Countdown

Tags

Novels, Publication, Road trips, Schedules, Writer, Writing, Writing Process

Summer is almost over, which means an end to most of my travels (the well of money is also running dry too, so. . .)

From New Orleans to Renaissance Fairs to mountains to elsewhere, there’s a particular road, which pretty much takes you anywhere. For me, it’s I-39. Flat. Dry, green crops. Stalks of corn. Windmills, mildly spinning blades. Oh, and at one point, there’s a bridge you cross suspended over water—and this is the highlight of my road trips.

It’s hard not to be bored on these trips. I love my audio books (recently I fell in love with Megan Abbot’s The Fever), but it’s only a matter of time until your boredom sets in again, and you know what happens when you’re bored; you start to think, and rethinks things, and then notice things, such as the clock in your car, the ETA on your phone, the number of minutes left on your audio book. So many things are designed to track our time and measure our progress through hours and minutes. The car is one big alarm clock, the buzzer set high and screaming.

 I kept giving myself a deadline, an ETA for my first draft. It looked something like:

 2012: Finish First Draft

2013: Edit/Revise/Final Draft/Submit for Publication

I wished, anyway. I had this idea that after work (my day job), I’d come home, I’d eat, I’d write, and I’d sleep. I’d do nothing but write like a machine. Routine. Somehow I thought life wouldn’t interrupt, that I wouldn’t receive phone calls from heart-broken friends, that I wouldn’t be a part of someone’s bridal party, or have a medical/mental crisis, or that I’d be dealing with loss. Experiences both rewarding and painful.

“You can write another time,” I said to myself. I did, sometimes. Not more than I said I would. After the math is done, you see how much time was spent doing other things, when you could have been writing.

I’ve read so many writing blogs, listened to published authors, talked with struggling writers, and learned from a plethora of very nice, knowledgeable people that you have to keep writing. A sentence is better than nothing. A paragraph is one paragraph closer to being done. I didn’t consider this. I was measuring my success by time and only time.

This is what probably makes writing different than other projects. Beginning a manuscript and finishing it doesn’t work like administrative tasks or like a commissioned piece of art. It’s different, and it’s hard to describe why without sounding patronizing or pretentious, but here goes. Writers work on their own time, working on something they love (and sometimes hate), with no ETA, despite our best efforts to set deadlines for ourselves. We’re organic, so must be the writing process. All we have are the hours and days we spend not writing with that of days we do write to measure our progress, feeling better when we do write, feeling guilty when we don’t (Netflix binge of Pretty Little Liars you say. . .)

Then it happened. I finished the first draft, and the time spent writing and not writing diminished to zero. The buzzer wasn’t loud and as waking as I thought would be. I held my breath typing the end, this moment I didn’t think would happen. It felt like a date arriving early, and I wasn’t ready, just relieved. Satisfied. Two years and I didn’t know how to react.

I had lost track of time and forgotten about the countdown. I had to keep writing, trying, to eventually savor this moment, and to remember all this while I edit  the hell out of it.

I’m hoping this blog takes some direction, but it’s probably going to gravitate towards my writing, as it’s one of the greatest loves in my life, and will hopefully be small encouragements to others and myself. 

Writing Atlas

Tags

creativity, Depression, Goals, introverts, Mental Health, Novel, Self-Love, Writing

Pardon me for the late, late, LATE post. It’s been a busy two months full of planned trips, visits to friends, meeting new family members, bridesmaid’s obligation, determining if I should wear a bodice or a corset for my alchemist costume. Oh. And.

FINISHING THE FIRST DRAFT OF MY NOVEL!

An auditorium of screaming fans, dressed in yellow scarfs, purple striped shirts, cheer. Also a selective few are wearing red, cherry hats to spell out the words Congratulations!!! Exclamations points included.

Writing anything more than a page has always come as a challenge for me. Most of my short story pieces never received any serious revisions. They get dumped into my hard drive and are never heard from again.

I thought I was going to keep pedaling through life with an unfinished novel and short stories about creepy men in theaters (my head couldn’t think of anything else during that writing session.) My ideas were so lodged into my brain like a crayon shoved up my nose that it took a lot to push out any of my ideas and actually keep going with them. How long did it take me to write my first draft?

Almost two years.

In those two years, I aimlessly was writing. This is not to say I didn’t have any outline or that I was only randomly writing whatever came to mind (but I did have days like that too). There’s just no road map on how to write a novel. It’s this gigantic, thick collaboration of words, and, on most days, it felt like I was stuck in a canyon. Even if I managed to climb out, waiting for me were only more rocks, cliffs, and trees stretching out to where the sky and ground meet.  I had no idea what I was getting into when I decided to write a novel, other than, I loved to write. I wanted to write this story that’s been playing around in my head for years.

So I did. Miraculously I punched out 411 pages. I didn’t think I’d ever have anything to say that was worth 400 pages. It wasn’t, at all, easy to write. There were days I couldn’t even write a sentence. Sticky, stagnant middle spots. Awkward syntax. The beginning of my novel absolutely made NO sense. I had to stop myself a million times from deleting it, from quitting.

