Blast it.

Day three of the migraine that could. I’m left unable. God bless Phenergan. God bless loose-knit IKEA blankets and candles that smell like gingerbread and cost four bucks. God bless…God bless socks. It’s nippy in here.

I keep trying to write. I’m afraid I’ll be taking it out on my blog, my poor, ignored, blank little blog, dormant for months at a time. Just to be sure you know I’m equal opportunity, I haven’t touched my diary in a couple months, either. (There, there, blog, feel better.)

I almost hope this headache continues so I will have enough motivation to actually drag my poor university-attending debt-addled ass in to the doctor’s and get something that will make this happen again NEVER. As it is, I don’t really like the idea of a copay. But another day of this? It’s worth three copays to stop that from happening.

Two reasons:

Migraines are absolutely miserable. Know that. If you don’t get them, count all your lucky stars, though it’s easier for a migraine sufferer because I swear it, you can see them, everywhere, all the time. They are different for everyone, but for me, I get nauseous like I’ve been spinning for hours and it feels both like someone is trying to remove part of my brain with a fork while clamping my head in a vice. This is generally agitated by noise, smells, lights, and motion. Also possibly agitated by simply being awake and fully conscious, though dreaming is no trip. Last night, I very seriously dreamt my friends hated me, one to the extent where she was trying to find me and kill me, and also that I was in a barber shop where they had monkeys performing for us and I devastated a young Hitler (who enjoyed playing with the monkeys) by informing him that some day, he’ll orchestrate the deaths of millions of people. He cried. I sincerely hope young Hitler would have actually done so.

Also it’s Halloween weekend and my friend’s birthday tomorrow night and I’ve got a great costume and I’m supposed to have fun, damn it, before my entire life is spent researching for my thesis and writing a paper on Mormonism that I’ll enjoy writing more than perhaps I should. History is awesome.

By the way, I’ll be Lucille Bluth, carrying a martini glass and cursing everyone I see, screaming for Lupe whenever I encounter untidiness and signing everyone up for the Army.

Thought I was gone, eh?

I’m crazy unpredictable like that.

Sure, I should be reading more about Montana’s tax system, but I’ll get to it.  For now there’s something sappy on my mind, and I’m not willing to make public declarations in realms where people would either make fun of me or get mad at me.

I had an ex once tell me, in the throes of a horrid breakup, while he stood outside my door without permission to enter and I paced wildly through my apartment, phone glued to my ear, pausing only to type out quick reports to my two closest friends and allies, that it wasn’t his fault.  He had given this relationship everything, while threatening to walk out the door on such a regular basis I learned to expect it and had begun to learn preventative maneuvers.  I told him that this, among a long laundry list of things, told me everything I needed to know about the nature of his love for me.  It wasn’t real.  It wasn’t unconditional, it wasn’t against all odds, it was levied against them only within reason.  At one point he had told me he loved me for my potential.  It wasn’t enough.  He had to love me for me.

He told me no one ever could.  He told me people did not have the capacity to love someone at their own expense.  He told me that there was no one who would ever love me the way I wanted to be loved, and I was just unreasonable.

Eight days later, completely unsure if it would even be a date, I began dating my best friend, and one of the people who I had been talking to that night, who had guided me with generally sane advice throughout my entire disastrous dating career since its inception six years ago.

Five months since, and I have all the faith in the world that not only can someone love me exactly the way I need, but even more than that.  No matter how sick or moody or distraught or stressed or angry or frustrated or drunk or tired or goofy or stupid or bitchy or picky or indecisive I can get, I am loved for everything I already am.  I am no longer afraid and concentrated on self-improvement, trying everything in the desperate hope that I can make myself into something else that I must need to be, urged on by boys who wanted someone I could never be.

Now, there’s nothing I have to do to make myself better but allow me to be me.  I am fixed already.  I have been loved, and I will be loved, and I have to do nothing but love back, for everything he has been and still is.  And I have plenty of that to give.  To him, to my family, to myself.

I feel whole.  I feel like I was already.

He generally read this back when I actually kept up with it, but I don’t know if he remembers about it anymore, nor what he’d think of my putting it out there, but I just wanted to.

If he does, well, thank you.  I only hope I can do even half of what you’ve done for me for you.  You deserve that and a million things more.  I love you.

Poor, Unfortunate Souls.

I absolutely despise myself.

It’s not for the reasons my mom wants to believe.  I don’t think I’m an amoral fool who’s deserted her family for the sake of her selfish adventures.  That’s not entirely true.  I am selfish.

I’m overemotional.  I cry at least once every two days if not more.  It’s usually sparked by my hatred for myself, after I’ve done something unnecessary to piss my boyfriend off or make my mother remind me she isn’t proud of me and doesn’t know what to say when people ask about me.

