Monday, February 26, 2007
Sticks and Stones and Self-Deceptions
Hyper-sensitive. High-strung. Artistic temperament. Emotional. Thin-skinned. Dreamy. Naive. Overly idealistic. Loner. Misanthropic. Lonely. Temperamental. Crazy. Anxiety-ridden.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Apple Pie
In the '80s, we were an Asian family living in the Midwest. Specifically, in Michigan, in a small town about forty-five minutes from Detroit, during the period when that city was incredulously suffering from international competition in automobile manufacturing. This was not always a good place to be if you're Asian.
Once, my fourth-grade teacher assigned us to write a self-description. She then collected them and read them aloud, asking the class to guess who had written each description. It didn't take them long to link me with mine: I was the only one in the class with black hair. I had also described myself as having a "big nose;" not understanding, at that age, that my nose was not big, only shaped the way Asian noses are shaped, unlike the high-bridged Caucasian noses of my classmates. I think that my teacher, who was black, understood what was going on, saw the buds of racial self-hatred starting to grow: she stopped reading my description at that point, looked right at me, and said, "Your nose is not big." At the time, I didn't know why she said that, but her look, her tone of voice, have stayed with me long after most of my other memories, both good and bad, have faded.
I have one other clear memory from that time period. I was the new kid, again; we had left one small town in Michigan for another small town, a better one, where the kids no longer tormented me at recess. (At my previous school, I had used to feign headaches so that the nurse would send me home, enabling me to escape my tormentors.) During my first gym period at the new school, we were going to play kickball. Captains were chosen. I steeled myself to once again be chosen last. But it was different this time. One of the captains was a boy named Andy, with a buzz cut and wire-rimmed glasses. He said to the boy he had just chosen for his team, "Let's take the new girl. We don't know how she plays yet. Maybe she's really good." It was pragmatic on his part rather than kind, but to me it was as though he had smiled at me in friendship: it was the first time I could remember that someone had given me a chance, instead of pre-judging me based on what I looked like.
Once, my fourth-grade teacher assigned us to write a self-description. She then collected them and read them aloud, asking the class to guess who had written each description. It didn't take them long to link me with mine: I was the only one in the class with black hair. I had also described myself as having a "big nose;" not understanding, at that age, that my nose was not big, only shaped the way Asian noses are shaped, unlike the high-bridged Caucasian noses of my classmates. I think that my teacher, who was black, understood what was going on, saw the buds of racial self-hatred starting to grow: she stopped reading my description at that point, looked right at me, and said, "Your nose is not big." At the time, I didn't know why she said that, but her look, her tone of voice, have stayed with me long after most of my other memories, both good and bad, have faded.
I have one other clear memory from that time period. I was the new kid, again; we had left one small town in Michigan for another small town, a better one, where the kids no longer tormented me at recess. (At my previous school, I had used to feign headaches so that the nurse would send me home, enabling me to escape my tormentors.) During my first gym period at the new school, we were going to play kickball. Captains were chosen. I steeled myself to once again be chosen last. But it was different this time. One of the captains was a boy named Andy, with a buzz cut and wire-rimmed glasses. He said to the boy he had just chosen for his team, "Let's take the new girl. We don't know how she plays yet. Maybe she's really good." It was pragmatic on his part rather than kind, but to me it was as though he had smiled at me in friendship: it was the first time I could remember that someone had given me a chance, instead of pre-judging me based on what I looked like.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Mirror Mirror
From Wikipedia:
General anxiety disorder or generalized anxiety disorder (GAD) is an anxiety disorder that is characterized by excessive and uncontrollable worry about everyday things. The frequency, intensity, and duration of the worry are disproportionate to the actual source of worry, and such worry often interferes with daily functioning.
...GAD sufferers often worry excessively over things such as their job, their finances, and the health of themselves and their family. However, GAD sufferers can also worry over more minor matters such as deadlines for appointments, keeping the house clean, and whether or not their workspace is properly organized.
Only about 30% of the causes of GAD are inherited, yet certain traits cause people to become more prone to obtaining it. People with general nervousness, depression, inability to tolerate frustration, and feelings of being inhibited are more likely to be shown in GAD patients. People with GAD tend to have more conflicts with others and are very hard on themselves, they also tend to avoid common situations for fear of worry and anxiety...
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Sun and Storm
A gloomy day follows a gloriously sunny weekend. After a fantastic weekend, I'm having trouble settling back down into a workday routine.
It's a waiting period, and I'm not good at that. I feel like I am chronically tired, but friends and family accuse me of frenetic energy, constant movement, and maybe that's true. It's easier for me to be in motion, getting stuff done, crossing things off checklists, than for me to sit still and wait. And maybe that's been part of the reason for the last few months: God slowing me down, and teaching me to wait on Him.