My major problem has always been commitment. I don’t know why. I didn’t even think I had a commitment problem until I started to see canvases piling up in the storage area, unfinished drawings, and unfinished stories. This has lead me to think quite often that I’m a failure whose incompetency and lack of perseverance has prevented her from accomplishing anything. Sure. There’s some truth to that but it’s not the whole story. We’re not only our failures.

I’ve been mulling over this a lot and have been dissecting the methodology of how people define themselves. We have this tendency to only see ourselves through our successes and failures without looking at what these successes and failures mean.

I’m cautious about epiphanies, and I’m not sure I’ve had one, but the experience of finishing the first draft has enlightened me as to what it means to feel good and that it’s not solely reflective on what your successes are but also your failures, which often I feel is misinterpreted as something someone pulls the carpet out from under you. We do actually learn from our failures but not without some perspective.

Two years ago, I was jobless, downsizing to a tiny apartment, living off my SO’s minimum wage earnings, car troubles, dealing with untreated Depression, and felt severely isolated from everyone around me, which admittedly, was caused by the Depression and Social Anxiety. Two years later, I have a job with benefits and a 401K (super important guys!), I’m seeing a therapist (and have made progress), I have a new car, my Depression/Social Anxiety is manageable (no, it’s not gone, but I haven’t been to my dark place in a looooong time), and I’m meeting and staying in the company of good friends. I didn’t imagine I’d ever be in a place like this as I always thought I’d be in a perpetual state of self-misery. Side note: let’s ban words like always and should from our vocabulary.

Some things are not going to work out. It’s going to happen and while I realize I’m saying this from a place where it looks rosy, I’m still not quite where I want to be. There are still things I want. Once my novel is completely finished, I’m hoping a publisher finds it potentially interesting and decides to publish it. Of course, there’s the editing part. People are going to have to read this thing. Then there’s the rejection part. I still have so much to do!

The first draft of my novel isn’t quite a success or a failure. It’s something that only benefits me, good and bad, not in a financial or social sense, but something for my well-being, and I feel we need more of that in our lives.

P.S. I ended up having so much to say that I had to break this into two parts. Part two coming soon!

Unconditionally Loved Not

Tags

Addiction, Alcoholics, Child, Feminist, Love, Mom, Mother's Day, Motherhood, Parenting

Unless you were on a hiatus from life yesterday, it was mother’s day. That day we celebrate moms everywhere with bargain brunches, hallmark cards, bouquet of flowers, or with just hugs. Belated congratulations to deserving moms everywhere. I’m serious when I say this because not every mom is appreciated, but not every mom deserves a pat on the back either. Mother’s day should represent how we celebrate motherhood. For a woman, conceiving a child physically transforms her body forever, and no matter how much surgery, exercise/dieting, or perfect lighting she uses, she’s undergone a change that brands her for life-but this doesn’t mean she automatically joins the motherhood club.

For most of my life, I’ve believed that just because a woman has a uterus doesn’t mean she’s mommy material. An egg donor, but not necessarily a mom.

The transition from an individual to motherhood is one I continuously try to understand for that’s the reason moms are so incredible. Giving birth is a miracle, so I can’t wrap my mind around that (even described medically). Raising a child? The amount of hard work, dedication, and a love used sparingly by people in their lifetime is profoundly moving to me. My mind still tries to make sense of it, especially when I see and hear moms every day kicking ass and staying awesome. Unfortunately this was not the case with my mom, who, honestly, would have been better off not being a mom.

I asked myself yesterday, “Should I call my mom?” I started to bite my nails again. I was clenching my fist. I didn’t want to think about it. I tried to refocus my thoughts to something else, except, no one tells you that your thoughts just relocate to a better hiding place in your skull. So I didn’t call her. No text. No email. No non-threatening FB post. I want to believe I made the right choice. I tell myself today I made the right call-with wavering resolve.

She’s my mom; yet here I am at my computer, waiting for my inbox to be full of emails sent by her. I will be told that I’m “self-centered,” that I “don’t understand {her},” and “that you’re the only reason I’m living now.” When did I become a lifeline? She will call me, yell at me, blame me until one of us hangs up. This mother’s day, did not hear from me. I made the choice to cut all my ties with my mom.

After my parents divorced, I saw my mom four days out of the month. When she had me and my brother on those days, I loved it. Chicago became my second home. I went to the movies, arcades, restaurants, and loved every minute of it.  It gave me a break from living in a town bombarded by cornfields. She was, as my friends said, ‘the coolest mom everyone wanted to have.”

What a joke.

All this stuff only disguised her addiction to everyone. I let the good memories monopolize my brain. I didn’t want to admit my mom was an alcoholic. It’s just one thing, one label. I naively thought she had it under control. If the problem wasn’t showing, then everything was okay. If it doesn’t affect me, it’s not a problem. I know I was a kid, but even I should have known better. I still wished I had been better prepared to deal with my mom in my twenties.

