bran before and after

I waited a whole year for this picture.

When I saw the picture of my sister and me together last Christmas, I was heartbroken.  I was so big.  How did I get that large and not notice?  I'm sure I was in denial, sure I could ignore it until things in my life changed for the better so I could focus on bettering myself.  But nothing changed and when I saw the photo, I knew I had to be that change.

I told myself I would not repeat that Christmas picture looking the way I did.  Long time readers will know I've been dieting and exercising all year.  I've lost approximately 50 pounds.  I've probably gained at least 10 of them back in the past 2 months (I've been too ashamed to weigh myself lately so I don't know the exact number) due to birthday bingeing but that's another entry for another time.  For now, I want to focus on the positive.  Yes, I actually can do that sometimes.

I was excited to take this year's Christmas picture, anxious to see the changes.  It wasn't as big of a transformation as I was hoping.  Sure, clothing and lighting and angles play a significant role in revealing the body but I thought 50 pounds would show a more dramatic change. That's not to say I'm not happy with the difference.  I definitely look better and I'm happier where I am right now.  I can mostly tell in my face, which is good.  But I still have a belly.

I'm working on it, though.  I didn't put the weight on in a year and it will take more than a year to lose it.

I'm cool with that as long as I'm always making progress.

Starting January 1st, I'm going to begin my diet and exercise anew and at the end of the year, I'll take another Christmas picture and hopefully I'll see more positive changes.  And no man boobs.

Left: Christmas 2011 with my sister.  Right: Christmas 2012 with my sister.

black fried day

I'm full of cake and milk and malice so bear with me.

Thanksgiving wasn't as terrible as I anticipated.  We usually all congregate at my dad's mother's house, as per tradition.  But, through the years, every time one of my male cousins reaches sexual maturity, he knocks up some girl and then has to visit her relatives for the holidays.  This has led to a decreased number of relatives who come over.  Fine by me.  This year, it was mostly my sister and me and our cousin and his boyfriend.  We all sat in the living room while the relatives with children sat in the kitchen and the older relatives sat in the dining room.

My sister and cousin mostly talked about drinking.  I don't drink so I didn't have much to add to the conversation.  And as much as I might have residual ill feelings toward my sister, she's quite the comedian.  My cousin's boyfriend really took a shine to her with her quick wit and sardonic delivery.  I'm telling you guys, she's more cynical than I am.  But she's funny so she can get away with it.  I just sat back with my lemon pie and listened.

At one point, some random toddler waddled in and went over to where my sister was sitting and just stared at her.  Shannon visibly tensed up as the little girl bore a hole in her head with her inquisitive eyes.

"Who is that?" I whispered to her.

"I don't know but she's freaking me out."  Then, she got up away from the girl, cringed, then sat closer to me.  The little girl kept staring.  Shannon kept freaking.

I'm telling you guys, she' dislikes kids more than I do.  She's a bitchier, female version of me.  I can respect that.

Black Friday wasn't as bad as anticipated, either.  Had to be there at 6AM instead of the usual 3:30AM.  I did have an irrational fear of sudden diarrhea, though, based on the enormous amount of fried turkey and greasy mac and cheese I ate the day before.  Fortunately, I made it through without any oozing.  The five shots of Pepto I did before I went to bed and the five more after I woke up might have helped me out with that. 

Surprisingly, I also didn't have many rude customers.  Although, I did have a few gray hairs who came up to me and said something along the lines of, "Excuse me.  I have two shopping carts and three shopping bags filled to the brim with clothing and there's approximately twenty people in line behind me but could you tell me the price of each piece of clothing as you scan it thanks!"

And I'm all like:

But I did have time for a cold pop.

deteriorating granny

"The world is sick
and all of us in it..."
-Showbread, I'm Afraid That I'm Me

Several months ago, my grandmother fell ill.  She had several episodes of failing health and had to be hospitalized a few times.  For a while, my heart jumped every time the phone rang.  I feared it was a family member telling us she had been put in a hospital again, or worse.

My parents and I visited her in the hospital during one of her stays and it was uncomfortable seeing her frail and hooked up to all the tubes and machines.  I stood there and didn't know what to do or say and just wanted to bolt.

She eventually got better, although she is thinner and more frail now.  I still worry we'll get a phone call late at night.

My other grandmother is slightly senile and her speech is becoming more and more incoherent to the point she can't get a full thought out of her mouth without stammering or stopping herself to clarify a statement.  I'm worried she's going to develop Alzheimer's.

There's dropping dead and then there's slowly deteriorating and dying.  I'm worried one grandmother is going to drop dead and the other will slowly melt away.

I see old people at work all the time and it kind of breaks my heart.  I see the old men with the dramatically curved spines and see-through skin and the old women with the milky eyes in wheelchairs being pushed by their children or shuffling in their walkers while their children patiently follow along.  They shake.  They stumble.  They need something to hold onto so they won't topple over.  I see oxygen tanks and forgetfulness.  I see exhaustion and sometimes I even see defeat in their wrinkled faces.  I'm scared that's going to happen to my grandmothers, that they will die in pieces, that all of their mobility will be stripped away, that their volition will vanish, that they'll be robbed of their reasoning.

I'm also terrified of that happening to my parents.  I almost can't bear the thought of my mom hunched over in a wheelchair with thin gray hair and skeletal hands.  I'm more worried about my dad since he drinks regularly and smokes heavily.  He's already battled with colon cancer and his brother died of lung cancer and yet he still lights up like he's sucking on sunshine.  It makes me angry and it makes it hard for me to want to get close to him because he's shellacking his lungs with tar and tearing up his liver with all the alcohol.

I'm also worried about my dog and cat.  They're both in the double-digit age now.  I'm always worried I'll come home to find Mom weeping over my dead cat's body.  Fortunately, neither one of them show signs of old age or failing health but it still crosses my mind regularly.  My mom  is enamored with our and when he passes away, she will be devastated.

And I think my fear of others dying comes from a fear of not knowing how to deal with everyone's grief.  I grew up in a household that discouraged expression.  I never saw my parents cry from pain or laughter.  They were stoic in their actions, language, and behavior.  Mostly.  And because I was never introduced to extreme feelings of sadness or joy, when I do encounter it, it makes me uncomfortable.  I don't know what to do or say. 

So when my grandmother's die, I'm going to have to deal with my parents' grief and I don't know how to do that.  When my dog and cat die, I will have to deal with my parents' grief and I don't know how to do that.  I'll just get that familiar need to bolt again, to run away until everyone stops hurting and everything is regular again.

I'm more worried about enduring everyone else's grief than my own.  That's because I don't feel particularly close to anyone.  Yes, I will be sad when my grandparents and pets pass away and I will cry but I'll probably move on easily.

And the reason I choose not to get too close to anyone is because I am also afraid to face my own grief.  If I get too attached, they'll one day leave or die and I'll be devastated and I don't know how to come back from that.  I've inadvertently carried on my parents penchant for not feeling too deeply.

I always imagined I would get a dog when I got out on my own and he would be my best friend.  The problem with that is the dog is going to die one day and I'm too afraid to mourn so I probably won't get a pet.  I'm also too afraid to mourn lost friendships so I don't have any friends.  I feel I already have enough hurt inside of me to burn on for the rest of my life so I don't need to add any more.  But if I never feel the deep sadness, I can't experience the great joy, either.  Is that a sacrifice I have to make to stay at an even level of feeling?

My fear of overwhelming grief has defeated the possibility of feeling overwhelming happiness.

No one wants a loved one to die and I think we all wonder if we can bear the pain of loss but people do it every day.  People are stronger than they think.  And I probably am, too.  I'm just not too keen to find out.

on holiday

My mom and dad are going to see my sister for a few days next week and I decided to take advantage of them being gone by taking a holiday from work.  It'll be so nice to have some time to myself for a change.  Dad works during the week and Mom works on the weekend so someone is always home to annoy me.  I love them, blah blah, but a guy needs some solitude, ya know?  I was starting to think I'd have to take a pilgrimage to Waldon Pond just to find a quiet place to poop and ponder.

Mom excitedly told me my sister wanted me to come along, too.  Like she was trying to convince me my sister really wanted to see me.  Like I'm going to buy that crap.  It was annoying because I've already made my feelings clear and nothing anyone says or does it going to change it.