Why do some parents hate their children this way?  In my family, it has been true that the more they know, the more they have to use against me.  Especially when I only wanted to be able to be honest with them, even when they might not like it.

I want to be two people.

I want to be my mother’s daughter, loyal, honest, trustworthy, always knowing that no matter what, I had my family–that last one has proven to be horribly untrue.   I want to have a house to come home to when things aren’t going well, and a place to have family dinners and game nights with Scrabble and chats on the back porch with a cup of coffee and our robes on in the mornings.  I want to watch my dogs run in the back yard after the neighbor’s puppy and I want to talk to my brother about music.  I want to make fun of my stepdad for watching the news all the time, and I want to talk to my mom about color schemes and the funny things my grandma says.  I want them to be proud of me for becoming myself, and I want them to accept me for who I really am.

I want to be my boyfriend’s girlfriend.  I want to be strong and independent, fierce, unafraid, and ready for whatever the next step in life is.  I want to go on late night jaunts to the lake, and travel to see our favorite bands.  I want to fight for the things I know I can afford, and I want to work harder to afford more and more of my own life until it is all mine.  I want to get an internship in Los Angeles or San Francisco, and I want to work for a magazine.  I don’t want to go to grad school until I know I can afford it, years after a steady job, and I want to have my own world with my own rules.  A world I truly feel comfortable and accepted in for being nothing more than exactly what I am.  I want to write, sing, paint, and feel everything around me.

The first persona makes me cry.  It’s exactly what I miss.  The second one makes me hopeful and gives me a future I can be excited about.

Whenever I try to make the two worlds intersect, they don’t blend.  They collide.  My parents want me to avoid debt.  They want me to go to school and school alone; they want me to stop working a job, they want me to not pay my own rent, they want me to get my grades up so I can go to law school.   They want me to stay here.  They want me to stay a child.  Meanwhile I–with the support of my boyfriend–want to start owning more of my own.  I want to pay for my apartment.  Not just so my parents can’t threaten to disown me when they find out my boyfriend spent the night again, but so it can be my place, and I can find another reason to be proud of myself.  It’s the same with my phone bill, and my regular bills, and vacations, and concerts, and everything.

I don’t want to be my own person to be able to break away from my family, I want to be my own person so I can look at myself and see something of value.  Something I know if no one else is, then at least I myself can be proud of.  I look at myself and see someone who’s always made her decisions not because they would make her happy but because someone told her they made the most sense, instead of starting with something to make me happy that I could translate into making sense.  I keep forgetting that people who make the most of life don’t do everything in order to be safe and keep everyone from worrying about their future, they do it because it’s what they believe in and because they believe in themselves.

What hurts the most is I can’t figure out why that’s not what my parents want me to become, too.

My mother is not proud of me.  She can’t bring herself to tell people how I am, because she’s too embarrassed and doesn’t want them looking down on me.  No.  Looking down on her for being associated with me.  I wish I could say I was being overdramatic and paraphrasing, but those are the words she said.

I am torn, in so many ways.

Once again

And this time, with feeling.

I don’t know why I keep getting drawn back in, but one of these days I’m going to stick with it.  Mostly because by now, everyone has forgotten about this, and by now, I can just write with reckless abandon.

I haven’t written much of anything recently.  Just little doodles in my notebook about being depressed when I’m not, or about a character I’m starting to lose touch with.  It’s crazy how things work.  –Oh, is that a theme in my life lately.

See, I’m in that tricky little place.  A fucker of a mess, really.  That age where even with staunch, upper middle class conservative parents it’s time to branch off and branch out and become my own.  That lovely age where you’re not financially independent, but you’re supposed to be calling all the shots anyway.  And if you’re me you have the little feeling of guilt that accompanies every decision counter to your parents’ minds.

Recently I went on vacation with my boyfriend and his best friend.  Spring Break 2010 roadtrip.  Extremely last minute decision, and my parents gave me hell.  I mean hell.  I quietly paced the pavement in the courtyard of my apartment buildings as my parents brought up every concern and every bad idea and every argument they had.  My stepdad told me he didn’t want me going with this loser of a boyfriend.  My mom told me I would have broken my grandparents’ hearts if they only knew.  I told them I felt awful, but I had to do something different.

All my life I have been a very, very good girl.  I still can’t screw up without my parents at least being aware that something is going on.  I hate living in the dark, and I can’t lie, at least not well, at least not significantly.  A plus, obviously, with a downside–that being that this charmed little girl they raised suddenly decides to do what she wants, and it’s not so fairy tale after all.  And then I decided to break the pattern even more–on the way home, I decided I would be joining my boyfriend’s family to his grandma’s birthday.  And after talking to my mom and having her nearly grieve over the idea that I would be meeting his family and “getting too embroiled” (her greatest fear being me dropping out of college to get married and have kids, something I’m terrified of and unwilling as of yet to even think about) I decided to lie about it.

