up that security that comes after the acquaintance phase. 




[RANDOM]: So...somehow, the back left side of my scalp fell asleep. o.O'  That would be a first.

Well, I guess I'll keep looking. There has to be something around here. I'm sure as we get more settled in we'll run into more social events and this problem will dissipate. :)


Thursday, February 17, 2011

Kyle and I finally got jobs (it only took us about, what, a month?)! I'm working at a Port City Java down on the beach, and he's become a "meat merchant," haha. He's still on his training days, but we've done extensive research  -- wanting to avoid pyramid schemes -- on the place and it has excellent reviews and credentials. His trainer apparently walked away with seven hundred dollars in sales yesterday. The days are long hours, but with a play like that, it's weeellll worth it; I'm looking into getting into the business myself. :P Since it allows you to work (mostly) your own schedule, it'll be a perfect complimentary job. Here's to hoping! <3

Got a call from Dad and Judy today. It was certainly nice to hear from them. I caught them up on all the local happenings and have volunteered to set up a few sites to help promote their band.

The days in Wilmington are getting warmer still and despite the mouse dying in our vent, the air is fresh with the scent of awesome (lol). Here's to looking forward to the good things to come. I'm going to have to start looking up information on Cape Fear soon.

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Project: All-Nighter (continued)

It's almost 4:30 pm...that would be approximately 24 hours since my last entry. Oh my god, I feel terrible. My head hurts, my teeth keep grinding, and my body's exhausted. As for my mind, though, it has other ideas. Although I wholeheartedly appreciate and embrace the productivity that comes out of me with this prescribed speed, I absolutely hate the come-down effects this medicine has on me. My already torn self becomes even more amplified in its paradox to the point of uncomfortable extremes: I both strongly want to write and not; I want to sleep, but if I were to lie down I probably wouldn't be able to. God damn it. >.<

Despite these woe's, I actually accomplished a lot today. I opened my checking account with First Federal and paid off January's portion of my student loan (yay! <3). I also filed for Unemployment Deferment again, so those papers should be coming soon. I also did EXTENSIVE research on North Carolina's DMV to prep Kyle for transferring his car title and registering for his new License plate (only $28 here!), etc. I also took the liberty to find the directions/address/contact information/pricing of all involved locations. @_@ So needless to say my mind is FRIED.

Worst thing is, I don't know if I'm allowed to sleep yet...It's too early. ~_~'
FMLatm...

Wilmington, Worries, and the Potential of Puppies

It's been a week since we've moved down here to the old pirate port city of Wilmington, North Carolina, and I'm relieved to announce that I've finally "settled" my emotions into the place. Whether it was the chemicals from the Concerta mixing my hormones into a messy concoction, or it was just becoming familiar with the new, faraway and unfamiliar surroundings, I admit that I was having some trouble adjusting to the place. Kyle and I had come here only a few months ago on a week long visit and had fallen in love instantly with the place. The weather was cool but tolerable, so the main streets were bustling with activity, music, and friendly locals offering their warm, southern salutations and good wishes -- it was easy to become enamored. Plus, Wilmington's rich and ancient history catered to my Paranormal Investigation hobby, boasting to be one of America's most haunted cities.

I must say that I haven't actually experienced any paranormal activity since moving here (though, Kyle did see two spirits during our ghost tour). Thank goodness. I don't mind running into a ghostie or two out and about on the streets, or in other people's houses, but I was getting a bit irritated at having poltergeists and spirits running frenzy in my own living quarters. Seriously! They followed me from house to house in Pennsylvania, so it seemed. So far so good here, however; I even stayed behind from a poker night to clean the house by my lonesome. Not so much as a strange chill. :D
Well, there's some feelings of sentient vigil, but nothing too bad yet.

I've been making ample use of the beautiful kitchen, trying my hand at lots of experimental recipes. We don't have much yet (we still need to go grocery shopping), but I've proudly worked some miracles in the food department so far! I know Kyle's happy; thank God he's easy to please, lol! ^-^ I gotta say I'm most proud of my crab and spinach puffs, made with crispy Pilsbury crescent rolls. I spread butter over top and sprinkled some minced garlic (following in the Judy D tradition of garlic worship). Om nom! ~<3



On slightly more depressing news, we recently found out that Kyle might have some serious health issues brewing in his sensitive stomach. His mom called him two days ago and let him know that doctors had discovered the bacterium known as H Pylorie in her system. It's transmittable, so the doctors suggested that she had acquired it from someone within the household. This wouldn't originally be such a cause of worry if it hadn't been for the fact that when he was ten, one of Kyle's doctors had detected the bacterium's presence and the beginning of potentially harmful cysts -- and did nothing about it. Instead, he catered to Kyle's aggravated case of acid reflux (he actually has GERD, or something like that. An elevated/related form of the ailment) and decided to prescribe him Prilosec, a medicine known to --in time-- actually further agitate the condition.