I just haven't had much to do with her after she acted so cold toward me when I needed her years ago.  For so long, I was her biggest fan.  She was always disinterested in me.  Now it's my turn.  We were never close and we never will be and my mom needs to stop trying to make us pals.  It is not going to happen.    

In my continuing to self-destruct my diet, there's a new pizza place open a few towns over and I want to go eat some.  I figure I have the next week to re-dedicate myself to diet and exercise and I am on vacation.  I can splurge a little, right?  But didn't I splurge last weekend and the weekend before that?  Holy crap, I'm such a fat kid at heart.  It doesn't matter how much weight I lose, I'm always going to crave Coke and cookies.

I thought about going to eat with someone but then I realized I had no one.  My work girlfriend has a real-life boyfriend and he probably wouldn't appreciate me going out with her, although most guys aren't threatened by me, which makes me feel really great about myself.

It usually goes a little something like this:

The boyfriend says, "You're going out with some guy?  I don't care if he is 'just your friend.'"

He takes a look at me.

"Oh, okay, call me when you get back."

Just about everyone else sucks so I don't know who to turn to.

I am really alone.

Of course, I just started this entry by saying I wanted to be alone but not like this.  Not lonely.  I thought about buying some crocheting needles and driving back down to the Starbucks in Florida and joining the lesbian knitting group I saw there last time, or either stabbing myself in the jugular with them.  I'm still undecided.

I guess I'll just have to make a go of it solo.  Just get out of the house and explore.  Drive in my car.  Play some emo music to get me in the mood to meditate.  I might even make a whole day of it.  Make the mall my Walden.

The only problem is I wanted to be constructive on my days off.  I wanted to finish editing the first draft of my book by next week so I can do rewrites and ask people to start proofreading/reviewing it soon.  My plan was to write several blog entries for the first day or two I was off and store them so I could concentrate on finishing the book while still continuously updating my blog.  So far all I've managed to do is literally stay in bed all day long and play video games.  So that's one day wasted and if I go out of town tomorrow, that's another day gone.

But maybe I need it.

Or I could muti-task and work on my book at that Starbucks.  'Cause that wouldn't make me look like a douche at all.

what is love (baby don't hurt me)

I really need someone to occupy my chest.  When it comes to love, I'm the 99%.  (Is it too late to use that play on a phrase?  In my defense, I've been working on this entry for a while so I came up with it way before it became played out.)

I've pretty much eliminated the word "love" from my vocabulary.  I kind of feel bad about it but I guess not bad enough to actually do anything to remedy it.  And, really, what could I do?  I guess I just don't feel comfortable using that word because I really don't even know what love is or what it means to me.  I'm not even speaking about romantic love but just love in general.  I suppose I've always assumed it to mean a great affection for someone or something but for some reason, it doesn't feel that simple anymore.

And I think I used to love.  I felt affection for people, cared for them.  I wished the best for them and hoped they were okay.  I suppose that was love.  But the one person I cared for the most, someone I believe I loved at one point, completely shut me out in an instant and  ruptured my world forever.  And that's when my idea of love fell apart.

Why does it seem like the people that you give the majority of yourself to are the ones who hurt you the most?  I guess it's because you invest your time and your heart into that person so that you are more connected to them than anyone else.  You become vulnerable.  Your defenses are down.  You are allowing someone else to come into the soft fleshy places, sensitive spots that hurt when tampered with.  I suppose the tightest ties bleed the most freely when cut.

And on a somewhat similar yet different strain of thought, why is it that two people who are so in love can end up hating each other so much?  It always perplexed me how girls and guys get into relationships, become partners in crime, then suddenly turn into each other's worst enemy.  Things turn sour, love turns to hate, and it takes a while for that hatred to boil away.  I suppose some couples who split do so amicably and remain friends.  But it doesn't seem to happen often from what I've seen.  The breakup is usually ugly.  And I wonder why that is.  What does it take to get to that point?  Abuse?  Infidelity?  A love that has died?  An understanding that you are on a different path than your partner?  When does heartbreak turn to hate and is it always justified or only under certain circumstances? 

So that whole experience with being cut off from my friend really screwed me up.  Now, I don't believe in love because it feels like someone who loved me wouldn't do that to me, no matter the excuse.  Some would argue that's not real love but I'd hate to think she didn't love me.  I used to have a hard time believing anyone could love a mess like me but she gave me hope, made me feel that I could be loved despite my plentiful flaws.  It wasn't a case of her saying she loved me and me not believing her.  I knew enough of her to know that she did.  It wasn't always in the words but in the gestures and actions, in how she made me feel, how we made each other feel.  I held onto that and it helped me to feel like a real person.  I'd hate to know that it wasn't real, that what I thought was love wasn't.  But what was love to me back then?

She made me not believe in love.  She even went as far as to make me stop believing in friendship.  At the same time, maybe there's a small part of myself that is making me not believe in it, or at the very least, not allowing the microscopic part of myself that still does believe in it to actually experience it because I'm not sure I can go through another rejection like that.  I don't want to work on something for so long, give so much of myself to another person just to have it all torn down one more time.

It's so silly because I used to council people in my predicament when I was in high school.  These girls broke up with their boyfriends and they came to me to vent and said they'd never fall for another guy, never let them get close because it hurt too much when they left.  And I always said that not every guy was going to do that to them, not ever guy would hurt them and they'd be missing out by keeping their hearts so guarded.

Now, here I am, the guy with the guarded heart, eating my own words.  Sorry, girls.

god the father

"Fathers, do not embitter your children, or they will become discouraged." 
-Colossians 3:21

I've often tried to do research on man and God and the connection between the two that I cannot seem to establish.  In the past, I've made attempts to live the Christian lifestyle, to give my troubles and fears to God but there was always a slight hesitation, always a need for validation that I was living correctly, that I was in fact saved, that God was there with me.  But there was never any indication that God heard me, that He was with me, or that He even cared.  And one day, I came across an interesting viewpoint about certain people's relationships with God.  I cannot recall where I gathered this information but I remember it struck me.  The person said that there is often a correlation between the relationship you have with your heavenly father and the relationship you have with your biological father.  When I thought about my dad, I realized it always felt like he was absent, too.  Maybe this person was on to something.

As you might have guessed by now, based on my assessment of the rest of my family, I don't have a great relationship with my dad.  He's a stoic figure who isn't incredibly expressive, articulate or affectionate.  He hasn't hugged me since I was a little kid.  I don't even remember the last time we've touched.  I also can't recall the last time he told me he loved me.  And I see God in the same way.  My father in heaven feels just as cold and distant as my father in my home.  It's as if they both gave me life and then stood back and watched me live it, witnessed my stumbles and falls into the dirt and didn't lift a hand to help.  They've both provided in some ways, such as financial comfort and housing, and lacked in other ways, such as emotional stability and safety.  They both feel like a presence that cannot be persuaded.

There's quite a few differences between me and my father.  He's incredibly country and I'm not.  He likes to hunt and fish and drink beer on Fridays after work.  I like to write and draw and eat candy.  He's not into art or music like I am.  He likes westerns.  I like horror.  He's an outside type.  I'm an insider.  You get the point.  But we don't clash over our differences and it's not hard for us to get along, mostly because we are so different we are almost removed from each other's lives.  There is no tension because there is basically nothing there at all.  When I come home from work and walk into the den where he is, he doesn't say hello or acknowledge me.  I always have to be the one to initiate contact and it hurts.  An absence of a greeting might not seem like much but I don't see him all day and when we find ourselves in the same room, he can't be bothered to tear himself away from the six o' clock news to say hello.  And God, in his vast greatness, can't seem to come down to Earth to throw me a bone.

But that's not to say my dad doesn't care for me.  I know he does.  He just doesn't show it.  And being the insecure mess that I am, I need that reassurance.  And I know God is supposed to care for me but I don't feel that, either.  I'm constantly praying for a sign that I'm living the way I should be, that God is with me, that I'm not some gigantic sinner that's bound to belly-flop into the lake of fire.  And I wonder what it will take to change things.  Should I begin with God or my dad?  If I see an improvement in one area, should I expect the same results on the other side?  I doubt it.  Much like my sister, my dad is set in his ways, not that my dad is a douche like my sister.  As far as I can tell, he's a good man, just guarded and closed off emotionally.  And because he has been that way for over fifty years, I don't think there's much I can do to pierce his countrified armor.  