I got the rude awakening shortly after my brother moved out of the house to go to university. I was still living at home with my dad. My mom, however, who wasn’t even living in the same house, did not like the idea of how far my brother was moving away. I tried to visit, but I was also starting community college soon. My schedule became busy. I tried to reschedule my weekend visits with her, but my mom was disinterested. She said, “what’s the point with only one of you here?” I didn’t know how to respond. My mom is the victor when it comes to having the last word in conversations. Our every-other weekend trips came to an end.

The holidays approached us. One night I groggily woke up to a phone call. My mom was bawling about Thanksgiving. I couldn’t process what she was saying. Apparently, my brother had sent a text that read, “I’ll have to check my schedule that weekend.” My mom was somehow hurt and offended by it. I couldn’t make sense of her reaction, but I tried to calm her down. She wouldn’t listen. I noticed her speech slurring. Her voice pitched and deflated at once. She eventually hung up on me. It was a minor incident, I thought. I didn’t think much of it.

Then the emails started. My mom relentlessly sent over 30 emails to my brother. Then, I started to receive the emails. Each email pinned us for her misery. According to her, we’re the reason she’s so poor. She spent all her money on us when we were kids instead of paying her bills. We’re the reason she could never go anywhere fun; she used all her gas on us. We’re the reason she never had nice things because she was too busy buying us toys. My brother didn’t know what to do.

It was hard, but he decided to cut all ties with her. After a round of emotional blackmail though, I couldn’t just abandon my mom. I was all she had. I practiced what to say to her, rehearsed my lines whenever I visited her, and I certainly never talked about my brother when I was with her.  I spent most of my young adult life being exhausted, fearing what my mom may do to me or to herself if I didn’t say the right thing. I wanted to appease her. I hated she was miserable. Still hate it. There was nothing I could do, though. I felt helpless and exhausted. I wasn’t equipped to deal with my mom, so I suggested she seek psychiatric help-which, as you can imagine, didn’t roll over well with her. It lead to only more fighting.

I knew addiction was the problem. I told myself, “It’s not her talking. It’s the booze.” I poured a lot of my time into how I should act around her instead of paying attention to how I felt. With the amount of time I dedicated to her, I could have earned a PhD degree by now.

It was another night. My phone rang. I saw her name flash across the screen, so I answered it.

“I’ve got a loaded gun waiting at home,” my mom said. I sighed, knowing she was drunk, again. At first, I tried to calm her down, again. And Again, and again, and AGAIN, AND AGAIN? AGAIN?? Was this ever going to stop? I couldn’t take it anymore. Soon we were exchanging screams. I hung up. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want my mom to hurt herself. I didn’t know what to do except call someone. Her mom. The cops got involved. My mom was pissed I called her mom. I know I shouldn’t have yelled at her. But my mom still doesn’t see what she did wrong or how she treated me.  She blamed me for the cops showing up. That was her focus. She only wanted me to listen. She said I overacted. I completely disagreed with her, so I didn’t talk to her for nearly three months after the incident.

I wish I could say that was my last dealing with my mom. If only I could say that. I forgave her because she was my mom. That was the only reason. Nothing changed, of course. What my mom didn’t know was my own mental health was declining. I struggled with maintaining order in my life. I felt myself losing touch with people. Then last February, tragedy hit the family. I was unstable. I was already severely depressed. I received a phone call from her. She was screaming at me. I had no energy to calm her down. I just took it. Then, she finally said it, “I wish you could be unborn.” I never asked to be born, but I couldn’t undo what she said. I left her text stating that I couldn’t have any further contact with her (two therapy sessions and a month later). I didn’t wait for her reply. I blocked her. I made sure she couldn’t contact me, for the sake of my mental health.

A mother’s love for her child is unconditional? It’s a standard moms try to live up to.  Lots of women are popping babies. Lots of women are mommies. Not all of them participate in motherhood, though. It should be recognized that women are not innately motherly.

I didn’t celebrate mother’s day with mom this year. I don’t know if I’ll ever reach a point in my life where I can forgive her.

Don’t celebrate mother’s day because she’s your mom. Celebrate because the way she momed you growing up.

Circulating Our Thoughts

Tags

Books, hermit, introverts, reading, Writing

Reading and I didn’t start out as friends. Sad, but true.

To put it mildly, I couldn’t hear well. Something happened when I was younger that caused an obstruction in my ears, which lead to my eardrums not working right. My brain didn’t know how to ingest the medical jargon or the clinical reasoning behind all this. I just knew it hurt, a lot, and it sucked. My season of ear infections lasted for three years.