H Pylorie and acid reflux go hand-in-hand. They feed off of each other and help to accelerate one another's harm. The worst part about it is, H Pylorie is highly linked to stomach cancer. Being that it's been infesting Kyle's system, untreated, for about twelve years now...chances are he's already potentially developed cancerous cysts. Whether they're malignant or not, he'll more than likely still have to undergo some painful and intense surgery to remove/treat it. 
...God damn it, man.

I'm tired of cancer.

It's been a year since cancer took the life of my beloved Godmother, Linda Chyuko, my dad's best friend aside from Mike Shukal -- who also died of cancer right before my graduation from high school. Mike had been smoking from an early age, but had stopped as soon as I was born. He wanted to see me graduate; he was my "grown-up" buddy. Often, he'd take me out for ice cream on days I was lingering at my father's electronic repair shop. Regardless of his efforts, though, he got cancer on his tongue (of all places!) and had to get part of his leg's skin grafted onto it. He'd often joke about the awkwardness of having to shave the five o' clock shadow off of his tongue. 

As for Linda, she'd been putting on a pretty strong front for a while concerning her condition. For a while, doctors were optimistic; she'd been recovering well. But the last time I saw her at a family dinner, I could tell something wasn't right. In a classic Freudian slip, I accidentally mentioned it to her. I remember her face flushing ever so slightly, something switching in her gaze, but she was quick to reassure us all that she was fine. That same week she passed.
It was the first time I ever cried at the death of a person. And I cried hard.

On top of it all, I can't help but think of Leila, who has HPV. She's been my best friend for over eleven years. I remember when she received the horrible diagnosis; I remember my incredulity at the knowledge that, considering how she could've possibly contracted it, I should've had it too...but I didn't. I who had been leading a freelance lifestyle had escaped scott-free while my [WAY MORE] conservative friend had received the short end of the stick. I was grateful to be healthy, but I just couldn't deal with how unfair it all seemed.

She went in for medical tests and scrapings for a while, and thankfully none of the results came back malignant. Still, there was high chances that the cysts would return and the gamble would have to be played all over again. We don't really talk about it much. Ever. It's an unspoken, un-thought of aspect in our lives. She hasn't been to a hospital in a little over a year now (or more, even), probably because of her lack of health insurance. The treatments are way too costly for a starving art student such as she. So instead, we just carry on. In fact, I often find myself forgetting about it completely. But, inevitably, the foreboding recollection creeps back in to haunt me.
It especially returns with a vengeance with word of Kyle's present worry.
Anyway, I just keep crossing my fingers and [even] praying more than ever that they'll be spared that fate. :/

Well, I can't keep thinking about these things, or I'll end up in a bad place, lol.

Kyle and I have been applying like crazy all around. Craigslist is a frequent in the History folder. I've applied to Lowes and Lowes Food, submitted a colorful application to Port City Java, and even found a fantastic posting for a twelve-hour job (wage negotiable) that involves baby sitting ADORABLE PUPPIES all day!!! <33333  I'm supposed to see them later today at 9:30 in the morning to fill in my application in person.

It's 6:37 a.m. now, and though I wish I could boast my early bird abilities, I'm only awake since Kyle and I are on a quest to rectify our wayward sleep schedules by pulling an all-nighter. Despite my strong distaste of synthetic medicine, I have to admit that Concerta's a helper on occasions like this. It helps my ADD tons and actually gives me the motivation to complete many of the tasks procrastination usually puts off (as it will always do). So here I am! Taking a break from online poker to blog about my recent days.


"GOOD WORK, SOLDIER!"


Saturday, January 22, 2011

BAH!

Yeah, as with most things I begin, I'm going to take a break from all that nostalgic and melancholic crap for a while. Dwelling on the past too much is just a hamstring when it comes to this. What I mean is, I know what I wanted to get out of writing all of those sentiments down, and the goal has been met personally so now I can move on to writing about my life. After all, if I kept harping on what was I would end up not having time to write about what is! So for now, a hiatus.