While my father remains steadfast in his stoicism, God remains deaf and dumb to my dilemmas.  I know I've called out to him more times than I can recall only to be met with silence.  I wonder if my dad would be so silent.  I suppose all it would take is for me to ask.  But if I were to be honest with myself, I'm not sure I really want to ask.  Maybe I'm not in a hurry to change things, to have such a great relationship with my dad.  Maybe I'm too far gone or maybe I'm just too scared.

My dad has never been the picture of great health.  He's a big believer in deep frying everything.  He also enjoys his alcohol and cigarettes.  The smoking thing is a big problem for me.  He's getting older and having worked a back-breaking job for over thirty years now, his body has slowly worn down.  He has an unhealthy diet and doesn't wear sunscreen despite the fact that he works out in the sun all day long.  It feels as if he's already in danger of disintegrating without having to add the bad habit of smoking to the mix.  There's a long list of dead relatives who expired due to tobacco related illnesses.  He watched his aunt die a slow and painful death from emphysema.  She was a long time smoker.  He watched his brother die a slow and painful death from lung cancer.  He was a long time smoker.  And you think that might have stopped him, might have been revelatory occurrences.  But he never missed a beat.  Even when his colon exploded at four in the morning when I was eight-years-old.  It was cancer.  Despite the chemotherapy and colostomy bags, Dad still lit up.  And I think that kind of scare left a scar inside me.  In the back of my mind, I'm always terrified that my dad will fall ill again, that the cancer will come back or turn up in a different part of his body and he'll die in a hospital bed hooked up to tubes and wires.  That he'll turn skeletal and bald like his dead brother.  that he'll suffer and that I'll suffer seeing him like that.  And that fear has held me back from getting close to him.  I don't want to spend years building this beautiful relationship with my dad only for him to die on me so suddenly.  And so I don't get close to spare myself that potential pain.  And I feel bad about that.

It's kind of weird because I don't feel like I'm missing anything in my life, therefore I almost feel like nothing needs to change.  I see my dad fairly regularly and so he's in my life, he's just not involved in my life.  I'd imagine a lot of people would want to be closer with their loved ones but I'm not sure if I do want to be closer with my dad.  We can't relate to each other as we are on two totally different areas of the personality spectrum.  I don't agree with many of his philosophies, nor his small-mindedness on certain issues.  But there's no talking or compromise because he will always think he's got the world figured out and there's no fighting that.  He's already mentioned that he'd be willing to disown me if ever I turned out a certain way and so it's hard to bond with that knowledge tucked away in my head.  My dad has his own world figured out and I wonder how much I factor into it.  It feels like a case of not missing what you never had but I fear it will turn into not knowing what you have until it's gone.  I don't want to regret that I never had a better relationship with my dad but it's not like it's strained to begin with.  I don't dislike him but there's nothing special there.  I hate to say it because so many people grow up without a father and I am fortunate enough to have one but I don't cherish it.  And a part of the reason why is because I feel like he doesn't cherish it, either.  But nothing will change because things don't need to be.  I don't think I'll get anything more out of our relationship than I've already gotten and I guess I'm fine with that...or I will be eventually.  

And I feel that same kind of standstill with God, at least in the relationship department.  I feel my knowledge and understanding of God has been changing and growing throughout the years yet I can't seem to apply that knowledge and understanding to whatever it is that he and I have.  There are times when I want to give up and there are times when I want to persevere.  But nothing ever really seems to change.  It's hoping and wishing and no action.  It's the fear of rejection, of awkward silences, of breaking down walls and putting in effort.  It's wondering if the outcome is worth that effort.  It's all about relationships and how I can't make them work with friends, family or God the father.  It's about wanting to be loved by those considered to be closest to me.  And it's about not feeling like I am.  What good is the heart if you can't show it to me?  How do I know I have it when it's kept locked away in a box among the money and gifts?  It's nice to know you're loved.  It's nicer to be told.  It's the best when shown.  And that's something I think people have a lot of trouble with, especially my two dads.

blood relative

"Happiness is having a large, loving, caring close-knit family...in another city."

-George Burns

 
Family is something I've never thought too much about, never thought was important or an integral part of my life.  Family is, however, plays an important role in my life, probably more than I can realize or appreciate.  I've just taken them for granted like I have all the other luxuries in my life.  I think, "Who doesn't have a family?  That's like asking who doesn't have oxygen?" It just feels like something that's always been there and is just as much a part of my life as my skin covering my bones or the grass on the ground.  But a lot of people don't have a family and I can't necessarily wrap my mind around how that might be a negative thing for them.  And I guess that's because although I do have a family, none of us are that close or hold that relationship to a high degree and it almost feels like I don't have much of one, either.  I feel bad for saying that because I'm sure there isn't a legitimate comparison there.  Having a detached family is better than none at all.

Right?

I think a big factor in my family not being close is the fact that we've all kind of done our own thing.  My dad's grandmother had four boys and none of them finished high school.  Without an education, they took on menial jobs to support their new wives and screaming babies.  That includes my father.  And it seems my father's brothers didn't seem too bothered to tell their children to get an education because next to none of them did.  They were lucky to get out of high school but even that doesn't help you get very far in life anymore.  And with no way out, they all stuck around and knocked up others who stuck around.  And then came more screaming babies, which always made holiday get-togethers way more fun, and the cycle continued.  And I say this not to insult my family because even with an education, I'm not much better off than they are.  I only say it to mean that my goals differed from those of my aunts, uncles and cousins.  They focused on cigarettes and alcohol while I focused on getting through college.  They worried about how they were going to take care of their accidental offspring while I wondered how I would become an artist.  And those differences in focus left very little for commonality among us.  Therefore, we never had an opportunity to be that close.

I hear all the time about the importance of family, how family is all you have, how if you can't count on your family, you can't count on anyone.  And I wonder if that's why I can't count on anyone.  I wonder if that's why I can't form close connections with people.  Maybe family is set up to be your practice bond that you learn to form when you are younger.  And because I never managed to do that, maybe it negatively affected my social skills.  As much as family can be there for you to have a place to settle, to feel like you belong somewhere, they can also make you feel alienated.

There are people without families, and although it's probably not always an ideal situation, many of those individuals manage to do okay for themselves.  So, is family really that important after all?  What if friends take the place of family?  It seems any support system is beneficial, whether it be a relative or a really good friend.  And don't the terms "friend" and "family" become interchangeable after a while?  When it comes down to it, doesn't it seem more natural to think of your friends as your family, especially if you find yourself in a family that doesn't get you?  You share genetics with your family but how far does that take you?  When it comes down to it, it's only blood.  You are born into families and as you develop your own unique mind, you realize you might not click with the rest of your clan.  But you can choose your friends, find the people who share your interests and passions and that's how you can grow close.  They become your support, your therapy, your anchor.

But I don't have an anchor.  I'm not close with my family and I'm not really close with anyone.  Not anymore, anyway.  It's interesting because it feels like I'm missing something in each relationship I try to establish, whether it be with a relative or an acquaintance.  There's either that built-in closeness that comes with family, yet without the common interests.  Or I find people I have things in common with but can't ever seem to get close to them.  I wonder what keeps me from giving myself to others or allowing them to give themselves to me.  I seek it out yet can't seem to grasp it.

If family is so important, I wonder why it is that people have to find that family feeling outside of their blood.  It makes me wonder how families are put together.  Are our relatives randomly placed in to our lives or is there a plan in the parentage?  I look at the diversity of family and some days it feels like some are cut from the same cloth while others seem like a cut-and-paste collage.  How is it that dreamers are born into practicality?  How is it artists come from athletes, homosexuals from homophobes, atheists from the religious?  It turns out that some poor souls become the unfortunate result of the wheel of chance, made to begin their lives as outcasts.  It feels unfair to be placed in a family that will hinder a person's lifestyle.  Yes, friends can be supportive but it still hurts to feel like your family has turned their backs on you.  For example, my cousin came out as gay several years ago.  My mom told me that my father said he'd disown me if I ever came out as gay.  I wasn't gay so I was relieved I'd never have to go though that situation but I was also alarmed that he would feel that way.  It was annoying that he could be so small-minded for one and it hurt that he'd feel he could cut me out of his life so easily, especially over something I found so inconsequential.