It's a waiting period, and I'm not good at that. I feel like I am chronically tired, but friends and family accuse me of frenetic energy, constant movement, and maybe that's true. It's easier for me to be in motion, getting stuff done, crossing things off checklists, than for me to sit still and wait. And maybe that's been part of the reason for the last few months: God slowing me down, and teaching me to wait on Him.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Mourning
My paternal grandfather died yesterday. My maternal grandfather died a few months ago, in September, while I was in Italy, hours from any airport. I'm having a hard time processing my emotions. I can see how hard it is for my parents, and so what I'm feeling right now is mostly a vicarious sort of grief. I suppose my own grief will hit later on.
It was very, very hard to be away from home when my maternal grandfather died. But this feels harder, because it brings back memories from six and a half years ago, when my father's older brother died under strange and unresolved circumstances. I don't know that I've ever gotten over that. He was my favorite uncle. I still don't believe that he's gone. Everyone is flying back for the funeral, and I've caught myself a couple of times about to ask whether he was going to come too. It feels like going through his death all over again.
It was very, very hard to be away from home when my maternal grandfather died. But this feels harder, because it brings back memories from six and a half years ago, when my father's older brother died under strange and unresolved circumstances. I don't know that I've ever gotten over that. He was my favorite uncle. I still don't believe that he's gone. Everyone is flying back for the funeral, and I've caught myself a couple of times about to ask whether he was going to come too. It feels like going through his death all over again.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Field of Blue Children
It's the title of a short story by Tennessee Williams.
God has blessed me with a great life: the best husband, the best family, the best friends. Je ne regrette rien...except for the apologies I've failed to make. In many ways, I have not lived the life I should have, and when I think about it, I feel so much shame and regret and sorrow, probably much more, in fact, than the people I hurt. It's harder, I think, to be the person who hurts someone than to be the person who is hurt.
I've been thinking about this a lot since talking to my friend over the weekend. There are so many of these unmade apologies. The boy to whom I wrote a letter explaining why I would never like him. Who, years later, seeing me shivering at a party, gave me his jacket. A really sweet boy who did not deserve the shit I dealt out. The man who, while performing in front of a large crowd, still managed to pick me out, even though I was sitting near the back. Who gave me a stuffed animal I promptly named Roadkill. Whose calls I didn't return and whose emails I ignored. The man who told me he had loved me for a long time, who said he didn't know what he would do without me. To him, I probably owe the biggest apology.
But he's not the one I think of most often, and not the one I'm thinking of now. Right now I'm thinking of the man who I had thought of as a great friend, one of my closest. Who, on Valentine's Day one year, described a situation with a girl he was in love with, and asked what I thought. And I, who was only half listening, did not realize he was talking about us, and blew him off, saying something flippant and harsh. But we stayed friends. The period during which our friendship took place was one of the hardest in my life (for reasons completely unrelated to him). I cried. A lot. He was there to hold me, rub my back, bring me Kleenex, flowers. When we went to the gym, even when he was out of sight he would somehow materialize if some other guy was bugging me. When I was being stalked, he used to sleep on my floor. We spent all of our free time together. His parents loved me. Everyone we knew thought we were a couple. And I still didn't understand. I thought he was one of my best friends.
Then we started fighting all the time. And I still didn't understand. Finally, we stopped being friends. And, when I finally understood, it was too late. I suppose in reality it had been too late from the beginning. There was never any room for him in my life except as a friend. But if I hadn't been so stupid, maybe I could have spared him. And for that, I am still so, so sorry.
God has blessed me with a great life: the best husband, the best family, the best friends. Je ne regrette rien...except for the apologies I've failed to make. In many ways, I have not lived the life I should have, and when I think about it, I feel so much shame and regret and sorrow, probably much more, in fact, than the people I hurt. It's harder, I think, to be the person who hurts someone than to be the person who is hurt.
I've been thinking about this a lot since talking to my friend over the weekend. There are so many of these unmade apologies. The boy to whom I wrote a letter explaining why I would never like him. Who, years later, seeing me shivering at a party, gave me his jacket. A really sweet boy who did not deserve the shit I dealt out. The man who, while performing in front of a large crowd, still managed to pick me out, even though I was sitting near the back. Who gave me a stuffed animal I promptly named Roadkill. Whose calls I didn't return and whose emails I ignored. The man who told me he had loved me for a long time, who said he didn't know what he would do without me. To him, I probably owe the biggest apology.