It's been three days since Kyle and I moved to North Carolina. I'll admit, it's not as vibrant as it was the first time we visited, but I think the weather is to blame in this case. The usually warm climates have decided to trade themselves for some pebble-like snow and random cold fronts. It's fine though; I'm sure the spring goodness will return to the air soon enough.

Our house is lovely, to say the least. I never expected that my first house would be this nice. Thank goodness his  dad is O.C.D. and keeps the place in sparkling condition. <3 I've been making use of the large kitchen and trying out all sorts of new recipes. It feels great to finally have a clean environment to let my culinary whimsies run wild, lol.

I find myself still lingering in the feeling of slight limbo, though. I guess it hasn't hit me quite yet...
I'm out of PA.
I have a home.
This is real.
...Wowzaz.

I finished rummaging through the large box of my shipped books today. Finally got through sorting out the things I actually want to and enjoy reading vs the free shit I picked up from the school library just for shits and giggles. Surprisingly, between Kyle and my books, everything actually fit -- save for the large "Encyclopedia of Spirits" and "Leaves of Grass." I just plopped those on top of everything else.
As for now, I stopped by to quickly jot down what was going on before I went on to reread through my old diaries and categorize them chronologically. I'm popping in the senior video, too (I never actually watched it! x.x), while I'm at it. 


On other news, I learned some Texas Hold 'Em today! Kyle's dad plays locally and was even in the national competitions, apparently. I'm not too too bad, but...yeah, I'm not ready to play with any actual money yet. Give me Blackjack any day. As for poker....ehhhhhh.... >.>

Well, I better get back to it!

Thursday, January 6, 2011

Biography of an Autobiography: pt3

Traumatic Teachings in Troubled Times: The Story of My Mother

Before we begin, let it first be well established in the reader's mind that the subject of my mother has long been --and still remains-- one of the most emotionally painful and controversial  topics for me to discuss. A lot of my thoughts and feelings regarding her  have been kept inside myself for too long. Long enough that I expect that once I've finished this chapter, I'll look back and regard --with no small hint of sadness-- how long it is. What can I say? There's a lot to say. A lot of this withdrawal was admittedly due to the nasty backlash I received from my peers during the times when the wound of her absence was still fresh and her mention was a common occurrence, but I'm sure that sore spot will be mentioned later on as well. Anyway, though I've been able to share portions of this information with close friends, I still remained unsatisfied. I feel the need to have all the events mapped out in one set place to be received all at once.

I'm not going to lie: like most people who've received their share of condescension and injustice at one point or another, I've been left with a bit of a desire to be understood in some empathetic way. Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to use any of my past as an excuse for any wrongdoings I've committed; I know that it was me who ultimately pulled the proverbial trigger. We are prisoners only of our own device, after all. No, that's not my aim here. What I do hope for (albeit naively, maybe) is to share what I felt was a dynamic part of my life, and then have my audience (even if its just me) derive from it some further understanding of who I am. I want them to see where I came from because it feels important.

Plus, I just gotta let it out for my own sake. I want a sense of closure.
/shrug.

Okay...let's do this:

* * *


Upon dying three times during labor, my mother called it quits after I came into the picture. Truthfully, I don't blame her. I was a medically approved "Miracle baby," and it was my mother and holy aunt's fervent prophecy that I, Angela Marie, was to become a great instrument in the hands of the Lord someday. Through me, they said, He would perform many great works and save thousands of lost souls from the flames of eternal damnation. To briefly recap: I was an only child born miraculously into a household built on the strong, strict, and infallible doctrine of fundamentalist Christianity (Protestant, if you're looking for exacts).

So basically, as you may already be able to tell: I was pretty much dealt a "FML" card from the get-go.


(NOTE TO THE CHRISTIANS: So as to not offend those of faith who may be reading, I'd like to make it clear that I have nothing against the belief in Christ as a savior of mankind through his sacrifice. Neither do I condemn the faith in Judeo-Christian God. I don't, as it turns out, condemn any faith. What I am merely expressing in this line is a strong distaste for extremism of any sort. Sadly, I do find examples of it in the overly zealous, stubborn, and close-minded attitudes/behaviors that, unfortunately,  many strongly devout Christians tend to display. However, again, this disdain extends to ANY belief/religion/creed that attempts to inhibit its followers from questioning, seeking, and exploring their faith, and observing other positive messages and practices from different beliefs. Dogmatic thinking, to me, is sacrilegious, especially if one is seeking a truly personal relationship with a deity or a more spiritual lifestyle in general. 