I have to wonder if that small tidbit of information shaped the way I saw my father.  I wonder if it was one of the wedges placed between us, a slice of knowledge that kept me from pursuing a close relationship with him.  It makes sense.  Why should I try to get close, why should my love grow for him if he isn't willing to accept all of me, just love me as a son, respect me as a man, not just a lifestyle.  It seemed kind of a waste of energy.

I look at my parents and my sister and all my relatives and I realize I don't want to have children because I am terrified I'll end up passing my crazy along to my son or daughter.  Another part that scares me is the massive amount of bigotry and addiction in my family, something else I'm not too fired up about passing along to another generation.  Or what if I end up being like my parents?  What if I'm overly critical like my mother or emotionally absent like my father?  I wouldn't want to damage a child that way.  But, would I?  Who says I will end up being like them?  You hear of parents breaking the cycle of abuse all the time but is it really so easy to do?  Was my mother criticized as a child?  Did my dad have a good relationship with his dad?  Did they simply inherit their parents' bad habits?  Or did they consciously make a decision not to act the way their parents did but ended up doing it anyway?  What is controllable and what is unavoidable?

Is blood relative to behavior?  Are we our parents?  Are we handed down the bad as well as the good?  I have my mother's eyes and insecurities.  I have my father's hair and inability to show affection.  We not only inherit talent but temperament.  The question is what is fixable?  What can be changed and what will always remain?  Can you lose your ability to sing or your penchant for anger?  Are our characteristics so ingrained in us that we can never get rid of them or can we only suppress them, work on it daily or watch as it rises back up into our behavior?  What can be destroyed and what can be kept down?  Are we sentenced to a life of stoicism or mania?  Are we chained down by a certain set of characteristics or can we craft our own?  And if we can, how?

I look at my family tree and wonder what feeds it.  It's like it stands in a stagnant body of water, a pool where all the hereditary habits can be found, submerged and cycling, funneled into the tree, all the paranoia and madness and drug addiction coursing through the trunk and pumping through the pulp as it blooms, feeding the bark and branches the same tainted water that fueled the previous boughs, the ancient liquid that still lingers in the limbs, the roots swimming in insanity.  It's chlorophyll and cancer, heartwood and heartaches, sap and cigarettes.  Of course, every family tree could use some trimming but it still feels a little daunting to sit back and see the whole thing spread out in front of me.  Interestingly enough, it's also kind of reassuring.  Yes, I might be screwed up but every branch on the tree is a little gnarled, every leaf a little wilted.  It's not just me.  Maybe, baby, I was born this way and maybe I didn't solely contribute to my craziness.  I sprouted among the periwinkles and weeds and I can't help my placement in the dirt, so why should I worry?  Oh, yeah, because I can't help it.  My mom's a worrier, too.

It's genetic, after all.

mother may i?

"Oh mother dear
don't let them shoot my kite down..."
-Nick Heyward, Kite

It's taken me a while to write this post, partially because I couldn't think of too many examples to support my small rant, which we will jump into in a second.  Secondly, I could sense the backlash I'd probably unleash by being so trivial.  I wanted to continue to breakdown my family situation, which started with my last post, siblinguistics.  That one covered my sister, and I wanted to swing through the other branches of my family tree eventually covering my mom and dad.  But, as I started writing, I realized I really had no right to be complaining about these people.  My sister was a different story, as she never took care of me or tried to be involved in my life in any capacity.  My parents, however, took great care of me and any complaints I'd express would seem petty in comparison to the comfortable lifestyle I have.  Then, I realized that I am petty.  I complain.  It's what I do.  It's what I'm good at.  And just because I complain doesn't mean I don't realize how fortunate I am.  I can disagree with something without rejecting it, can appreciate something without accepting it.  I've spent too long feeling too guilty for the things I've felt and I can't do that anymore, something I've summed up as my paper cut philosophy, which I have covered extensively in this blog.  Yes, I'm privileged.  But privilege does not denote perfection.

Out of everyone in my family, I am probably closest with my mom.  But it doesn't mean that our relationship is that great.  While we are usually good overall, it's also often strained.  My mother is an extremely controlling, demanding woman.  She controls mine and my dad's money, food, and many times, our emotions.  When I was younger, I was never allowed to be too emotional.  If I ever laughed too much or was too hyper, like any kid is prone to do, I was reprimanded for acting childish.  If I was ever sad or upset about something, I was chastised for being weak.  There was never sympathy for any of the tough situations I found myself in.  Instead of a soothing word, my mother always countered my complaints with, "Why didn't you stand up for yourself?  Why did you take that from them?  Why didn't you do X, Y and Z to remedy the situation?"  Maybe because I was never reassured of my worth.  I was always picked apart rather than built up to be a confident.  And God forbid I ever got angry with my mother because it only made things worse.  I could never express any kind of hurt or sadness toward her because she made it seem like I was accusing her of being the worst mother in the world.  I never said that, nor thought that, but she tended to blow things out of proportion.  So, I learned to keep my feelings to myself.  It wasn't worth adding any more strife to the swirl of negative emotions that spun in my head.  And while it might not seem like that big of a deal, it definitely didn't help my emotional development, especially in the area of expression.  I learned to channel a lot of that negative energy through art, and eventually, writing.  But when it comes to people, I tend to either keep too much to myself or spill too much.

My mother is old school.  She's also small-minded and set in her ways.  It's hard being a progressive young man in such a repressive household.  She never liked the way I dressed.  She didn't like that I owned hair gel or had more than one pair of shoes.  She didn't like that I was more of an indoors person than outdoors.  She wanted me to ride a bike outside while I wanted to draw inside.  She didn't approve of my taste in clothing, music, friends, television and especially not my choice for college or career.

I needed to express myself, to get out of my redneck town.  I needed to be artistic, to create beauty and inspire and entertain.  My mother wanted me to draw blueprints for houses and company buildings.  I was not feeling that and never even considered it, much to my mother's disappointment.  No, I needed to break away, to do something bigger than I had ever done before, something more grand than myself, contribute art and culture and perhaps a message to the world.

But even a state away, my mother's reach managed to choke me.  She constantly asked if I had done my laundry, if I had finished my homework and went to bed at a decent hour.  She queried about the last time I vacuumed my room or took out the trash and if I had once washed a dish.  She didn't have to ask if I had purchased groceries because she had access to my bank account and made sure to tell me I was spending too much money.

I always had the impression that she thought I was immature and irresponsible.  Maybe I am to some degree but I am also responsible when I need to be.  I managed to make it through three years of college without starving or having the Center for Disease Control inspect my dorm room.  Oh, and I graduated Cum Laude.  I created a short film.  I was published in the college's literary journal.  And when I went back to work, I was put in charge of an entire department before being promoted to supervisor.  I don't have any illegitimate children running around, never been in trouble with the law and floss daily.  All in all, I think I'm a pretty damn good kid.  But my mother doesn't acknowledge those things.  She only chooses to criticize, nitpick and whittle away my accomplishments by pointing out inconsequential things I don't do to her satisfaction, such as the cleanliness of my room or the fact that I don't work enough hours at my job, which is out of my control anyway.

It seems silly for me to get upset over her acidic appraisal of my everyday life, but it all adds up, every judgment, every shake of her head or squint of her eyes.  It's the paper cut again.  It's that subtle chipping away at my self-esteem, an almost unconscious act of antagonizing me until I feel wrecked and unworthy.  It's the fact that she questions everything I do, wear, purchase.  It's the fact that she can't simple praise me for anything without throwing her own assessments into the mix.  It's the fact that she only sees my art as a money making business and not something I just enjoy.  It's the fact that she has never asked to read anything I've ever written.  It's because there's never been support of my decisions or my lifestyle, only reluctant acceptance.  And it feels like I've been living my life up against a wall, constantly pushing forward and feeling nothing but resistance.