But he's not the one I think of most often, and not the one I'm thinking of now. Right now I'm thinking of the man who I had thought of as a great friend, one of my closest. Who, on Valentine's Day one year, described a situation with a girl he was in love with, and asked what I thought. And I, who was only half listening, did not realize he was talking about us, and blew him off, saying something flippant and harsh. But we stayed friends. The period during which our friendship took place was one of the hardest in my life (for reasons completely unrelated to him). I cried. A lot. He was there to hold me, rub my back, bring me Kleenex, flowers. When we went to the gym, even when he was out of sight he would somehow materialize if some other guy was bugging me. When I was being stalked, he used to sleep on my floor. We spent all of our free time together. His parents loved me. Everyone we knew thought we were a couple. And I still didn't understand. I thought he was one of my best friends.
Then we started fighting all the time. And I still didn't understand. Finally, we stopped being friends. And, when I finally understood, it was too late. I suppose in reality it had been too late from the beginning. There was never any room for him in my life except as a friend. But if I hadn't been so stupid, maybe I could have spared him. And for that, I am still so, so sorry.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Burgers and Bad Memories
Hung out with some friends at Burgermeister, up in the city, last night. The burgers were spectacular, as were the malts. Highly recommend the place. It's been nice to see so many friends lately, too. Sometimes I get so into hermit mode that I forget that I actually like my friends.
It was a good evening, except for a phone call that I'd had earlier, with a different friend. She just happened to mention a name that I haven't heard in years. Hearing it again brought back unpleasant memories.
There are friends I used to have that I have no longer: I've learned, sadly, that boys and girls can never really be friends. It gets too complicated. I think I've been unfair to certain people in the past because I didn't really understand this. And it still hurts to think about. I'd rather not be reminded.
I was in a club with some friends some nights ago. My husband wasn't there (probably working). One of my friends put his hand on my back and kept it there for awhile; it felt like a possessive gesture. Later, he put his arm around me. And without thinking about it, I leaned back into him. It was the awkward culmination to months of awkwardness. I no longer see that friend.
It was a good evening, except for a phone call that I'd had earlier, with a different friend. She just happened to mention a name that I haven't heard in years. Hearing it again brought back unpleasant memories.
There are friends I used to have that I have no longer: I've learned, sadly, that boys and girls can never really be friends. It gets too complicated. I think I've been unfair to certain people in the past because I didn't really understand this. And it still hurts to think about. I'd rather not be reminded.
I was in a club with some friends some nights ago. My husband wasn't there (probably working). One of my friends put his hand on my back and kept it there for awhile; it felt like a possessive gesture. Later, he put his arm around me. And without thinking about it, I leaned back into him. It was the awkward culmination to months of awkwardness. I no longer see that friend.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Hello Arnold!
Greetings from the capitol city of the fairest state in the nation, the most beautiful place in the world. Clarification: California is the most beautiful place in the world; Sacramento is not. In fact, much as I hate to say it, Sacramento is...well, not much. The downtown area is itsy-bitsy. I drove and walked around for about an hour yesterday and saw pretty much all there is to see. Many of the buildings are being torn down; a lot of construction is going on. It's clearly a city that intends to go somewhere, but right now, it's nowhere.
My husband had to come here for work, and I tagged along. I've been here before, but didn't remember it, so didn't realize how little there is to do here. I've been spending a lot of time in the hotel room as a result. I don't do well in hotel rooms. I'm a jumpy person, and I hate being interrupted when I'm deep in thought. Hotels are full of interruptions. The room phone rang this morning. I was puzzled as to who could be calling me here; anyone I know would call my cell phone. Turns out it was room service, wanting to know if my breakfast was okay and if they could pick up the tray. Housekeeping keeps knocking, wanting last night to turn down my sheets (why is this necessary?), wanting to clean my room today even though I haven't checked out yet. I hate stuff like this. Maybe this makes me sound like a brat. I suppose I am a brat. In mitigation, though, I offer the fact that unexpected interruptions cause my heart to pound and my pulse to race. I'm the kind of person who needs to have my back to a wall in restaurants. If there's a window or a door, I need to face it. Who knows where I picked up this idiosyncratic trait, but it's there.
I thought having new stimuli would be good for me, in terms of shaking me out of the writer's block and overall slump into which I've entered, but my plan seems to have failed. I sit in my hotel room hunched over my laptop like Barton Fink, and all I do is surf the Internet. I've acquired vast amounts of trivia knowledge, but have done nothing productive. It's hard not to feel pretty down on myself right now.
My husband had to come here for work, and I tagged along. I've been here before, but didn't remember it, so didn't realize how little there is to do here. I've been spending a lot of time in the hotel room as a result. I don't do well in hotel rooms. I'm a jumpy person, and I hate being interrupted when I'm deep in thought. Hotels are full of interruptions. The room phone rang this morning. I was puzzled as to who could be calling me here; anyone I know would call my cell phone. Turns out it was room service, wanting to know if my breakfast was okay and if they could pick up the tray. Housekeeping keeps knocking, wanting last night to turn down my sheets (why is this necessary?), wanting to clean my room today even though I haven't checked out yet. I hate stuff like this. Maybe this makes me sound like a brat. I suppose I am a brat. In mitigation, though, I offer the fact that unexpected interruptions cause my heart to pound and my pulse to race. I'm the kind of person who needs to have my back to a wall in restaurants. If there's a window or a door, I need to face it. Who knows where I picked up this idiosyncratic trait, but it's there.