My religious philosophies will be the subject of another lengthy set of posts, I assure you. I hope that people of many faiths and beliefs will read them and offer their opinions, inputs, and perspectives, and ideas. Again, not meaning to offend anyone's Religion, just the personally offensive behaviors exhibited by some -- like, for example, my mother).


My mother, Leida, was a fairly pretty woman -- gorgeous when she was younger, according to pictures. She had porcelain skin of a fair complexion and naturally black hair to contrast which she was always dying some shade of red. She carried herself with an heir of (albeit forced) elegance. Early memories of my mother define a woman who was meticulously concerned with keeping proper appearances. Our living quarters were always spotless and organized to the extent of OCD. As a child, cleaning up after myself was a strictly enforced practice as was obedient behavior. If ever I were to make a fuss or scene, especially if in a public place, all it took was one icy glare to let me know what was waiting for me as soon as we got home. Cold showers (with clothes on) would forcibly extinguish any hysteria. A towel wedged under the door to my room during hour-long Time Outs stopped my escapes during a short-lived rebellious bout. Meanwhile, hot sauce became a popular method of stopping back talk. And, of course, there was always the effective threat of  "Pao-pao" -- a.k.a: "ass-beating," for the crackers.
I think it's fair to say that nearly every Hispanic can still look at a "chankleta" (sandal), or belt, and be filled with a strange, fearful respect. You don't fuck with "pao pao," lol.

Now, to some people these punishments sound outlandishly abusive. However, I have to say that they really weren't that bad. In fact, they did a pretty damn good job. Back in these days, she was strict enough to instill the severity of my disobedience in me, while still maintaining the appropriate balance that would allow the punishments to fit the crimes. Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to put my kid through the hot-sauce treatment, but I do agree that sometimes a degree of physical reprimanding is necessary.

I can't tell you how many times I've seen a kid freaking out at a grocery store or Wal*Mart, or hear a five year old giving lip to their parent, only to watch said parent cower away from the situation with lazy exasperation. "Pssht! Dude, if I'd done that my mom would've kicked my ass," I'd think. Really, I give Mom major Kudos on doing a good job with disciplining me when I was really young. It turned me into an exceptionally well-behaved girl. I listened well, was polite with everyone, respected my peers and elders, knew how to diplomatically avoid fights and bullies, understood the ten commandments, used my "please's" and "thank you's," and accepted the consequences of my actions with grace. I was, as my name implied, a sweet little angel.

While my father played the role of a playmate, introducing me to nerdy essentials such as: Video games, computers, anime, music, Star Treck AND Star Wars, as well as instilling in me a love for cheesy martial arts movies and Sci Fi adventures, my mother took care of my education. She taught me my alphabet and numbers, how to read and write. She was my pre-school teacher; she also took great care in teaching me about God and the Bible. Since she strongly disapproved of churches (who had become corrupt by false doctrines and were full of two-faced people), she took it upon herself to instruct me in the Holy Scriptures. I was a bright child, and absorbed these lessons like a sponge. She was proud of me back in those days.

However, during my Middle School years, my mother's mental condition began to accelerate in its deterioration. Problems with my dad added fodder to the subconscious scars that lingered in her mind -- ticking time bombs. As I entered the notoriously "difficult" teenage era, all of these would erupt and consume me with the aftermath of her pain.

I was a straight-A student and made honor roll all but once during my time at Northeast Middle School. My friends were nerds who knew nothing about drugs or deviance, being addicted only to Pokemon and Sailor Moon. Sex was a huge mystery, and the thought of just kissing a boy still sent waves of excitement through me. My idea of partying was the rare get-together at Kima's to watch Inuyasha and play drinking games with Coca-Cola on Valentine's day. But even so, as my Mother's condition began to reach it's cusp, she still managed to find enough flaws in me so as to label me a "Demonic Spawn."

I think the moment that finally broke my mother was the death of her favorite uncle. Apparently, he was the sole figure of all that had been good and loyal to her in a life where even her own mother had betrayed her love. I remember her confessing the gravity with which the situation had hit her. A part of her died that day, she had said, and as it turns out...she seems to have been right.

