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do no wrong

My father can never admit that he is wrong nor can he apologize. And I can’t help but hate him.

—

We had an argument this morning. I had got up early to pack for work and he was going to give me a ride.

Him: “We need to go!”

Me: “You said we were leaving at 7. (It was 6:30)”

Him: “I am going to be late!”

Me: “Then why did you tell me 7? You should have told me 6:30.”

Him: “NO! YOU HAVE TO THINK OF ME.”

I’ve learned that such an argument was not one that I could win. His mode of thinking seems to be stuck somewhere in a place of primitive selfishness. I just grabbed what I could and got in the back of the car. As he drove, we sat in silence. I was extremely conflicted. I always avoided arguing if I could but I knew that in being rushed out, I had left some essential things at home so I was stewing in anger. I couldn’t sit quietly in the back of the car like that. To be silent was to concede. To concede was to allow him to think that he could do this to me again.

Me:  “Next time you want me to leave at 6:30, you say 6:30. Not 7.”

Him: “I said before 7.”

Me: “No, you said 7. I asked you if we would be arriving at 7 or leaving at 7. You said leaving.”

He paused too long before responding. He had given away that he knew he was wrong. We had discussed this less than seven hours ago. But like always, he started to divert the blame. He told me that I should have woken up earlier to pack and that I should have told him much earlier in the week that I needed a ride. It was my fault. I suffer at my own hands.

I just told him as I had always seen it.

Me: “You’re never wrong. It’s always my fault. You can’t admit you’re wrong.”

His response was that I was disrespecting him. It was his default every time I pointed out this critical flaw. He started to list to me all my supposed failings, anything to move the focus off his own. I don’t know how to appreciate my father. I don’t speak to him nicely. That I don’t deserve to be driven at all. I didn’t acknowledge any of these claims. I just let him know one more time before I shut up for the rest of the ride:

“You can never admit you’re wrong.”

For my parents, having children was a pragmatic decision. Who is going to take care of you when you’re old and crippled? How will you reap the pride from achievements of kin unborn? Forget about anything else. Whether or not they were conscious of their approach, that’s how they treated us and we took the toll.

I was socially inept and unaware of myself for a long period of my life. I completely understand why I was bullied and why I didn’t have friends until my early twenties. It took me a long time to learn simple things like understanding social cues, how to speak to people and how to carry myself. I blame it on the way in which I was brought up and ultimately on my parents. I’m sure that a lot of people can relate with this: all the interactions that my parents had with me were all for maintenance. Eat this. Stop that. Why aren’t you the best in class? They didn’t speak to me outside of teaching me, berating me, and telling me what to do. In other words, we didn’t have conversations. My parents had no interest in knowing who I was as a person. They didn’t know what my interests were or what my days were like and I grew up thinking it was normal, not ever talking to people about those kind of things. My siblings, even. I spent a lot of my childhood around my brother. We had to share a lot of things together like the TV, the Playstation, the bunk. But we never discussed anything because, like conversing with our parents, that very notion was unknown to us, or just me at least.

To this day, I have never had a conversation with my dad. But to be honest, I don’t have any interest in having one. His vacant and listless life requires no discussion but what more is that I do not like him as a father or as a person. We are persistently reminded by proverbs like “blood is thicker than water”, that family relationships are more important than friendships and that familial love is unconditional love. But why? And is this right?

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Sequela

Been having many nightmares lately, the most in succession ever.

I

A knock on the hotel room door. It’s you. You’re holding flowers and you look happy and hopeful. (How did you find me?) I just catch sight of your bespectacled profile walking away, behind you. There are two of you. (What’s going on?) You asked me if I would come back. Your English was sometimes a little odd. You were asking me for friendship and forgiveness, no doubt. But I couldn’t speak to you. I was distraught and horrified and thought I’d never have to see you again. Tears welled up and poured down my face and I spoke to myself, “I can’t do this”. I say it over and over again. Louder and more frantic each time until I was sobbing. I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I was losing control over myself. I collapsed onto my knees, and put my head behind my arms as if I could hide from you. M came to the door. He looks down at me and back at you. He didn’t understand what was going on. He doesn’t recognize you.

II

I don’t remember much of the details but I’m in Greece. Santorini, probably. An endless ocean and some scattered islets. I’m not sure who I’m with but it’s someone that I really care about. Everything was beautiful but then hurricanes suddenly swept through the scene. We’re in danger. I’m afraid it’s the end of us. Game over.

//

Apparently hurricanes in the Mediterranean do happen but they are extremely rare. They are typically called “Medicanes”, a portmanteau between “Mediterranean” and “Hurricane” and only about a hundred of them have been recorded since 1948.