Guess what happened?  Oh, come on.  You know this story.  Or maybe you’re a better liar than I am.

The next night I get pulled out of dinner by the worst phone call I’ve ever received.

Of course, I let them lay in to me.  I really didn’t have a better choice.  What position was I in to fight back?  And what little fighting I did was subtle.  And the worst feeling of all?

Complete liberation!

I had finally screwed up!  I had finally done something to the point of my parents realizing I wasn’t exactly who they thought I was.  Things had changed–long ago–and it was no one’s fault but my own.  I was responsible.  I was responsible!  I had made the decision!  No one could have talked me out of it–and my boyfriend tried–but instead of doing the right thing and keeping the illusion, I broke pattern.  They were threatening to cut me off.  They lost trust in me.  Things would never be the same.  I was devastated, yes, mourning the loss of a little girl.

But finally, I was free.  And two days later, my mom and I had a lengthy conversation.  I would be making my own decisions.  My own judgment calls.  I was free to do whatever–and that was all she wanted for me.

Beautiful.

Not the only lesson learned–I freaked out when they first talked to me.  A lot of things were said in anger, and I let most of it go by, apologized, kept my head down, took responsibility and picked my battles so cautiously.  Walking on pins and needles seem like a preferable option than that conversation at the time.  I handled the actual talk well.  The fallout was not so good.  It added a lot of stress to my relationship, especially because of the rift it created between him and them.  I was constantly stressed for a week.  I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat.  I was snapping.  It was painful.  And to him it seemed like nothing had changed.  I wasn’t going to be making my own decisions, I wasn’t going to learn to hold my head up high and be myself, I was going to feel guilty for not following their wishes and I was going to stress out until I was finally where they wanted me.

What he doesn’t quite realize yet–and we hit a tough spot, not just for this reason–is that I am exactly where they want me to be.  A grown up woman with a mind of my own and the motivation to get what I truly want.  Lucky for him, he’s what I want right now.  Lucky for me, now that I’m finally getting in touch with my own self and my own wants and desires, I’m going to finally be somewhere I should have been for a while now, making myself truly happy with my own life.  Yes, there’s a balancing act to be played.  Yes, there’s a time and a place for everything.  But yes!  I can finally figure everything out–by myself.

Whoa, man.

I nearly forgot this thing existed. But through internet-surfy means, I have rediscovered it. I have also just realized that I have about 20 minutes until class. Damn.

I’ve been back well over a year from all the lovely adventures I had. Oh, things are different yet. Quite, quite. I’m really happy, barring the things I miss (read: Thailand, and everyone there now or previously). Naturally, the boy I thought I’d date for 7 years long distance–or at least the boy I said I wanted to date for 7 years long distance for a time–is now the boy I’d like to be friends with again but sort of wish had never dated. It lasted a whole 3 months before the other.

The other has been over 9 months now and counting.

I’m at university, which is fantastic. I have an apartment–with a dishwasher! large tub! couch! my own room!–that I just adore, and I’m taking classes that actually keep me thinking. I’ll be working two jobs starting this week, and one of them is at a Thai restaurant, which will be fantastic.

Funny, though, how in a year or two your entire life can be nearly entirely different. Should have seen that coming. In a way, I did.

I don’t know if I’ll consistently blog anymore, though. I don’t really think anyone reads this, and if they do they’re bored out of their wits.

Oh well. Toodles.

I don’t actually want to write.

But it’s been forever, so a good little update wouldn’t hurt.

WordPress has changed a lot.

Course, not nearly as much as I have, but that’s a given.  What else are you supposed to do after you finally leave home?

After you fall in love?

So that wasn’t supposed to happen.  I’m not even apprehensive about it, though.  I know I’m in love.  And for once I’m not actually worried about letting someone know me like that.

That’s really all I want to say.

我爱你

Songkran–Thai New Year

All that stuff I can’t tell anyone who has any responsibility over my life.  They won’t want to know I kinda sorta endangered it.

Nothing really of note the first day, except the intensest version of post-culture shock-culture shock I’ve ever known to be.  Mostly because Thai society tends to lean toward the polite and conservative (ladyboys aside), and what I saw begin that day…was very far removed from anything describable by the words ‘polite’ and ‘conservative.’