Now, at the time when this began, I was a die hard fan of Pokemon. School assignments and diary entries confirmed that my obsession with the franchise had reached the point of being a little bit scary. You couldn't read a single assignment without having those damned pocket monsters popping up.Then again, I was a young nerd who had found something  I could geek over with my friends. I took pride in being a Pokemon Master and knowing all there was to know about it. I collected every toy I could and even created an Elite Four in my fifth grade class (which got me close to one of my crushes at the time). To me, my Pokemon fandom had gained me many things I enjoyed. Of course I was going to be excited about it -- I got excited about a lot of things back then; I was hyper. Very hyper.

But thanks to Christian propaganda listing Pokemon as a product of Satanic worship, my mom took my fandom as a sign of demonic possession. From then on, any misconduct could be directly blamed on the "Poke-demons" I was so attached to. In reality, though, it was more likely the normal reactions of a hormonal prepubescent girl to the rabid ravings of a mentally unstable woman. She confiscated everything that had to do with my beloved passion and destroyed them -- even my stuffed Pikachu plushie.
Needless to say, I was just a bit resentful.

That resentment continued to grow as did the restrictions forced upon  me. I was no longer allowed to listen to any secular music. Even the soft rock station that was once acceptable was now banned. From here on out, only God's music would be allowed in the house. My mother was convinced that all of her turmoil was due to a lack of holy influence in our lives. Thus, she had to remedy the damages done by the demonic influences by taking righteous action. My house was to undergo its very own Inquisition. Although I didn't agree with her methods, years of obedience enabled me to withstand this sudden streak of strange behavior. Maybe it would go away soon and mom would calm down again. However, I would have no such luck. It just continued to get worse and worse...

It wasn't long before symptoms of Schizophrenia began to appear, and manic depression began to tighten its vice-grip around her heart. She became more violent, going so far as to wield knives against me. Off the top of my head I can recall at least ten instances where I'd had to lock myself into the bathroom to escape having my hand cut off. What kind of crime could merit such a punishment? Allow me to pick one such occasion: After coming home from school to a daily routine of arguments and exponentially more severe beatings, it's safe to say that I'd become a little skiddish around my mom. Whenever she'd lapse into a "friendly" state, she -- being the affectionate sort -- would try to sometimes hug me. By then, however, the abuse had taken its toll and I let out an involuntary twitch/wince, my hand raising slightly to block hers. Well, in her book that was considered physical assault on my part, and the only logical way to handle such heresy was to remove the faulty hand. Off to the kitchen she stormed (again) to pick up her favorite chef's knife, and off to the bathroom I bolted, squeezing the door handle to prevent her from picking the lock open again.

Do you know how fucked up it is to have found a Will and Testament I'd written at age 12? I was convinced I was going to be killed; she'd assured me that she'd be up as soon as I'd fallen asleep to send me into the afterlife. So, with tears aplenty, I had gotten to work assigning all my belongings to my friends. Needless to say I spent many sleepless nights growing up. I'd already seen her stab things before, and she'd already bruised the blood out of me. I felt it was only a matter of time.

To add insult to the injury, I spent every day being convinced that I had become a devil-child. Despite my agitated reasonings: "Mom! What more do you want!? I don't to drugs or bad things, I 'm a good kid! If only you could see half of the things the other kids are doing at my school, you'd know!" the good daughter she'd had was buried and gone in her mind (she'd had a prophetic dream about it). What lived in her stead now, she believed, was a soul bound by demonic forces, blind to its influence. I was a shell, she'd say. She'd tell me the Me of the past, the "good" me, had died. I was, I guess, a zombie. I fought these impossible notions as hard as I could, but no matter how hard you try, once you hear something every day,  it starts to make you have certain doubts.
Had I really become a terrible person?
Was I really the one who was making her go insane?
Had the "good" me died?

I know now more than ever that I wasn't to blame; I never was. Sure, I wasn't perfect, but even looking at it all from an objective perspective, I was not at all a problem child. Considering the environmental stimuli, I actually stood my ground considerably well. I never ran away or rebelled with self-destructive behavior. No, I never defied her through action -- at most, I'd argue her reasoning and bring her logic to question. These too, however, were considered ridiculous offences.