But my mother is not a bad woman.  She is a hard worker, a good friend and a generous provider.  She has always paid for just about anything I've ever wanted, and will probably continue to do so as long as I have a need.  But being a monetary mama doesn't always ease the pain.  She took care of me how she knew to, in her own way, no matter how misguided she might have been.  But, isn't that all parents?  She did what she could with what she had and maybe by the time I came around, she was just tired.  She had already had eight hard years with my troublesome sister before I came along and since I wasn't necessarily planned, my parents probably just went with the wind when it came to raising me.  My mother soothed me with food instead of hugs, but she probably didn't know any better.  It worked and she stuck with it, never foreseeing the future damage she'd inflict.  She bought me coloring books and crayons and video games.  But she missed out on actually nurturing me and my talent, never went out of her way to make me feel special.  She often dismissed my drawings with an insincere "very good" before returning to her cooking.  But this was never intentional.  She was distracted, exhausted.  Once, when I was older, I confronted her with her incessant criticisms and she responded by saying she only said those things to help me, not to hurt me.  Obviously, she thought she was teaching me to be a better person but it backfired.  She was was unknowingly making me feel I was weak and unfit for independence.

It's always been a bit of a struggle to please my mother.  I often avoided situations that might have been fun or beneficial just so I wouldn't have to endure another disapproving look or icy silence.  I often asked her permission to do things in lieu of independent decision making.  It was always just easier to pacify her.  But I felt I was never able to grow up because I was confined by my mother's cold critiques.  How could I feel ready to step out into the world when she didn't think I could make up my own bed?  How could I grow up when my mom coddled me and then complained about it?  Hm, complaining.  I guess I got that from her, too.  I guess I have a lot in common with her.  Not only do we have the same hair, skin, teeth and eyes but the same mentality as well.  And it's slightly disconcerting as there are so many things about her I don't agree with.  And I realize the things I don't care about her are some of the same things I don't care about myself.  The impatience.  The quick temper.  The feeling of restless dissatisfaction.  What is it they say, you can't love anyone until you love yourself?  I suppose the same goes for acceptance.  My mother is not just a mom, but a person.  A human.  Fallible.  Loving.  Tired.  She is just another person, not a miracle mother, but no one's mother is.  And I have to accept that.

I'm sure parenting is harder than I could ever imagine and children, and people in general, no matter the age, are so susceptible to insecurity that the slightest word or action or inaction could create chaos within one's self, could screw someone up for life.  My mom wasn't highly educated, isn't incredibly worldly and doesn't have a great grasp of sensitivity.  And it's not really her fault.  Like I said, she's not a bad woman.  We do have our good times.  We laugh and when something excites me, I still want to tell her about it.  As much as I feel I missed out on integral part of growing up, becoming an adult, becoming well adjusted, I can't put all the blame on my mother and even if she was partly responsible, I should be old enough now to be able to change things, to at least make an effort to undo some of the damage.  And realize that she will never stop reviewing my life, lining up my accomplishments and blasting them away with her own input.  That's just something I have to not take so seriously, not have to internalize the way I do.  And as much as she might point out my shortcomings, as you can see, I point out hers as well.  I'm no better, really.  I am my mother's son. 

siblinguistics

"Brothers and sisters are as close as hands and feet."

-Vietnamese Proverb

After being screwed over by my sister several months ago, I had a lot of bitterness toward her.  It kind of disgusted me how she didn't want her own brother in her home.  I wasn't asking to live there, just to stay for a while so I could try to find a decent job that would allow me to move out of our parents' home so I could start my own life.  I suppose I was asking too much, however, because she acted like I was the biggest inconvenience the whole time I was there.

I tried to stay out of her way but when we found ourselves in the same area together, she interrogated me over my daily doings, asking me how many applications I sent in, inquiring as to how many resumes I printed out, how many newspapers I bought or how many malls I visited to ask if they were hiring.  Plus, she felt the need to push jobs on me that I had no interest in.  Here she was, working a job she hated, and thought it was necessary to make me do the same.  That's one characteristic she inherited from Mom.  As if her pestering me wasn't bad enough, I was driving to an interview one day when Mom called and told me my sister didn't even want me to come to her house.  Mom got the call from my sister just as I was pulling out of my driveway to go see her.  Mom said she started to call me and tell me to turn around.  I wish she would have.  It would have saved me some anguish.

I've never been close with my sister.  I believe it has something to do with our large age gap and the fact that she's probably a bigger cynic than I am, if you can believe that.  But I can't seem to shake this latest incident, can't seem to wrap my feeble mind around her complete lack of sympathy for my situation.  It's not like I was asking to move in.  It's not like I was planning on eating all of her groceries or throwing my dirty underwear on the living room floor.  I was just needing a place to stay for a maximum of two weeks until I could find a job and an apartment.  It wasn't too much to ask, at least I thought.  But, for my sister, I might as well have asked her to walk a tightrope over piranha infested waters.  It was insulting and hurtful because I'm family and I always hoped, despite us not being close, that she would help me out when I was in need.  Sure, she did, but she did so reluctantly and then treated me like a cockroach that came out at night to nibble on the dirty dishes left in the sink.  

When I was little, I adored my sister.  Perhaps that's where some of her annoyance with me came from.  Sure, I can understand having some little rugrat clinging onto your leg might grate on a gal's nerves after a while, but I wonder if she ever wondered why I was under her so much.  Did she ever realize how cool I thought she was, how I was proud that she was my sister, how I thought she was the neatest thing since Crayola?  As I grew older, I hoped that my burgeoning maturity would somehow soften her revulsion of me.  I hoped that as I became an adult, we could be more adult toward each other, see each other as somewhat equals, instead of a idealized big sister and a nerdy little brother.  Besides, she introduced me to art and horror movies when I was little, two things I still crave to this day.  I hoped we'd make a connection over those things.  I suppose we did, for a few Christmases.  But that connection wasn't strong enough to maintain through multiple holidays.  Even as I started to understand who I was as a person, as I began exploring myself and why I was who I was, as I stopped caring about being the cool guy for everyone else, I still felt vulnerable around her, inadequate.  I still saw myself as that clueless little boy who clung to his sister.  I think she still saw me that way, too.

I never knew how to talk to my sister because I never really knew who she was.  She moved out soon after I hit my teenage years, when I started becoming aware of myself and my surroundings.  I never got to know her past the sisterly image I had constructed in my small, impressionable mind.  She never got to know me past my little boy annoyance.  And when we'd see each other again for the holidays, it was always awkward.  We couldn't carry a conversation past book or movie recommendations and her horror stories about work.  It's not that I didn't try but it always felt forced when I asked her questions, like it was more of an interview than a relationship.

I love my sister because she's family, but I don't really like her.  She has a terrible attitude and doesn't give anything potentially good a chance.  She's cold to those around her, even her husband.  And after the way she treated me, I'm just kind of over her.  She came over the other day to take care of some business in town and stayed here overnight.  I hadn't seen her since Easter and I was okay with that.  While she was over, I stayed in my room the entire time, not going out of my way to ignore her but I didn't make any effort to socialize.  Mom pointed that out to me after my sister left.

"You acted like you had nothing to do with her," Mom said.

"Well, I didn't mean to."

"You just stayed in your room the whole time."

"I always stay in my room."

"Well, you could have came out and visited."

"Sorry."

"You still mad at her?"

And that was where I became annoyed with my mom.  It felt she was more angry at me for being angry at my sister for being mean to me.  But what about my parents being angry at my sister for being mean to me?  I brought that up and Mom just shrugged it off.

"Oh," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.  "We were angry and we told her, me and your dad."

Okay, so is that supposed to make me feel better?  You two can be angry and I can't?

"You just need to let it go and move on," Mom said.

But I can't and I won't because it wasn't just some excusably tough time in her life that I happened to step into.  It symbolized how she's always treated me, how she's always seen me as bothersome.  It goes beyond that one incident.  It exemplified our entire relationship and after that, I was done.  My sister and I have never been that close and I am sure we never will be.  And while I get jealous of other strong sibling relationships, I don't feel too bad about the nearly  nonexistent one I have with my sister.  It's really her choice to be the way she is and there's nothing I can do about it.  As much as this might sound terrible to say, I don't consider it that big of a loss.