I’d wake to my face wet from crying all night.  The sounds of locker doors slamming somberly applauded nonstop in my ears. Once I had a search party held to find my missing ear plugs that had fallen out while swimming. Doctors mandated I visit twice a week. I saw more medical instruments than ever a box of crayons. Ear drops. Cotton balls. Q-tips. These were standard. I’d lay horizontal for hours draining out all puss and blood swelling in my ears. You really never know what’s in you until it’s out of you, or in my case, when it oozes out and drips like tree sap sticking to your earlobe. Pretty, right? When I went a night without any pain, it was a good day. I clung to the hope that my ear problems were over—I maybe had one or two days of zero pain.

This all happened to me just as I was learning to speak and write. My hearing disability not only made reading and writing the pinnacle of my frustration during my toddler years, but it crippled my confidence.  Fear habitually wormed its way into my throat whenever I tried to read aloud. I was afraid of mispronouncing a word (even though, at that age, we were all mispronouncing our words.) Writing was just as hard for me. A sentence was like running a mile in heels on a gravel road–with crater size pot holes. I was constantly tripping over words and falling into deep funks of illiteracy. I couldn’t grasp my condition. All that played in my head was the song “there’s something wrong with you,” which, if you don’t know, sounds like a blaring blend of jazz, death metal, and a mournful tuba tune.

Now as a twenty-something adult, you would think I’d have an easier time describing that time in my life, but I still struggle describing it. When you can’t put a name on what you’re feeling, it’s aggravating. It’s a torrent of ambiguous thoughts screaming at you. It felt something like this:

 

*&*%!!!!!!!*$%$&$&$!!!!!!

 

One day during reading time in kindergarten, my teacher decided to change up the routine and asked us to form groups of two. Knots formed in my chest. I acted fast trying to spy any stragglers that looked as confused as me. I gave another look around, but I was the only one left, and I refused to be paired up with my teacher. I found a hiding place under a deserted desk and made camp there.

I started to mouth the words in a whisper. My lips ran into a snag. The sentences were derailing me. I must have repeated that sentence a dozen times, making the wrong sound again and again.  I was ready to call it quits and pretend like I read. I had a pen with me, though. I thought I’d try something different. So, I started to underline the hard words.

The universe, if you didn’t know, is an omnipotent creature that is always watching us. It was not chance that my teacher found me. I tell you, it’s the universe at work. She saw the pen, the book, and then me again. I didn’t know if she was about to cry or yell. What came next was what you’d expect. Principal office. Phone call to the parent. Lecture. My dad was charged with a fine. He took me home.

On the car ride home, my dad was fuming. He tried to explain loudly to me why we do not write in our books. It was less than a minute discussion.

 “Because we just don’t,” he said.  It is what it is, in other words: top ten most hated phrases in existence.

I didn’t argue (found out later he was more pissed at the school for calling him about something so trivial than at me), but I was pretty upset. I had been made to feel like what I did was damaging and unnatural. All I had done was add my marks in a book, on paper. What could be so wrong with that? I know it wasn’t mine, but treating me like I had destroyed the sanctity of book reading was harsh. I didn’t start writing in my books again until college, where I found not every thought we have is profound, not every comments we make is great, but there is an idea worth exploring and we have to just push through.

Most of us are reading published works of literature. We can access hard, digital, or audio copies at our leisure. Libraries are a perk.

What’s there not to love about books? Yes, I love them. Polished print. Attractive front covers (who doesn’t like when a classic is revamped!). A-list author reviews.  And the writing!

 Even if the story is terrible, or the story didn’t excite you, it’s published, and thereof, deemed worthy to bask in its hardcover, publishy glow (literally sometimes, the screen on your tablet glows). A book has its own aura of awesomeness that so many readers have a hard time describing. We can’t ignore our attraction. This is not just about books, though. It’s how we treat them as untouchable objects. I agree we need to take better care of them, but what intimidates us to write in them? Why do we avoid writing mini essays and mini novels in the provided margins? There not there just for show.

The author is sharing his or her words with you. What are you sharing back? His or her words made it passed rounds of carnivorous editing at so-and-so publishing house so that you could read and think on what was written. Shouldn’t something be said when an arrangement of words catches your eye? I’d like to think so. As a writer working to get her novel published, I sincerely hope that my readers will take the time and write something. Of course, I won’t know, but that’s not actually the point.

So why don’t more people write in their books? Do not tell me, ‘it ruins the book,” because that’s not true.

Okay. If say, the book is an heirloom OR is one of a kind—then okay. That’s probably not the case. Writing enhances your relationship and understanding of reading. For me, writing is ritual I do daily (novel, blogging, journal, etc.). Jotting notes in my books just feels, well, right. Why did I particularly love that passage in TFIOS with the swing set? What made that passage so great? You’re questioning the authors/editors choices. When you’re with your book friends, it really helps you to get a conversation started. We externally exchange our thoughts but we start internally circulating our thoughts first.

Published work is not untouchable. It won’t be any less published. The author made a conscious choice to have his or her work shared. These books are yours. Whenever I lend out a book, I always give the borrower the option of writing in my books. Some of my friends are opposed to this, as others just embrace it. The best part? When I get the book back, I get to read all their comments—and emoticons. And, of course, when I inevitably pick up the book again to read, the process can start anew.

