He just sits there in his silence. He knows when not to make a fuss. She just sits there in a baffled state. She wonders why he doesn’t speak his mind. She wants to know what he thinks about the issue she brought up. He doesn’t want to tell her. He feels as if the news would hurt her. She plays with her food. She takes invisible sips from the glass. She looks up at him. He holds his same static expression. He eats normally. This goes on for about ten more minutes until he is done eating. He looks at her and wonders why she hasn’t touched her food. Maybe he added too much salt in the rice again. He does it out of habit and he knows she hates it. He takes his dishes to the sink. When he comes back to into the dining room, she is gone. The bathroom door shut. He sighs. Maybe she just wants to be alone he thinks. He cleans up the dinner spread. He covers her uneaten food with plastic wrap and places it in the fridge. He loads the dishwasher. He pauses. He thinks about all the times this issue had been a problem. He is tired hearing it. Maybe he should tell her that. He decides that he won’t. The bathroom fan is still on. She sits on the toilet lid. She starts sobbing. Why is he like this? Why won’t he just understand? This shouldn’t be this difficult. Why is he always so quiet about this? I say everything and he says nothing. He isn’t mute, if I have aggravated or offended him, he should tell me – he should blame me. Her sobs continue. He looks at the closed bathroom door. After a while, she always runs away from the issue. She locks herself from the world. It’s like I can’t reach her.
The problem grows. And they move further and further apart. A rift separates them.
She starts to hate looking at him. It confuses her when he won’t talk. He starts to hate her presence. It frustrates him knowing that she harbors negative sentiment. The issue in question isn’t discussed anymore. Until one night she clutches her right side. They hurry to the emergency room. She had fainted as they had entered the hospital. An emergency appendectomy had to be performed. He waits in complete agony in the waiting room. He knew things like this could happen to her. He knew her unhealthy state. He knew that the issue of having a child could weaken her body. He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to talk about it. He feared being alone. He feared that his spouse would die before he did. That’s why he doesn’t want to have to raise kids himself. The surgery was a tricky one, but they removed the appendix before it claimed her life. She was in the recovery room. She noticed that he was sleeping; resting his head on her bed like a pillow. She feared that something like this would happen to her. Always in a state of some kind of sickness. And now this. She looked at him. She only thought about having children with him and raising a normal family. However, only she would be the abnormal one. The cancerous one. But she wanted happiness in trying to be normal. She didn’t consider him as much. She just wanted this selfish dream of hers to come true. What if she had died last night? He woke up to find her stroking his head with tears running down her face. They embraced. They didn’t speak. They knew how selfish their thoughts were. How childlike they had acted. But at that moment, they were just happy about each other’s existence.
I pictured myself a little stronger than this, a little more put together but being jobless and confused is taking a toll on me.
All the jobs in my life that I have seriously considered: (Starting at age 7)
- Being a “sivil enjineer” like my dad
- Being a world traveler in my barbie-themed battery-operated car (car broke after a week)
- Being Link from the Legend of Zelda
- Being Princess Zelda from the Legend of Zelda
- Being the person that swam with killer whales at Sea World
- Being a professional martial artist
- Being a professional tennis player
- Being a professional Pokemon master and live off of my backpack for the rest of my life
- Being an archaeologist like that one character in ‘Paper Mario’
- Being a director of an all-girl middle/high school (plans drawn up and everything)
- Being a professional warrior/spy/agent
- Being a movie director
- Being a published author
- Being a computer science person (just in general I guess)
- Being a professional television script writer
- Being a doctor
- Being a cartoonist
- Being a computer programmer
- Being a psychologist
- Being a genetic counselor
- Being a secretary…
You can do anything. You can have many interests. But I believe that you must nurture those interests in order to make anything come out of it. Some of the jobs above could have repeated themselves, but I decided to leave it out because I couldn’t tell when it exactly happened. I wasn’t able to do some of the sports I wanted because I was told that they were “too dangerous” and that made me really upset. It’s funny how I look at this and think, “Man. I didn’t put that much time or effort into being any of these things!” And it’s true. My heart wasn’t in a lot of them. So what is the next step for me? I don’t know. All this time, I thought that inspiration would strike me as hard as it did when I first was passionate about any of the jobs listed above. Like: “I want to be THAT!” And then go do it. After high school ended, a bunch of friends and me went to a park. After telling them about the confusion over my future, one of them told me to pick one of the choices out of a hat. Although not on this list because I probably put it in there for money reasons, I chose, “business person.” And I guess I should have stuck with that, but it never held in my mind long enough.
And why do I have to only choose one? Oh right, because choosing more than one has gotten me to this unfiltered wasteland of mental woe. Whenever I choose just one, I start to hate it. I think of the other things that I want to be doing.