How do you talk to a sibling?  I understand the parent child relationship, I suppose.  Parents are in charge, to be respected but there's also that small window of mutual friendship that can form as the child grows, matures and becomes a relatable adult.  But when it comes to an older or younger brother or sister, where does each sibling stand?  Are they equal because they are both children of two people who are older?  Or should the older sibling be treated with the same amount of respect and obedience that would be given to a parent?  And as the older sibling, how do you treat your younger brother or sister?  Do you always look down on them as the baby, as the one who took Mommy and Daddy's attention away from you?  Or do you realize that they grow up just like you did, that they are people, too, that they are not the whiny little brats you remember from your own childhood?  Can there be more than a brother sister relationship?  Can there be friendship?  I think so, as long as both are willing.  I just don't think my sister is.  She'll always look down on me just as much as I always looked up to her.  She'll always see me as nothing more than her baby brother, a snot-nosed nuisance. 

And I'll always see her as my big sister, a stranger.  A bitch with my blood.

Dressing the Dead

"Will you help me?" the lady asked.

"Sure," I said as I walked over to her.

"I don't guess you carry any of these socks in a single pair?"

"No ma'am," I responded.

"Oh, okay.  I guess I'll just get these and give the other two pair away.  I'm ready, now."

The lady put a couple of packages of underclothes on the counter, along with a pair of socks, jeans, a belt and a button-up blue shirt.  As I was scanning her merchandise, she asked me if I'd separate the briefs, undershirt and socks and put them in a separate bag.  As I started to do so, she stopped me and said she only needed one item from each package.  That was a bit of a strange request and I guess she recognized my slight confusion on my face, most likely due to my uncontrollable eyebrows.

"I only need one shirt, one pair of socks and one pair of underwear.  They're for my son.  I'm burying him in these."

"Oh, no, I'm sorry to hear that," I said softly.  She looked at me through her oval glasses and nodded, a slight smile on her face to show recognition of my condolence.

"I don't even know what size he was.  I just hope this works.  If not, I guess the people at the funeral home can make it work." 

She was an older lady, the skin along her jaw slacked and the usual lines and wrinkles that come with age were present on her face.  Her hair was salt and pepper, the gray wiry and coarse compared to the otherwise smooth texture that was pulled back into a loose bun.

"He would have been fifty in three weeks," she added.  I just shook my head and gave her a look of sympathy.  What else could I say?  There's nothing I could have said, especially not knowing the circumstances and not knowing her well enough to offer any kind of comfort without stepping over some boundary of intimacy between two strangers.  There are things you just don't blurt out to someone you don't know, some things you keep to yourself and some details you don't dare attempt to extract from people you don't know. 

I felt bad for this lady, having to bury her son, something a parent shouldn't have to do, no matter how old they or the child gets.  Even at her age, I could see the grief resting in her features.  I was surprised at how it surprised me, as if the older you get, the less you care.  I've heard it a million times that your children will always be your babies no matter how old they get and this lady showed me the truth in that by the way she leaned on the counter and clutched her chest.  I was half-worried that she might pass out or have a heart attack right there in front of me but she kept herself together pretty well.

I took out a second bag and took out one shirt from the package of shirts, one pair of underwear from the package of underwear and one pair of socks from the package of three.  I then put them in one bag and the remains in another.  She then asked me to place the shirt, belt and jeans in the bag with the single pair of underclothes.  As I was doing so, she said, "He was never a the 'suit-and-tie-type.'"  I prepared a dead man's final wardrobe, touched the underwear that would go around his dead waist, touched the shirt that would go around his dead torso, touched the socks that would go around his dead feet.  It was almost creepy but just mostly sad.  This was going to be the last thing he'd ever wear and I was seeing and touching it.  And it felt like I was taking some small part in sending him off, however odd that might sound.  After the transaction was over, the lady left with her two bags, one filled with her dead son's clothes and another with the remaining items that she would have to find something to do with at some point.  That would probably come much later, after the dressing, after the funeral, after the tears.

I'd say at least about once every week or two I'll have a man or group of men or a man and his sons come in looking for a suit to wear to a funeral.  It's always a stressful situation for me because the customers are usually a little on edge over the shock and sadness of someone close to them dying, which makes my anxiety skyrocket because I don't know if we are ever going to have what they need.  Because we are one of the only places locally that sells suits, and a limited selection at that, we are kind of the last resort, so when we don't have what they are looking for, it only causes their heated emotions to boil over.

I still remember an incident from six years ago when I first worked at the retail store.  A man came in looking for a suit and shirt and tie and he absolutely freaked out on me for some reason that I can't remember now.  The details have slipped away over time but some things I still recall, like his scraggly beard and polyester striped golf shirt.  I remember him ruining my night as well.  He actually came in the next day and apologized, explaining that he had lost his father and was grief-stricken.  I thought it was pretty decent of him to come back and do that and it made me feel a bit better.  Fortunately, I haven't had any more situations like that and so far, everyone's been able to get by with something without blowing up at me.

It's kind of funny how you just can't skirt around death.  It's everywhere and as soon as you try to go out of your way to avoid it, it comes back and makes itself known to you all over again.  You can't even get a reprieve in a retail clothing store. It comes in the form of formal attire with black slacks and saline in the eyes.  And it reminds me of my own expiration, how I'm dead to so many things these days.  I thought I had come to terms with it and tried to move forward, had almost forgotten about it entirely but now I'm brought back to bereavement. 

Is it possible to shake death?  Will I ever feel alive or should I just succumb to the swelling black hole in my heart?  What will my mother bury me in when this body full of bugs and bitterness finally gives out?  And will I even care?  Considering where I might end up, it might be the biggest of my worries, or by far the least...

Residuary

In my last entry, I mentioned the fact that expression wasn’t allowed in my home and I want to elaborate on that. I think I’ve discussed it here before but I obviously need to reiterate it for my own peace of mind.

My mother felt like she was the only one who could show emotion. If I was a bit silly, she would call me out on it and say I was being childish. If I was sad, she’d coldly tell me to grow up. If I got angry with her, she’d get angry with me.  That just made me feel worse until I found myself apologizing to her instead of her apologizing to me, which is the way it should have been.  Eventually, I just learned to keep everything inside because to express myself meant facing ridicule from my mother.  And maybe that's why I'm so open now.  Maybe that's why I might over share in some situations.  Maybe it's my way of making up for all the times when I couldn't be silly, and even worse, when I couldn't be mad or sad.  I realized that you can't keep yourself bottled up in your body.  Yet, I'll admit that maybe I take that epiphany a little too far sometimes.

When I discovered writing, I discovered a way to let out all those emotions that had no where to go.  I was finally able to be silly or creative or mad without the fear of anyone putting me down for just being.  Over time, the writing transferred over to people.  It's not something I mean to do but one thing leads to another and suddenly I find myself laying out too much too soon and I have to start backing off.

And how about this for a leap:  this is also why I wanted my former roommate, Keith, to be such good friends with me (I know, when am I gonna stop talking about this guy??).  He was one of the first people I knew outside of my family and my small town bubble and I hoped that he'd be the one I could finally open up to.  I saw him as a potential mentor, someone older and wiser who would help me develop into a mature adult.  Of course, when I did open up to him, it blew up in my face.  He basically had the same reaction as my mother always did.  He was cold and uncaring.  Dead end with him.  I realized, despite my limited experience at life, I was actually the more mature one.  The disappointment with his attitude was all the more crushing when he not only didn't become my mentor, but became my menace.  So, then I went to that lame counselor who told me everything was all my fault so I had to stop going to him because he made me feel worse.  And then I had no one.

Sure, it's pretty sad that I don't really have anyone to talk to.  And sure, there are a lot of people who offer their ears but I doubt many of them truly mean it.  People always extend that offer but rarely ever follow up on it.  Plus, everyone else is so bogged down with their own problems that it would seem unlikely that they'd take on someone else's baggage.  My dad is made of brick and isn't easily approachable and my sister doesn't care about anyone but herself so I'm pretty much left to myself and my blog.

You could say my over sharing might be an inadvertent cry for help or a natural response to repressed emotions.  And I would probably agree with you.  Then again, I guess it goes back to whether or not sharing yourself with people is good or bad.  It depends on the person and how much you share and how soon.  Just because because I have a natural inclination toward sharing myself doesn't necessarily mean it's a bad thing.  I just happen to share with people.  I don't think that's the trouble.  I suppose the true trouble comes from choosing the wrong kind of people to share information with or maybe coming on too strong with certain tidbits.  And that's something I'll have to work on over time.  And that just comes from interacting with people and maturing as a social person. 

Ha, yeah, like that will happen.