 P.S. – Write in YOUR book, otherwise, an angry librarian will find you. Do not piss one off. They are your friends.

 P.S.S – I have a Twitter account now! Follow me at @myhermitsanctum for my latest post and updates.

I Am a Gundam

Tags

Anime, culture, Film, Gundam, Gundam 00, hermits, Ideals, Improvement, Shows

I can’t stop thinking about Gundams.

I recently watched the English dub of Gundam 00. I’ve seen Gundam Wing and Gundam Seed—but I can’t say that these shows left an impression on me. The Gundam universe has never been appealing to me. This could be because I grew up in a military family and don’t find any reason to read about it. Another reason could be I haven’t given military/war literature a fair chance. It could be both! I don’t know! With that said, Gundam 00 caught my attention. I watched the first and second season and the movie.

Hermit Reaction: Loooooved it!

First of all, I love when an Anime series ends. So often than not, Anime series are either never concluded properly or they have no end in sight. My other pet peeve with most Anime is its content (i.e. moe blob). Gundam 00 is for a mature audience and deals with complicated themes of war, pacifism, terrorism, utopia/dystopia, and human evolution. It’s also a heavily character-driven show. Each character is developed based on their motivation, and as such, brought interesting story lines and conflicts to the show.

But there is one particular character that I found odd, a refreshing odd, who is a Gundam maniac.

Setsuna F. Seiei wanted to become a Gundam. I thought it was a joke. Admittedly, I cracked up laughing every time the voice actor, Brad Swaile, broodingly said it. Setsuna later proclaimed that he was a Gundam. Instead of casting him off as just a Gundam maniac, I thought about what he actually meant.

Everyone in the show had their reasons: the eradication of war, understanding each other, equality, redemption, life purpose, and freedom. While this show may be fictious, it parallels relevant issues in our lives.

I’ve always treated Gundams as weapons. Aren’t they? Saber sword. Big canon. A weapon wielding weapons seemed like a convoluted idea to me. It’s why I don’t like when people give weapons to vampires and werewolves.

Gundam is more than a weapon, however. As Setsuna F. Seiei kept saying, “I am a Gundam,” I didn’t understand because all I saw was a weapon that contradicted the goals of the show by exacerbating the conflict: the ends justify the means mentality. Despite the robotic exterior, the Gundam is humanized. It possesses two eyes when it could cosmetically function with one (I think? I’m not an engineer). Its figure is humanlike, and I’ve noticed the location of the cockpit happens to be where a human heart is. If you observe the other Mechs in the show, most of them usually have one eye, and their exteriors are usually bulkier. I love metaphors.

Gundam encompasses more than one human ideal. While it’s an iconic image used for the Gundam franchise, it’s a symbol. It’s about growing and evolving into something more. It’s about moving passed your limitations. It’s about empowerment. It’s about redemption. It’s about connection. It’s a savior complex. It’s a destroyer complex. It’s about being human. It’s about being not human. It’s a plethora of ideologies that cannot coexist in one person. Gundam is the impossible. Even Setsuna admits to this, when he laments, “I can’t become a Gundam.” But he goes on and he changes—literally.

Most of us want to improve ourselves. We want to be better versions. We have our good and bad days, and even on those goods days, we’re going to make mistakes, and that’s okay. I made several yesterday from not exercising, not painting, not cooking, and not writing. I was horribly unproductive, and while there are parts of me lecturing me today about the me from yesterday, all I can do is accept what I’ve done and move on. Loving yourself is priority before anything can change.

We’re all going to keep trying to be a Gundam. If anything else, we have to embrace change, not live as symbols.

Social Media Fever?

Tags

Communication, Facebook, hermit, Life, Privacy, Public, relationship, Social Media

My last post was fairly personal, but this time around, I want to talk about something I’ve been thinking about lately.

Plus I’m making up for lost blogging time!

I’m not your typical 20 something year old gal, at least when it comes to social media sites. I stubbornly protested against them all for years: it’s a procrastinator’s sinkhole; it markets our friends and interests; popularizes the mundane activities; a void of entangling narcissism, envy, and, let’s not forget, bitterness. I called them an “epic waste of time.” I said a lot back then without a filter. I still do, but I wouldn’t say I’ve mastered the secret art of tact yet. I stayed away from all the social media sites for nearly six years.

Like a girl losing her virginity, I caved and signed up for Facebook. Socially awkward, I threaded through people’s posts with no idea what it all meant. My first post was clumsy and partially experimental, i.e. I had no clue what I was doing! All I did was share a recipe and people started congratulating me on joining the world of Facebook. Who knew that it was thing? I played it off as minor, but it was actually a big deal. It changed how I connected with people. I even caught myself in the act of thinking ‘I should post this,’ instead of living in the moment.