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twisting insides

I had a pretty terrifying nightmare last night. I dreamed that there was a hole in my belly button and my intestines were exposed and gushing out. I could run my hands over, feeling them. It didn’t hurt. But I was deeply concerned with all my insides falling out. If I ‘pushed’, I could feel my guts moving about but if did it too hard, a bit of my intestine would pop out and I’d have to pop it back in. I was walking about with my hand over this hole of twisting guts, trying to get to a hospital. I was extremely scared but surprisingly calm for such a situation. I asked whether I should pop my intestine out before seeing the triage nurse to show her how serious it was.

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fucking maca

“As Maca Root is an energy booster, it is perhaps not surprising that insomnia is a commonly reported side effect.”

What is this shit? Fuck.

Didn’t think twice when I read “maca” as an ingredient on a bottle. I was at Greenhouse looking for something to have after barre. What had particularly caught my attention was a nice chocolate-y brown with some sedimentation of some cocoa-looking particles. It looked yummy as fuck. And it was very much so.

I’ve been in laying in bed for what feels like a million years. I’ve been falling asleep and staying asleep especially well these few days while in recovery so it baffled me a little bit. But then I recognized the feeling… caffiene insomnia (or I guess maca insomnia in this case — maybe substance insomnia is more appropriate) feels very different from other forms of insomnia. Unlike the typical sleepless night, when I’ve accidentally (or on the even rarer occasion where it’s not accidental) ingested caffiene, I don’t feel tired at all. I’m laying in my bed, wide awake, full energy. I don’t usually experience it much anymore; I’m extremely careful about avoiding caffiene. But yeah, I definitely felt that way tonight so I started to carefully trace back in my mind whether I had possibly drank green tea instead of my decaf Earl Grey. Could I have possibly been that mindless? No. Jeez, I’m not that bad. Then I remembered maca. Freaking ground maca root. I know I’m particularly sensitive to caffiene and nicotine but I guess maybe I could just be sensitive to a lot of things in general. Jeez. Learning new things about myself everyday, ya know? Just don’t like the fact that it had to be now. I need to wake at eight to venture downtown to catch the Yayoi exhibit with J&J. Thoughts of infinite polka dots is starting to resonate with my infinite lack of sleep… boop bee doop.

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lots of waiting… lots of waiting…

The first time the doctor tried to drain the abscess out, he got nothing. I was already feeling stressed out looking at this curly-haired baby-face boy. I kept reading his tag over and over again which clearly stated he was a resident doc, i.e. a doc in training.  I’m sure he did what he was supposed to do. He sprayed some numbing agent onto the affected area and he tried to use a syringe to try to drain it out. Regardless, it left me hurting and I didn’t want him trying again. He and the senior doc agreed to wait for an ENT to put me under.

Lots of waiting… lots of waiting… fast-forward.

The ENT sprayed that same numbing stuff on me as he told me that he was going to attempt draining the abscess. I panicked and I told him that the other doctors already tried to drain it. He said he knew but reassured me that he was the professional. I guess that made me feel a little better until he started injecting me with a local anesthetic, on top of the spray. Not just once, okay? This guy stabbed that sucker like five, six times. Ouch. And I thought that would be the most painful part. No. He cut it open with a scalpel (which hurt) but then he used this blunt-ass surgical clamp to squeeze it which was the WORST. OW. LIKE REALLY. It was the most painful thing I had ever had to experience in my entire life. Worse than Bali. Worse than a tattoo. Just REALLY BAD. I just sat there and cried and cried because it hurt so bad. It felt like I cried for an hour, just waiting for them to give me something, anything. But once they put me on it, I started feeling better with the morphine. I didn’t really like how woozy I felt but it was better than being in pain.

Lots of waiting… lots of waiting… they moved me onto a stretcher in the hallway…

Lots of waiting… lots of waiting… at 3am they were able to move me onto a bed in another hallway.

Got discharged the following morning and that’s pretty much it and I’ve been recovering since the minor procedure. It’s been rough because I’m not supposed to eat these antibiotics and painkillers on an empty stomach but most of the time, it just hurt way too much to even drink water, let alone get some food down. Catch-fucking-twenty-two. The day before yesterday, I was stupid enough to eat two Percocet tabs instead of one as instructed. (I was in a lot of pain, alright?) I got really dizzy, nauseous and ended up vomiting up everything I worked really hard to get down. I got a little too ahead of myself. I probably should have stayed home but I really wanted to be out and about again. I even booked barre that evening which I had to end up cancelling… It was a nice outing and I still feel guilty about dampening the mood… but I’m really fortunate that my friends were kind, patient, and took me home.