Barreling

There comes a point when something happens that heightens awareness indefinitely.  Senses are sharpened.  There’s only cautious rest but no complete comfort.  In a heartbeat, you are a blood pump away from a phone call that can rip away at insides and silence smoky rooms.  Concern is undulating but never ceases.   Tension thickens the air.  Attempts at humor are hard-pressed and smiles are uneasy.

Inevitability comes upon you like the speed of a train.  Slow in the distance in one moment and barreling over you in the next.

The hardest part isn’t collecting the pieces of yourself once it has passed.  The hardest part is seeing what it has done to everyone else, the lasting effects of leaving loved ones behind.

Settlement

Every time I come back from an extended period away, my mother has this obnoxious idea to redo my room.  She rearranges my dresser, puts things in the wrong place or packs up stuff in storage that shouldn't have been put away.  Last night, I spent an hour looking for my Xbox controller so I could watch my Netflix.  You know, when you come home, you expect to find comfort in the familiarity, to reacquaint yourself with that long-held fellowship with the furniture but not for me.  It's like I'm not coming home at all.  That comfort that should be there is absent. 

I cried off and on for the three hour trip back home.

I have a pretty embarrassing habit of talking to myself all day every day.  And when I take long car rides by myself, I talk to myself the entire time.  Either that or I sing with so much passion that the lump in my throat starts hurting.  Long car rides are when I do some good thinking and figuring out of things.  Not this time.  With everything swirling in my head, I just stayed silent.  What's the point of speaking when nothing goes right?  Why continue to plan out loud when all plans do are shatter? 

So, I just wept through three major cities.

I mean, it's not easy to find a job in a week.  I would have stayed longer but, you know, my sister is a prick-a-dillo.  I'm just going to "hope" that one of the jobs call some time this week, at which time I will travel back to my sister's place of residence for an interview.  From there, I might or might not stick around to find out if I got the job.  I suppose I'll just have to take it as it comes.

I've realized that this house is not my own anymore.  I don't like it here.  I hate to say that because I have no reason to be unhappy with my living situation but my folks really make me want to commit parenticide.  As soon as I got home, Mom started in on the nagging.  I know they say that moms do that but she has perfected the art of pestering.  And with the stress and frustration and disappointment of my sister and no luck with the job and realizing I was starting back at square one, I was already fragile and I didn't need her going on about how dirty my room was or how much money I spent in the city.  I think it's a combination of me staying here too long and Mom's ever increasing badgering that makes me want to explode at the sight of her.  I think most young adults can handle their parents as they grow up because they move out and only have to deal with them in small doses.  As for me, it's a daily struggle not to enjoy a bottle of Tylenol PM.

And Shannon's house is obviously no place for me.  So, where do I belong?  Where is home?

I'm afraid home is nowhere.

It's so weird transitioning from one way of being to another.  Being at my sister's place for only a week caused me to become accustomed to that way of living.  Coming back home was jarring.  It'll take a while to get back into a routine of regularly writing and reading again.  I'm already behind on my goal of reading two books a month.  I'm too distracted to get into anything other than my own life.  But isn't that the beauty of reading, to escape your life for a few pages?

And speaking of books, I haven't even hammered through a fraction of my college memoir and I already have several more planned.  I want to compile essays I've written from 2004 up until now and put those in a book, as well as write a book about my weight struggles and if I can ever find any resolution to my death, writing a book about my post-college cadaver status might be interesting.  I'd also like to write a book of poetry and an anthology of zombie stories.  At this rate, all of these books will be finished by 2050.  I'm just putting that out there so you can start saving up.  I think that's a fair enough notice.  Skip the Starbucks and purchase a piece of Brannon.  He keeps you regular, after all. 

He's way better for you than caffeine.

From Afar

I'm going to have to restrain myself.

If I start typing too much and too fast, this will end up way too long and because I'm hanging out in McDonald's using their WiFi like a loser, I'll try to be as brief as possible.  I feel like people are staring at me.  Since my sister doesn't have wireless so I've been going around to the local McDonald's to check my Facebook and such.  I haven't been going in because I wasn't sure if they had outlets you could use because my computer's battery doesn't last longer than fifteen minutes, even after a full charge.  So, like a dork, I've been sitting in my car using their wifi until my fifteen minutes were up.  Today, I was brave and went and and saw that they had outlets so now, here I am, enjoying my Internet for longer than fifteen minutes.  I just wonder how long is appropriate.  I bought some fries and a sweet tea so it's not like I just crashed the joint and am using their stuff without buying something first.  Well, it's AT&T who's providing the service anyway so I don't see why they should even care.  Gosh, those fries were good.

Basically, my sister is a Cuntasaurous Rex and never wanted me to come.  She's been acting like I'm this rodent that's invaded her house.  She told Mom that I shouldn't come thirty minutes after I left to visit her.  She explained to Mom that it was a bad time yet couldn't provide a legitimate excuse as to why it was a bad time.  She's just hateful, that's all it is.  We've never been that close because of our age gap but I've never done anything to her to make her treat me this way.  In fact, up until about a year or so ago, I looked up to her big time.  She was my big sister and I always admired how "cool" I thought she was.  She's the reason why I got into art.  Then, I started realizing that she was kind of a cold, negative person based on the way she complained about everything. But, I do too so I didn't think much of it.  And then this incident happened and now I'm pretty much done with her.  I know, I know.  That's terrible, Brannon.  Eh, I don't care.  I'm a terrible person so it works out.  Really, it won't be a big loss because we've never been that close and she's never tried to get to know me as a friend or at least given me any respect as an adult.  She's always seen me as a pest and I'm tired of trying to impress her and make her like me.  And now I just don't like her.

The job hunt isn't going great.  I had one interview out of fifteen-twenty applications.  Obviously, it'll take a while before anyone calls back.  Usually about a week or so.  Yet, each day that goes by and no one calls is another day closer to defeat.  I really hope I get that job.  It pays decently and depending on what shift I get, I might even be able to do some reading or writing while at work to pass the time!  I hear about people with those kinds of jobs all the time and I get really jealous.  So, to be able to have one of those kinds of jobs would be pretty awesome.  Out of all the jobs I've applied for, dream jobs, plausible jobs and downright terrible jobs, this one is a plausible one and one I actually wouldn't mind working so I'm hoping this will work out for me and not turn into yet another disaster.

All I do all day is go from place to place, inquiring as to whether they are hiring, taking applications, filling out applications, handing in applications, applying online and generally freaking out.  And what if I do get a job?  I can't just get an apartment immediately.  But I don't know if Shannon will be able to stand me staying there any longer until I can find a place.  I suppose I'll just sleep in my car or rent a hotel?  I'm obviously exaggerating but probably not by much.  The only reason Shannon would let me stay is so Mom will get off her back but little does she know she's already on Mom's bad side.

I was talking to an acquaintance yesterday and he's in a similar situation that I'm in.  He moved here a month or so back and didn't have a job or a place to stay.  A friend of his gladly let him stay at his apartment until he could get a job and a place.  He's got a job and now he's looking for an apartment and his friend doesn't mind at all.  Yet, my sister, my own blood, doesn't want me at her place.  Pretty messed up.  The acquaintance said he'd let me stay with him if he had a place.  As we were talking, he said he'd even give me his kidney and I was fairly certain he was somewhat serious.  And my sister doesn't even want me anywhere near her kidneys.  I have my own room on the other side of hers and my own bathroom.  I've been eating out every day so as not to use her food or dirty her dishes.  I've been trying all that I can to not be in the way, including the aforementioned being out all day applying for jobs and hijacking McWiFi.

I HAVE THE BEST FAMILY IN THE WORLD.

So, that's pretty much what's been going on.  I'm hoping to hear something from that job by tomorrow and if that doesn't work out, I'm hoping to hear something from one of the other several jobs I applied for.  I'd hate to know that not only does my sister not want me around but no other job does either.  It's kind of sad.

My swet tea is kicking in.  I'd better unload and then get out of here before the Hispanic employees throw me out of here in their native dialect.

Hasta mañana, beyatch.

Strangle me with the Christmas Cord

"that's me in the corner
that's me in the spotlight
losing my religion..."
-R.E.M.