Then as I was sitting in front of my computer screen eating a spinach turkey Panini, I found an article at Literally, Darling titled, “I was cheating on my husband—with the Internet.” I laughed at first (I can never come up with a good title), but it wasn’t until I read further. Social media had a huge effect on her and her relationship with her husband. She was connected to people 24/7. She had Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, and Instagram–I literally sighed right after writing that list out, a short list compared to others. She and her husband started fighting. Despite being connected with people all the time, there was little to no communication with her husband. She didn’t have any idea just how much time she was spending to her social media platforms. She didn’t know until her husband told her. I can’t blame her. She really didn’t know. How could she?

I’ve heard and said, “it’s just Facebook,” to my family and friends. I’ve heard it said about other social media sites too. We treat it casually. Certainly being unfriended is not the end of the world. No one ‘liked’ your profile pic. Blocked? Now that’s merciless. We act like we shouldn’t take it seriously, but if you’re spending most of your time creeping on that guy from work, scrolling through your friend’s photos of her trip to Florida, checking updates less than ten minutes later, or posting your latest Starbucks conquest, chances are it means something to you–or you have no soul. My condolences.

Social media is not just on the net these days. Their logos are glued to glass doors of restaurants. Newscasters encourage us to follow their channels. Our fancy phones make it even easier too. We know we’re not taking our phones with us to the restroom because we’re expecting a phone call (at least, I hope not.)

Social media has absorbed most of our attention. We stay connected all the time.We have to be in the know about everything, but as we feverishly check and post on our social media sites, did we miss something? What should be private and what should be shared? We’re living in a surveillance society where most of what we do is being monitored, which has generated a lot of talk as to who and what should have access to our information. More dialogue is to come.

Today my relationship with social media is best described as a love-and-hate relationship. I have my Facebook, a Twitter (though I never use it), an Instagram (again, I never use), and Tumblr (funny pics), but anyone who knows me will tell you, I’m not very active on these sites. I don’t creep often. I will once in a while post something, but I’m careful about what I share. I love my privacy and keep certain things to myself. Once in a while, I go on social media hiatuses and live off the grid for a bit. That’s just who I am. It’s hard for me to understand broadcasting your life to everyone, but I’m certainly interested in the discussion it generates.

As always, feel free to comment and share your thoughts.

Here is the article in case anyone wants to read her story.

http://www.literallydarling.com/blog/2013/11/14/cheating-husband-internet/#disqus_thread

Resistance Fighter

Tags

culture, Depression, Family, hermit, Mental Health, Mental Illness, Recovery, Writing

This is a long and overdue post.

For the last several months, I’ve been struggling with depression.  Winter did not help.

Some people do not understand just how crippling depression can be. It takes the best parts of you and somehow turns them off. You’re not you. That hopeless feeling we hear about on TV is not an exaggeration, but it’s also not entirely accurate. There’s the other part that people fail to mention or overlook, the battle. If only it was a battle using swords and wands. It would be easier for people to understand. I’d even understand it better. Your mind and your body are at war with each other. There isn’t a time when your thoughts aren’t working against you, seeping in, delivering doubt in a cup of self-loathing with a pinch of salty truth. You can’t help but think everything you think is true. You know your faults. You know your mistakes. You know everything about yourself, right?

When I visited a therapist, I was already in a languid state. My limbs ached. I wore my skin like oversized clothes. I was dry and saggy. I didn’t see why I needed to make an effort. I thought I had finally hit the point of no return. I had felt this feeling inside me before, but this time around, it was more toxic as if a punctured bag was leaking in me, and I was wasting away internally.

Let me tell you. This has been a long fight. It probably started sometime during my high school days. I didn’t even know I was clinically depressed until my therapist named it. I had suspected, sure. I just didn’t want to admit it for some reason.

But when I was in the therapist’s waiting room, I had never felt so defeated. I’m the type of person who right before she leaves her apartment, she takes a deep breath, and tells herself “you’ll make it.” I always aspire to be a strong, independent woman. It’s just—I was so confused. Some might call this an identity crisis, but I’m leery on calling it that considering I’m a 20-something year old, after all.

But I had believed vulnerability was a weakness. If my sad face wasn’t showing, then I was fine.

My major problem was I tried to hide it. I was ashamed. I didn’t want people to know I was hurting. My family didn’t know anything of what was happening. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that only two people knew of my emotional condition. My significant other was the only witness to it. He’s seen me at my worse. It’s not a pretty sight. Talking just didn’t seem to help me. I wasn’t receptive to anything anyone was saying, except to what my toxic thoughts were saying. I tried to talk to a friend, and while talking temporarily alleviated the pain, I started to hurt worse.  I hated being such a burden. I was occupying her time and wasting it. I thought if I just didn’t talk about it, these feelings would subside. NNNNNNoooopppeeeee.

Then I hit the point where I couldn’t hide it anymore. I confessed (dramatically) to my dad of how I felt, that I didn’t know who I was, that I was a failure, that I wasn’t smart, that I was a terrible person, that I was a narcissist, that I was desperate for attention, and that I didn’t understand what being happy meant, or if I would live long enough to reach that point. My heart was a tight knot. And here was my dad, a stoic veteran, who never complained even after the divorcing my mom, raising two kids on his own, and working a full-time job while going to school. He held me and just told me to cry. I didn’t think I could, but I cried so, so hard until I was empty.