I thought having new stimuli would be good for me, in terms of shaking me out of the writer's block and overall slump into which I've entered, but my plan seems to have failed. I sit in my hotel room hunched over my laptop like Barton Fink, and all I do is surf the Internet. I've acquired vast amounts of trivia knowledge, but have done nothing productive. It's hard not to feel pretty down on myself right now.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Fear and Trembling
One of the hardest things for me about surfing is my shark phobia. (As one of my East Coast, non-surfing friends once said, is it really such a good idea to dress up like a seal and paddle out to the sharks?) It's such a strong phobia that I used to sometimes get panic attacks in the water. This was not only embarrassing, it was dangerous. I am normally a fairly strong swimmer, but in the throes of a panic attack, I can barely remember how to paddle. I would thrash my way toward shore, crying and struggling to breathe.
One day while I was surfing, I saw two fins swimming close together. For I don't know how long, I was frozen, watching them. And then they leaped into the air, both of them. Dolphins. Drops of water sprang from their bodies, sparkling.
I thought of that today. I feel like I'm so afraid of so many things. I used to surf even when I was afraid, and surfing is one of the best things I do. Maybe other things of which I am afraid will prove to be as rewarding. Maybe other things of which I am afraid will prove to be as harmless as those dolphins I mistook for sharks. Although the cynic in me focuses on the insubstantiality of dreams, I should remember that nightmares are insubstantial, too.
"[F]or he who always hopes for the best becomes old, and he who is always prepared for the worst grows old early, but he who believes preserves an eternal youth." Soren Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling.
One day while I was surfing, I saw two fins swimming close together. For I don't know how long, I was frozen, watching them. And then they leaped into the air, both of them. Dolphins. Drops of water sprang from their bodies, sparkling.
I thought of that today. I feel like I'm so afraid of so many things. I used to surf even when I was afraid, and surfing is one of the best things I do. Maybe other things of which I am afraid will prove to be as rewarding. Maybe other things of which I am afraid will prove to be as harmless as those dolphins I mistook for sharks. Although the cynic in me focuses on the insubstantiality of dreams, I should remember that nightmares are insubstantial, too.
"[F]or he who always hopes for the best becomes old, and he who is always prepared for the worst grows old early, but he who believes preserves an eternal youth." Soren Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling.
Monday, February 05, 2007
Blessed
It was a pretty good weekend. Dinner with friends on Friday and Saturday, Super Bowl parties on Sunday. Surfed too. The waves were not bad, and the weather was beautiful. There's something very calming about being out there, sitting on your board with the sun glinting off the water all around you. Sometimes I just like to be still, even if it means letting waves go by. I don't know about other people, but for me, there's nothing like surfing to keep the rest of my life in perspective.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Solid Ground
Sick with longing for something I can't see, don't know what it is; panting after a chimera whose shape changes constantly. My heart beating so fast, it burns through my chest and my breath catches. I am running out of air, running scared. The object of desire is out there and it waits for me with claws and fangs, it waits for me while I chase after it in a maze of unknowing. In this place I can only be alone and alone is where I do not want to be. I think I want certainty, but do I, when certainty can only mean the end?
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Direction
Recently had dinner with a classmate. He was in town and looked us up. Great guy, friendly and smart and humble. All this despite the fact that he is famous. The Wall Street Journal and New York Times routinely call him for quotes. He is known by judges and lawyers and professors the country over. Universities have flocked to offer him professorships.
It couldn't have happened to a nicer guy. But being around him does make me wonder, what have I been doing with myself? We were the same year, and he's accomplished so much, while I've accomplished...what?
I envy him, not his success, but his sense of direction. I admire people who are so clear about what they want out of life. Or rather, who are good at prioritizing their desires. I know what I want, but I'm not good about narrowing things down: I want it all. I want to write, and to practice law, and to have a family, and to be a world traveler, and to spend lots of time surfing, and...and...
It couldn't have happened to a nicer guy. But being around him does make me wonder, what have I been doing with myself? We were the same year, and he's accomplished so much, while I've accomplished...what?
I envy him, not his success, but his sense of direction. I admire people who are so clear about what they want out of life. Or rather, who are good at prioritizing their desires. I know what I want, but I'm not good about narrowing things down: I want it all. I want to write, and to practice law, and to have a family, and to be a world traveler, and to spend lots of time surfing, and...and...
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