But after a certain amount of time and life experience, this all just feels like an excuse. Excuses I shouldn’t be making. Excuses that lessen me as a member of society. So yeah. If I had to choose just one, I would choose the one that never seemed like a real decision, only a natural choice: which is becoming a Pokemon master and live off my backpack for the rest of my life… A.K.A.: A crazy, hoarder bum…. Think Into the Wild meets Monk… that would be me. Ahhh… yes… bliss…
Aaaaand now I hate it…
The job search continues….
The way I read is slow, uncomfortable and distracted. I am slow because I want every word to linger and connect in my mind. I am uncomfortable because I fidget and cannot sit still when reading for long periods of time. I am distracted because I am most likely thinking of other things besides the plot of the book that pertain to my life. I can’t read without putting different limbs to sleep. I can’t read when there is an annoying bird outside my window chirping. I can’t read when I am in high emotional states. I can’t read when I am in physical pain. There are many excuses. These seem negative, but once in a while, I look past the excuses. I honestly just like reading the book’s content and story. I make judgments about liking the plot, characters and writing. I trudge through the slow, agonizing parts because I believe that it will get better. I take my time with books I like. Perhaps too long. I have stacks and stacks of unread beauties on my bookshelf, just waiting to be read. I like how some books transport me into the minds of the characters. And if the book is first-person, you better believe that I will absorb his or her attitude on life. I will walk around as if I am the character, inside their mind. Thinking their thoughts. Thinking their feelings. Unleashing their attitude and words on my world. Sometimes it can be frustrating or even dangerous. I can be a sponge like that. And that, makes reading worth it. It’s worth it to just be somebody else, even if it is for a short while. And when I feel like I should be in my own skin, I don’t read as much… I escape through another medium: television. It’s not as intellectually potent or labor intensive, but it is a quick substitute to escape from my world.
My drug of choice.
Some helpful information about reading books and why they are so good for your brain:
Start by going that way. The way you want to go. I felt like I just woke up from a heavy dream. A dream that has lasted five years, maybe more. A nightmarish dream of weak mind. Succumbing to the detrimental sides of my psyche. What is this store I am in? I should be on a shelf, not perusing the wares. I should sell myself: my ideals, my appearance, my skills, my status, etc. Why should I be the one to buy when I can sell?
A dream is not a dream without a down to an up. Yes, just like that it changes. It’s not all bad, but not all good either. There are many ways to look at something. They don’t teach perspective in school. Not artistic perspective but emotional perspective. There is no class on just breathing and thinking strategies. The dream doesn’t teach you things you need to know, it just exposes what you don’t know.
You can do anything. You can begin again. You can rise. You might fall, but how you rise is more important than how you fall. Hypothetical wings guide you out of situations and needless worry. But, you can’t forget where you came from. How far you’ve gotten or who you pass by on your journey. Everything is important. Everything has a meaning. Even the wax in your ears deserves explanation. Jump ahead. See what you will get. What you will achieve. What you want to earn. They seem similar but can be used in separate ways.
Ups and Downs. What a day.
She was someone who I thought stole my hard-earned spot. She came in and I was ignored, forgotten by the others. I didn’t have their history, their chemistry. I was an outsider when I tried to fit in. But then again, I never really felt like it was all that important to my group. I was missing something. Courage, interests, crazy teenager ideas, none of which I was defined as. But then, after a period of nonstop disappointments from my group of friends, coupled with a depressing period in my life, she stood out. The person who I thought had stolen my place in my group actually became much closer to me than anyone in the group I started out with. She wasn’t perfect, but no one was. She treated me like a friend more than any of them, even after graduation. We still kept in touch. We still hung out. She put in effort to see me. She put effort in my birthday presents. She explored logical ideas with me and although we had our arguments, it wasn’t off-putting. I admired her point of views, and the way she taught herself many things. Once in a while I tried to take interest in her world and did my best to be genuine about it. I tried to be honest and respectful. I tried to make her laugh and create inside jokes. Although she couldn’t help with all my problems, I didn’t expect her to. Sometimes just having the option to hang out with her made me feel less lonely and worried about my own life. She was an ear when I needed her to be. She was on my side when I was in arguments with others or with the world. She was there for me when I needed her to be, not all the time, but most of the time. She didn’t smother me or be needy like I sometimes am towards her. But I knew she was one of the few that cared about me as much as I cared about her. She has taught me many things, shared with me her stories and interests, got me to go to concerts I would have never gone to, take me to places that I wouldn’t have wanted to go alone… and for that, she is special to me. I hope that we will be friends for the rest of our lives. She keeps me informed. She keeps me interested. She keeps me in awe of her. Thank you my friend.
Happy Birthday to the Roman Goddess of Wisdom.