Surprisingly, it only takes 20 minutes to refill on tears.

No one knew I was depressed. I was functioning, more or less. I worked 40 hour-work weeks, continued to write my novel, cooked, marathoned Attack on Titan, sugar crashed, etc. My therapist had informed that there are two types of depression. I had fit the type that has a ‘suck it up’ attitude. But I had actually thought this was normal. The last thing I wanted was emotional diarrhea. I didn’t know really what to think. It’s strange having a name for it.  Even stranger not having to hide it.

Now I’m more upfront about my mental illness. I’m aware I have depression, and I’m dealing with it. Knowing my triggers helps a lot. Hiding it only made it worse. Most of my family knows (my family is complicated). It hasn’t been an easy transition. If my dad sees a missed call from me, he will call me back no matter what time it is. Other family members and friends have been very supportive; however, there are still some who are uncomfortable around me.

Then there are the people with tart faces who just don’t know what to say when I tell them of my mental condition, not that I blame them.  I try and not to take offense, but it’s something I’m still struggling with and figuring out.

Writing has been therapeutic for me. It is about the closest thing I have to a weapon in fighting against depression.  And with the first draft of my novel nearing completion (yay!), I’m definitely going to put in more effort into blogging. I also have to mention that the title is inspired by a blog post written by one of my favorite young adult authors, Libba Bray. With whatever unicorn’s essence she has, she wrote a post that both painfully and beautifully depicts her own fight against depression, which really moved and encouraged me to write my own. Feel free to check it out. It’s a must read for anyone.

Miles and Miles of No-Man’s Land

Until next time.

(Apologies for the bowel comparison. I had Chinese food the other night and specifically asked them to remove the MSG—which they clearly did not. My stomach hates me.)

 

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Ms. Selfie Doll Eyes: When a friendship ends

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culture, Facebook, FB, Friendship, hermit, hermits, introverts, relationship, selfies

My FB pet peeve is unquestionably the Selfie.

To put it more accurately, people who post selfies and change them– every six hours. I simply do not understand the impulse or psychology to barrage other people’s newsfeed with images of themselves that, quite frankly, haven’t changed. Whether it’s a fun hobby or cry for attention, it’s annoying, but I tolerate it. I did anyway.

Friendships are tricky with us Hermits due to our introverted nature. We derive pleasure from internal activities: reading, writing, movies, etc. So when we inevitably socialize, we tend to gravitate toward one-on-one conversations or small groups. I’ve made excuses to avoid attending huge, audacious parties—I feel terribly anxious and overwhelmed and have nothing to say and when I finally do, I have the worst timing. And by the end of all of it, I’m exhausted.

My friend was the opposite of me, an extrovert and self-proclaimed fashionista.  She thrived when under a spotlight and posed like she was on the cover of a magazine.

Fish net tights. White pearls. Exotic flowers hair ornaments. Pixie lined eyes. She looked like a gothic doll.

Each weekend was a party for her, so she always had something to talk about.  She and I met in college and spent time walking around campus, drinking coffee, and sharing stories. I tuned in every week to hear about her latest conquest or the latest drama unfolding in her life (if you have a roommate, then you know). When I reflect on these days, I notice I had spent my time listening, which I thought was natural. It’s not that I don’t have stories of myself to share; things about me are kept close and private.

One day I needed to talk about my day. It had been a miserable one, full of “me” and “I,” and my doubts as a writer. A consequential professor had covered my paper in so much red ink that my writing had looked like binary. I really needed to talk.

But as it turned out, I didn’t get to vent.  She changed the topic to a funny story about a flirtation she was having with her neighbor and her roommate. I thought it was her attempt to make me feel better and to try and uplift my spirits.

Nope.

Conversations that could spoil her mood went unanswered. When face to face, she’d changed the subject. Texts I’d sent she didn’t respond to—or instead she raved about the newest plus-size model. I had never been ignored while being talked to before.

Hermits are misunderstood. We want to be left alone, not be alone. We still seek social interactions. We still want to talk. We’re obviously human.

I try not to be bitter. The dissolution of a friendship is never easy and worse when a friend will not even take time to talk with you about it. In the end, I was finally ignored, the traditional way.

But still I wonder if she continues to cram her FB wall full of selfies, and if there is space for anyone else? Or if I should take time for more selfies of me?

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Dear Z

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art, book review, culture, Feminist, Fitzgerald, hermit, reading, Therese Anne Fowler, Writing, Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald, Zelda

Dear Z,

You appeared in my dream last night wearing your favorite flapper dress, white with a scooping neck line decorated in tiny, golden beads that spread apart like a pair of wings on fire and pinned by a green gem. The dress was spectacular; you were selfishly radiant and candid  but still painfully you. Just you. I imagined there are a handful of people, if not less, that idealize the glamour and light that follows you–while I would find that menacing and sometimes even lonely.