Today, I’m feeling much better and I think I can lay off the painkillers. I still don’t have much of an appetite but I’m sure it’ll come back to me soon.

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E.R. Wednesday

Deleted the last post. Let’s start all over.

These past few weeks, I’ve been having occasional sore throats on-off, on-off. Maybe three weeks? I didn’t think much of it. I thought maybe I had been drinking too much or maybe I wasn’t getting enough rest, etc. I put in some effort to cut out alcohol on a few nights and put in some extra hours of sleep on others but besides that, I didn’t pay much mind to it. It did seem to resolve itself at times but during my stay in Boston, I suddenly got these bouts of extreme pain in my left tonsil. Painful enough to keep me up at night and to make eating very unpleasant. And things got worse. Since last night, I’ve had trouble breathing, especially when I’m lying down and this morning it hurt so much I couldn’t even drink water. I took a look in the mirror with a light. My tonsils and my uvula were so swollen and enlarged that they were covering the opening to my throat. My uvula was so elongated that I could catch it on my tongue and I was basically choking on it while gargling water. I concluded to myself that I have viral tonsillitis and that I had to see a doctor ASAP.

So I came home this morning. I intended to stay in Boston much longer but I’m happy I’m here. I have to pay off bills and I desperately needed to see a doctor. When I landed, I went straight to the clinic. The doctor took a look into my mouth and told me that what I had was an “emergency situation”.

She knew I was having trouble breathing already and told me that what I had was a life-threatening abscess growing at the back of my throat as it could potentially block my airway and suffocate me. She told me to go to the emergency room right away.

Honey, you hear how you have a hot potato voice? That’s really bad.

I couldn’t help but smile really big when she said that. Jak gan tang girl.

So here I am. I’m at the hospital right now. I have a peritonsillar abscess. They’re either going to have to drain it or cut the whole thing out. I’m still waiting to see what exactly is going down. Three hours in so far. Life is a long wait. I don’t want to spend the night here but it’s likely that’s the case. I’m alright though. I’m very happy to have people to watch out for me and take care of me. Was surprised to get a visit too. Thanks J, J and J. The upside to all of this is that there’s a chance I’ll stop snoring if they remove my tonsils. And maybe being on a recovery soup diet will help be lose some extra pounds.

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seven chairs

greed — I need all of these chairs in the world.

envy — he has that chair. I want that chair.

lust — that chair feels so good. I need it.

sloth — all I want to do is laze in this chair.

pride — I have the best chair.

wrath — I’m going to fuck you up with this chair.

gluttony — I got fat. I need a bigger chair.

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contention, detention

I got denied entry at the US border. Two times, yesterday. They were extremely suspicious that I didn’t book a return flight. I don’t really want to get into it other than that but I’m out a ton of money and I’ve wasted way too many hours at the airport. At least I’m at the gate and on my way out now.

So yes, a one-way. I plan to spend a couple of weeks with my Grandma in Boston to keep her company but also have some time to unwind and change my focus on some things, productivity-wise. I’m always happy to return. Can’t wait to stroll down cobblestone streets, a donut from Blackbird in one hand and another from Dunkin’ in the other. That’s the dream, haha. But who am I kidding? I’ll probably be too full. My g-ma is constantly feeding me and in ridiculously large portions because she thinks I’m always starving or something. And she often offers all the stuff I don’t enjoy eating. White rice. Pork buns. Apples. Bleh. I’ve been thinking about how to get around it. I’m thinking of wrapping food in napkins and tossing it the the birds or something later. Feasible, but she’s always just sitting there, watching and smiling at me while I eat. Don’t get me wrong — I’ve never skipped that guilty feeling of wasting food but I’ve been so good with my running… I really don’t want to lose all that progress. Unlikely. She recently learned that I have a weakness for braised pig trotters… super tasty but super fatty and I’ll be having it for days straight. Whatever. I’ll spend some time to jog ’round the city to try maintain my weight. I hope I don’t die trippin’ on those cobbles.

My grandma actually watched my uncle (her nephew) die that I wrote about in a previous post. I wonder how she’s feeling about it and what she has to say. I’ve always seen her as tough and sassy woman. I’ve seen her angry but never sad. I think she’s alright but we’ll talk it over.

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knock out

Sometimes I picture myself just standing behind your teeth. Knock knock. A rap on your insisor to ask you to open up. Maybe if you were feeling generous, you’d let me have a peek at the world outside. Marvel and praise like you’d expect. You’d hear and acknowledge me a little and then you’d gently nudge me back in with a finger. Back in blackout.

…