* * *

According to my mother, she was a victim of circumstance and people's malice. At some point in time, everyone she'd ever loved or held dear had betrayed her trust: her sisters, her abusive father, her mother, her friends, my dad, me...everyone. Thus, she shut out the world. I lived in a vortex of closed blinds and dark rooms (she suffered from migraines and was sensitive to light. As for the blinds, she was paranoid that people would see her walking around naked, as she almost always was). The house was dingy and unkempt. She'd gone from obsessive compulsive to completely apathetic. She'd go days without showering -- weeks, even. I guess that's depression for you.

Growing up, I was forced to watch one of the foundational influential pillars of my development buckle and crumble under the weight of instability and contorting angst. One moment, we'd be trolling people on the television, or sharing in a deep discussion about society, the next I was getting mirrors flung at me and getting sent up to my room with another 100-sentence assignment.
"I shall not...."

A theory I hold is that one of the reasons my mom hated my words so much was because part of her knew I was right. Most of what I said was well-meaning. Most of what I said were her own words. They were desperate attempts to open her eyes to things she herself had taught me and was now violating. I think she could see herself losing control. Some part of her conscious was aware of her condition and its growing severity. I know this especially because there were times when she'd tell me this herself. Moments of sobriety when I could see it in her eyes. She could see that she had a problem, and she knew the solution, but she also knew she lacked the strength or will to overcome it. All she had to do was let go of the rancor that had built itself up inside of her -- that, and take some badly needed medication. But, in her mind, it was already too late. She felt too lost, too defeated. So instead she chose to fester...

Flashback:

I was sitting in her room, watching her surf around in the Univision forums. Despite her initial resistance to the internet, after stealing my computer (because I'd been talking to a boy named Angel about different systems of belief, and exploring hidden supernatural potentials -- blessings, as I called them) she became a quick fan. She made herself feel useful by offering council to other forum members, much like I'd done for a while. She was trying to find some sort of appreciation and self worth by living vicariously through the lives of those she'd helped. She probably figured that it may be too late for her, but that the least she could do was help other people live a good life. However, after a while, I couldn't help but notice that the topics that she'd  begun to share with me as of late were all dreadfully depressing news stories. Seeing that life in general was beginning to depress me, and it obviously had already done a number on her, I decided to voice my concern:
"Mom...?"
"Mhmm?"
"Why are your stories always so depressing?" It was a simple question. I was genuinely concerned about this. She'd taught me that people who dwelt on certain forces tended to draw them into their lives -- both positive and negative (not such a "Secret" after all, huh!?). Yet, here she was complaining about her depression, cursing god and everything around her, but overall doing nothing to fix her situation. In fact, she was wallowing in it! 


I remember her eyes grew dark and enraged almost immediately. I was dragged into the hallway and, as usual, beaten. I tried explaining what I'd meant, but it didn't really matter. I was exiled to my room...again. 



The relationship I had with my mother was a bittersweet one, built up of many conflicting emotions. On one hand: she was a wise woman with a good sense of morality and etiquette who instilled in me righteous virtues, manners, and sound advice on love and social relationships, plus she was funny and affectionate. On the other hand: she was an extremely abusive force -- Verbally, physically, and emotionally. She was the embodiment of contradiction: violent and affectionate, intelligent but ignorant, weak but strong... I think I'll forever regard her with the deepest lament and the deepest gratitude.

I remember one of her favorite  pieces of advise. She'd often say it whenever she actually caught herself treating me unjustly. She'd say:

"Angela: I know I'm not perfect. I'm far from being a good person in the eyes of God, now more than ever. I know this. I've been ruined by the injustices I've suffered; I know they still affect my life. The least I can do as a good mother is try to teach you through my example. I don't want you to ever have to feel the way I do now. I have a lot of rancor in my heart, a lot of pain I can't let go of. But...God knows, I hope, that at least I've tried my best to instill good values and moral foundations in you and steer you in His ways. To teach you wrong from right and to love Him. I also know I am a hypocrite to many of the lessons and things I teach you; I am not a good example a lot of the times of what I preach, I know. Still, the best thing I can say to you is (and I know this is an unfair thing to ask): please, no matter what you see from me, try to retain the good things I've done and shown you and reject the negative. Keep the things that will enrich your life, and renounce the things that will bind you."

She was right, her request wasn't very fair. How could she presume to excuse herself for her actions under the pretext and hope that I'd discern for myself what was right and wrong? Wasn't she, after all, the self-proclaimed product of a torn up life? Wasn't she supposed to be an infallible role model? How could she teach me one way of thinking and then act in a completely opposite manner the very next moment?