See, Songkran is the world’s largest water fight.  (I’ve had someone try to explain, in her PC way, that it is not a water ‘fight.’  It’s water play.  You just play.  This is bullshit.  You’re aiming for targets out there, most of them moving, and swiftly, and accuracy is part of the business–and, most and foremost, you fire only if you’ve the guts to receive.  Because they will get you back.  And chances are they’ve got ice, and you don’t.  Prepare yourself.)  Basically, the entire country loads up onto the back of pickup trucks–I didn’t know this country had so many, nonetheless that everyone seems to own one, if only in reserve for these three days–and, with buckets of water strapped on to the truck and some small plastic bowls (oh, that’s where the big trash can went.  No joke, the thing’s gone.) they all ride around the cities, causing mayhem, slowing down for small children to soak all in the back, smacking those riding public transport in the face with a big splash of water (it hurts, trust me), filling up at one of the hydrants (something like a billion liters is diverted from the countryside every year for this…sorry, farmers.  This probably doesn’t end up helping the rice shortage too much–after all, it’s not like it’s gonna rain yet…) and all basically heading to the same place, if you’re in the same city as me.

Most cities do have a main area to play Songkran, as they say here.  Mine is the gigantic and beautiful park, along the…something side.  North…East…West side.  Yeah, sure.  Along this road there are tents set up every two feet, with someone selling food, beer, beer, beer, or shoes under them–in case you’re hungry, bored, or lost your shoes, which wouldn’t have been too hard.  Then, of course, the local bands get a go at it.  This year, there was one that played covers of every popular rock song in the country, and stood on giant coolers and rocked out next to speakers 8 Thai people big.  On top of this all, there were giant hoses running out of the lake that pumped out powerful streams of water every 20 feet or so.

It was fun. And there’s not an ounce of sarcasm in that.

The first day was handled appropriately, as we were driven around by an intrepid host mother.  We did our waiting in traffic to go down by the park, and got smeared by baby powder–

Ah, oops, forgot.  The use of baby powder, most often known as relatively painful Prickly Heat powder that’s technically supposed to be soft baby powder, originates somehow from a Thai custom of beautifying people on Songkran.  There’s also something about respect for your elders (the only elder I saw was wearing a very low tube top and dancing on a table) in there too, but I can’t remember the details.  In modern society, girls and boys, but most commonly boys, rub baby powder on the cheeks of girls they think are pretty.

At the park, down this particular road, boys had been pumped with things like beer and whisky; thus, ‘rub baby powder on cheeks’ took a few extra definitions.  For example:  pinch her cheeks, touch your cheek to hers, kiss her cheek, hug her, try to drag her to your truck, offer her whiskey, when she says no try to pour it into her mouth (‘it’s better if we do this anyway,’ says one man in Thai), tell her you love her/happy/thai new year/what’s up, guuurl (said with emphasis to the black girl of our little foreigner gathering)/whatever couple words you know in English/ask her where she’s from, is she happy or funny?/grab her chest.

At least that’s what I’ve found ‘rub baby powder on cheeks’ to mean.  And I’m a second place holder at a Thai beauty contest.  (‘If she were Thai, she’d have been first.’  Also see:  ‘If she were Thai…well, she’d be a funny looking Thai.’)  Thus, a white, blonde, moving target.

This is all from our intrepid little walk down the street on the second day.  We walked with Thai friends and a fellow falang man to keep us three girls safe, but this is Songkran we’re talking about.  One of the most quiet and sedate and conservative cultures has come out to play, and honestly, despite the occasional 15 boy pile up (‘Falang falang falang!  Here!  Here!  Hey everyone!’) which I had to be physically dragged out of, it was the most fun thing I could have ever imagined in my entire life.  And, let’s face it–who doesn’t like the attention?  Because here you are, walking along, and suddenly you have 15 boys running up telling you how pretty you are and fighting each other to be able to touch your face.  Even though you can’t see anymore, your face has numbed to the Prickly Heat, and yet is very cold and mentholated, and you’re crunching down on powder (your tongue feels chilled too), you know that it’s only happening because they think you’re pretty, and because that’s definitely alcohol you smelled.

Anyway, the second night was most definitely the best ever, because my friend’s host sister and brother’s friends caught up with us near the band.  They danced like absolute dorks, and they watched out for us, and we spent the night singing Bodyslam and Retrospect and Big Ass and jumping up and down and laughing at the ridiculous dancing and getting splashed by a nearby hose.  Hats switched heads nearly every song; I think I wore three or four different ones during the course of an hour or so.  A cute boy payed some extra attention to me, and I was able to converse with him in his language and not mine.  It was the stuff of teen movies, albeit one with subtitles, a parent’s worst nightmare, and some of the best times I’ve ever spent in this country.

Final evaluation:  Songkran.  Better than Christmas.

Thank you, Thailand.

😀