Needless to say, Christmas sucked.  I spent it with hundreds of toothless rednecks who got drunk and blew their cigarette smoke in my face.  No, I actually wasn't with family, although that description isn't much of a stretch from the usual Jackson get-togethers.  I was working.  And it was crazy busy.  On Christmas Eve, the place was virtually dead but everyone came out to celebrate our savior's birth by drinking and gambling.  Ah, it warms my stagnant heart.

I'm not really a big fan of my extended family so I wasn't too terribly upset about missing Christmas with them this year.  I was a bit more upset about missing Christmas Eve, which is when my immediate family get together.  It's the one I enjoy the most.  And I missed it because I had to work.  But, like I said, it wouldn't be that big of a deal for me...if I liked my job.  I still hate it and things haven't gotten any better.  Throw away empty beer bottles.  Scrape ashtrays.  Wipe away fingerprints.  Scrub away the stickiness from spilled drinks on the machines.  Push up the chairs that people do not bother to put back in place.  Cry on the inside.  Rinse and repeat for eight hours.

I have never been this depressed on Christmas.  And just maybe I've never been this empty in general.  This is the day I was supposed to celebrate the birth of our lord and savior and yet He was the farthest thing from my mind, a common occurrence lately.  I'm depressed and then this whole God situation makes me even more depressed.  I don't know where to turn.

And to top it off, I found out the next day that my aunt died on Christmas.  Good timing, eh?  Celebrating the birth of one and mourning the loss of another.  As if the day wasn't emotionally exhaustive enough.  Don't feel bad, though.  Like most of my family, I wasn't that close to her, at least not in the later years.  She was a chain smoking drunk who caused a lot of problems for my grandmother, which caused Mom a lot of grief as well.  But, really, how many dead family members does this make now?  2009 has been a year full of celebrity and relative deaths.  It's pretty tiresome.

To me, it seems the older people get, the more disastrous major holidays like Christmas become.  I think one part of it is the fact that all that magic dissipates with age.  The myth of Santa is broken and then you get too old for toys and eventually your parents make your car payment for you or chip in with your rent money and that's your gift.  While necessary, it's not as fun as a Wii.  Then, the drama sets in.  With age comes insight and you start seeing your family for who they are and they are definitely imperfect.  Conflicts arise and family bonds are strained.  Then, one by one they start dying and those bonds are cut and everything starts to feel sore.  You have to work on Christmas or you find yourself alone and drinking.  You don't want your photo taken by the tree because you're too fat or your acne has flared up again.  You freak out about buying things for other people because you want to both please and impress.  It becomes less about God and more about gifts.  It's more stressful than satisfying.  The mask of magic is cracked by reality and it's all just so disenchanting.

It doesn't even feel like Christmas happened.  I've been so caught up in a swirl of working and sleeping that I've lost all track of time, space and reality.  And maybe it's for the best.  It's not like I would have enjoyed myself.  I have nothing in common with my family.  I certainly have nothing in common with the patrons at the bingo pavilion.  At least with the holidays out of the way, things can return to the normal numbness.  If I can just make it past New Year's, I can leave behind the year that was the death of my faith, family and me.

Black Friday? More Like Whack Friday!

No Phase 2 Friday article today.  Besides the special radio show, everyone had the week off.  Although I'm the new kid sitting at the lunch table, everyone at the site has been working hard on it for months now so they all took a well deserved break and I just happen to benefit from it!  I could write all day every day if I was allowed but it's all good.

With that being said, I debated long and hard on whether I should do a special "Thanksgiving" post.  I finally decided against it for several reasons.  First of all, I felt kind of icky about doing something that everyone else was doing.  It almost cheapens it, knowing that I'm just kind of following everyone else's lead and throwing in my thanks that will just get lost in the millions of other thanks that will be coming out at the same moment.  Now, let me say that I have nothing wrong with other people doing it.  Your thanks are made no less significant than anyone else's.  I'm not trying to act superior and say that I don't want to belong to "that crowd" or anything like that.  Just remember that I'm a basket case and my reasoning behind anything that I do or do not do is always gonna be jacked up.  It's hard to explain.

Secondly, I think I've adequately described my gratitude and expressed my good fortune over the past several posts of mine.  I'd just be going over already marked territory.  I hate to be cliche but shouldn't we give thanks every day?  But, hey, it's cool that people at least take one day out to be reminded of how good they have it, or at least to acknowledge that they have it better than a lot of other people.  I feel, for me, I'm reminded quite often of how fortunate and blessed I am.  Especially with my bad attitude.  I can't seem to be too bitter for too long because I always end up feeling guilty.  How can I be upset about having a crappy job when some people have no job at all?  How can I gripe about running out of food when some people have no food to run out of?  Yeah, I've covered this before.  And I will cover it again.  Just not today.

And lastly, I think I was at my least appreciative yesterday than I usually am on any other given day.  Thanksgiving has become a shadow of itself over the past several years and it just seems to keep getting worse.  I have to wonder if this is because I am older and my perceptions have changed or if maybe the people themselves have changed.  I guess it's a mixture of both.  Thanksgiving used to be this huge gathering at my grandmother's house.  She'd prepare a gigantic feast and by noon, almost our entire Jackson clan would be there to sit at the table, enjoy the food and each other's company.  It used to be a big deal.  But, as the years went by, people branched out and made their own families or had to work on Thanksgiving and the numbers dwindled.  People lost respect for the noon start time and started coming in around one or two or three in the afternoon, after all the food had already been covered in foil.  No one stayed for too long, just enough time to throw back some turkey and chug some beers before leaving to go pass out.  This year was the worst.  My grandmother has four sons and so you think about those four sons and their wives and their children.  That's a respectable number of people.  Well, only one of my grandmother's sons and family showed up this year and that was my dad and us.  My cousin Kristie and her children were also there.  Some random family member would stagger in here or there but we were mostly it.

It seems like our family is unraveling.  I honestly don't know most of the people that pass through my grandmother's house.  And they probably don't know much about me, either.  Everyone is popping kids out like crazy and I never see these kids so they grow up and they always look three years older although only one year has passed.  And you know how kids can be shy around strangers.  Well, that's how they act around me and my sister 'cause we are essentially strangers to them.  It's weird to have your own family cower away from you.  And it seems every year, there's more people but less teeth.  And I don't mean more people that show up.  That number always goes down.  I mean the number of new people that pass through is so much so that I can't keep track.  People bring their boyfriends or girlfriends or baby mamas or babies or mamas and then you never see them again.  Everyone is a stranger to me as well and that makes me cower.

If it weren't for my grandmother, I wouldn't even want to show up myself.  Everyone is disconnected and frankly, I don't even want to see these people in the first place.  We have nothing in common.  They are all straight up rednecks who like to spit and cuss and not brush their hair or teeth.  I can't get down with that.

Thanks for bringing down Thanksgiving for everyone, Brandork.

You're welcome.

So, of course, it's Black Friday and that means mass hysteria.  I can hear gunshots from my window as I'm typing this.  I always like to share this lovely little video on this day, to both amuse and educate the public.

Now, I think this is hilarious.  When I discovered this video about a year or two ago, I watched it repeatedly and had a good, hardy chuckle and the wig lady's expense.  I recently learned that the lady with the runaway hair was probably pregnant, which makes it slightly less hilarious but still pretty darn funny.  That might seem cruel but really, she should have known better.  When you go shopping on Black Friday, you gotta expect you're gonna bleed at some point during the day.  Also, I don't feel that bad.  She must not have been too hurt 'cause she was able to snatch that wig up right quick and situate it back on her big ol' head.  Suck it up, lady!  Better put that weave in your purse and keep going before those flat screen televisions disappear!  Plus, you don't know what was going on before that footage starting rolling.  Titch probably shanked two or three people in the parking lot just to get a good spot.

But, really, that video is just more evidence of how dumb and materialistic Americans are.  How obsessed are we over getting a good deal that we have to push and shove people to the ground just to get that Xbox?  Are we really willing to assault someone in front of us just to get to the Miley Cyrus dolls?  Come on, people!  Get it together.  It's not worth putting another human's safety at risk.  Well, Transformers are but that's besides the point!  Basically, we suck and this video confirms it.

And if that didn't tickle your funny bone, this should!  Paula Deen being hit in the face with a giant frozen ham.  Finally, the hogs have their revenge.

Don't worry, kids.  Paula's taken large pieces of meat to the face before.  She's used to it.