Still, despite all these protests and cries of hypocrisy catering to my passionate temper, tempting my heart to drown out and dismiss her words, somehow I managed to see past the 'unfair' aspects. Instead, I kept to the lesson she was trying to show me. I observed her situation and knew one thing for certain: I never wanted to become my mother. After her sudden removal from my life, I continued to study my mother. I'd wanted to understand her, learn the ingredients that had produced the strange woman that had served as such a puzzling example of what a person could become.  Not only did I want to avoid repeating her mistakes, but I wanted to use what I could learn from her situation to save others -- or maybe even save her. I'd failed once, but maybe some day I could. I've given up on the latter notion, but the lessons I've gained have proven useful to me thus far and will probably continue to.

[To be continued...?]



Tuesday, January 4, 2011

Biography of an Autobiography: pt II

The Itching Impulse: Disgruntled Vexations of an Unsettled Youth



There I was: immersed in this ego-driven society of self-exploiting youths, who's social life had become almost entirely dependent on updating a Social Networking site. Hours were wasted staring at a computer screen, repeatedly hitting the Refresh button in hopes of seeing an updated status of any kind. Like many others, I was  hooked on finding out what was going on in other people's lives -- one to three sentences (and maybe a song quote) at a time. To tell you the truth, I can understand the allure of being privy to people's events and thoughts. Still, no matter how hard I tried to swallow these small portions of intimacy my peers were offering, I couldn't get over the fact that this was what I had traded outings at the diner and live social interactions with. I felt that people had, in their desperate attempt to reach out to their peers and find some sort of emotional reward, been cheated somehow. In the grand age of communication, technology seemed to have had a stunting effect on genuine interactions. The generation coddled with instant gratification had begun to live instant lives. Who could blame them? It was easy.

I had grown too lazy to write anything. Sometimes I'd take a stab at writing a journal entry. I'd get all worked up and excited over a new notebook. However, no matter how I tried, I just couldn't get myself to produce the quality works of my earlier years. I even left entries unfinished -- a cardinal sin in my book. I was the worst kind of traitor to my self; I just couldn't believe that I was letting years' worth of precious memories become condensed into a few one-liners -- or worse: forgotten altogether.

I was suffering from my worst case of writer's block.
Ever.

One random day, I finally decided to listen to that nagging voice inside my head.
"FTW?" I spat the question that had been haunting my mind for years, festering in the far reaches of my nether-conscious. "If I can devote hours to staring at the same status updates for an hour, or play eighty rounds of Rainbow Unicorn Attack! (so addictive, mind you), ignore people's Farmville/Coffeeville/WTFEverville requests, and still have time to poke a few blokes, why the fuck can't I manage to find any time to do the things I used to do?" I did have the time, and I knew that. I had just lost my motivation, and that, ladies and gentlemen, sucked balls.

These beloved and long-neglected activities had once included: drawing, reading up on anime or another geeky subject, reading more books, teaching myself another fantasy language, text-based RPing, and of course Writing. Writing anything. I'd gotten to the point where filling half a page on a small micro journal had become a chore. The most I'd written was a few songs for my band, and even those had been hard to muster up. Out of all the hobbies, I missed writing most of all.
"What the shit!?" I'd often bemoan. "I used to be able to write about anything, everything, and nothing! Writing was my thing!" Yes. Writing was my "thing." It was the one art that I could effortlessly do, and I didn't need A's to tell me I was good at it (though they did reinforce the notion, lol). It used to be easy, and I loved it. I always had.

To this day, I still remember afternoons spent sitting on the counter of my dad's store on Broad street, verbally dictating stories to my mother, who would write them down for me. I'd even add illustrations to my works. All of this when I was but a wee lass, new to speaking. I wager that good old Anansi* had a laugh watching me spatter epic stories about the adventures of my favorite Japanese man in a monster suit. I'm referring to Godzilla, of course. See, no matter how old you are, you recognize a true B.A.M.F. when  you see one and to me Godzilla was the most badass dinosaur around. Fuck Barney.

 ***

Undoubtedly, it makes sense to say one of the main reasons I took so well to writing was that, put simply: I loved talking to people. Verbal or written, I wanted to share my thoughts with the world around me and listen to their stories. The human mind and spirit fascinated me, people fascinated me, so I made it a point to meet them and learn as much as I could. I wasn't always pro at my approach, though.

I remember this one time when I was a kid, I was wandering around McDonalds greeting absolutely every person there. Most people humored me since I was small and adorable, and patiently returned my salutation warmly. I had received many hellos and was feeling quite pleased with my accomplishments when I suddenly ran into something wearing camouflage -- well, someone. I looked up at the huge tower of green uniform in front of me and was confused, horrified, and yet completely fascinated all at once. I might as well have run into a Yeti. Keeping my eyes carefully fixed on the questionable humanoid (in case it made any sudden motions to eat me), I toppled sideways over to my mother and urgently begged to know what "it" was. My mom stifled a laugh and explained that it was a person in the service. A soldier. After having my mother reassure me a few times that this soldier creature was friendly and safe to approach, I mustered up what cheeky gusto I had, marched up to soldier and offered my cutest smile/enthusiastic "Hello!" combo.
Stern silence...

I figured the soldier type didn't hear me the first time. No problem! I'd just say it again a bit louder for them. The ears were all the way up there, after all. "HELLO!" I called again and threw in a wave.
Again, though, I was met with silence.
This took me aback; there was no way she hadn't heard me this time. Using my early critical thinking skills I quickly deduced that I must be being ignored...but why? My childhood mind couldn't wrap itself around the concept of someone purposefully ignoring a friendly gesture -- especially from cute little me. What reason was there to reject such a simple, happy gesture? The confusion quickly turned itself to an indignant Angela pulling on a soldier's pants while insisting she inform me why this was so. Mom came swiftly to the tight-ass's rescue, though, and pulled me away before soldier could offer any comment on the matter.

This was the day I learned that not everyone's a social butterfly -- and that some people are just assholes who can't say hello to little Puerto Rican kids at McDonalds.

Whether this thirst for social interaction could be attributed to communication-oriented planet, Mercury, being Gemini's ruling planet, or simply because I'm an opinionated female-type [already famed for their proven ability/curse to trump almost any man's attempts at conversations about everything and nothing*] with too much hot-air capacity, I have  always been eager to engage my fellow man in discussion. My extroverted personality has made it simple to engage both friend and complete stranger in any variety of discussion with little to no hesitation. I thrived on communication, and thus made it a point to find as many ways as I could to express myself and reach out to others.

Trouble was that at first I didn't really have someone to talk to. There was only so much I could talk to my parents about. I was an only child who was kept inside. So in the days before I learned my ABC's, my kingdom of toys, an imaginary friend named Skeleton Joe, and my imagination were my conversational companions. Then, one glorious Christmas Eve, I received my first diary and began the first recorded chapter of my legacy.


I received my first diary at the tender age of nine. It was a small book, with dreamy stationary featuring a pattern of blue skies with puffy white clouds floating across its span. The cover displayed a colorful splash of Dolphins drawn up in the then-popular "Lisa Frank" style (I was a huge fan; just sayin'). A nifty lock and key had even been included for assured privacy! How awesome! Of course, the gift was immediately put to use. I made quick work to fill the pages with as much as I possibly could about my days, especially ramblings about the other gift I'd received that year: a demanoid pug pup we'd christened "Chiki." 

Finally, I had a way of remembering all the small but pleasant details of my daily life! I wrote about the toys I'd saved from the "Monster Cloud,"** Chiki's latest streak of evil (she was a mean little fucker), the latest video game I'd played, school, and the latest punishments I'd received. Unfortunately, the latter soon became a disturbingly reoccurring topic of discussion as my Mother slowly began her descent into the deepest catacombs of Depression. 


*  The trick is that women, being more emotionally driven in nature than men, tend to add details like feelings and all that extra fluff. In the other corner of the spectrum, the rational and more logic-driven (not always sound logic, granted >P) average guy tends to be more concise with his stories. Dave Chappelle does a great sketch about this concept; YouTube it sometime for lolz. ;P


**MONSTER CLOUD: My arch-nemesis, who was responsible for all scary thunderstorms. According to my legends, during storms, the Monster cloud used his lightning bolts to snatch up and kidnap many innocent toys. He'd then continue his tyranny by binding them with wires and sealing them away in plastic packages, sending them to stores. There they'd be forced to watch helplessly as their decoy replicas were bought into freedom, fearing eternal slavery! I, however, was gifted with the ability to tell which toys were the "real" deals. It was my civil duty to get my parents to buy said toys, thus liberating them from his evil clutches!