I think we had the best, most unpleasant conversation too. Under that concave ceiling fitting every yellow balloon in Manhattan, three, colossal chandeliers shook above our heads, which reminded me where I was. It was a party hosted by one of your celebrity friends, of course. You have so many of them. I raised my voice at you over the banging music. I could tell that you knew I was ready to leave.

 You threw your glass at the wall and the piano player made such a loud crack when turning his head, I honestly thought it was a part of the song. Everyone’s eyes were on you, and I had never been in a situation like that. It was like being caught in a net full of dead fish eyes.

But you didn’t shy away, not immediately. You fervently smiled and grabbed my arm and dragged me onto the dance floor and ridiculed each of my clumsy steps. And we picked up right where we had left off. How do I leave from a party like that?

Sincerely,

E

Zelda Fitzgerald has been a popular topic lately between me and my friend. It started when I picked up Therese Anne Fowler’s novel Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald. The last name Fitzgerald caught my attention, so I naturally picked up the book. (Saw it at Barnes and Noble. Had to read it. Didn’t have the money for it. Took a picture of it with my fancy phone. Found it at the library and went home with it and had myself a cinnamon roll.)

Then I read it. My intuition steered me toward another captivating, quizzical read.

This book takes places from Zelda’s point of view; from when she meets Scott F. Fitzgerald to his ending. At times when Zelda internally speaks, it’s youthfully raw that I sometimes feel like I’m listening to a Lana Del Rey song, or I’m listening to the sultry of summer. That’s Zelda Fitzgerald to me.

There is an indescribable appeal about the Fitzgeralds and this book certainly captures it: the languished parties, the dreadful morning after, the feeling of freefalling into an endless dry well, and the private, bittersweet moments shared between Scott and Zelda. I couldn’t commit myself to scorning Scott despite him keeping Zelda from pursuing her passions and talents. And it’s not because he wrote The Greaty Gatsby since, quite frankly, that only makes me disdain him even more! (By the time I was finished with my Bachelors degree, I had read that bloody book three times and NOT ONCE did one of my professor mention his wife or about her book, the only book she wrote I might add. I just find that odd considering whenever there were class discussions about Ted Hughes, it’s almost impossible not to mention his wife Sylvia Plath. But that’s a topic for another time.)

But Scott has his moments, like Zelda, that are lovable and that snatch anything ill we can say about him. Despite the mountain of financial bankruptcy, the alcoholism, adultery, and mental illnesses, it’s hard to dispute the chemistry they had, which makes them so attractive and wild to us.

I almost forget her story though. I’m not going to argue their flaws. It won’t lead anywhere.  After reading Fowler’s book and researching Zelda, I wondered about the book’s ending. I was left with a bad taste in my mouth that sought her ending, not her actual real-life ending, but one that felt reminiscent of how she felt in New York City or Paris, standing on the ledge unprepared for the gush of wind about to blow. Which way would she go? When Scott passes away, then her story ends too. I started to wonder about Zelda and if this story was her story. It’s not like I haven’t heard this kind of story before.

There is something familiar about her. The vivacious, flapper acting on her impulses, heading in any direction, falling in love, having a child, and pursuing her artistic passions only to be repressed, stifled, and have it end  bitter sweetly. Do we try to allocate responsibility to the oppressive husband? Do we attempt to understand the limitations of society had on women during the time period? Do we try and reasons that mental illness played a factor? Do I dare ask the lean-in question: can women really have it all or does something have to give?

I’ve heard this story several times. The Awakening. The Unvanquished., and Jane Eyre. What bothers me most is that this seems to be our story, and it’s treated like a cautionary tale for women.

I wastefully think, “if only things had been different.” But I can’t see Zelda differently. She still throws a glass of gin at the wall and does the fox trot when I think of her. It’s the same when I think of Plath; her head is bowed but her eyes possess such intensity that I feel dolefully small and restless.  As tragic as some parts of their lives are, their work is inspiring, and I truly think, that’s more than enough.

My hermitages are mostly dedicated to art and writing projects, and though some might argue that I can be a bit excessive when it comes to my passions, which is probably true, I’m not apologetic about it.  I live trying to create art, and other things, definitely.

If you do decide to read Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald and my spoilers haven’t thwarted your interest, I highly recommend it! I’m currently braving through the only novel Zelda

Fitzgerald ever wrote, Save Me the Waltz, and I will soon bury my face in a book compiled of Zelda Fitzgerald’s love letters to Scott F. Fitzgerald!

Side Effects That May Occur from Reading Z: A Novel of Zelda Fitzgerald:

• Incessant need for a flapper dress
• Ongoing roaring-twenty dreams (see letter above)
• Excessive use of the word “darling”
• Urge to drink absinthe
• Incomprehensible reason to blame Hemingway for everything
• Compulsive desire to travel to Paris, and never leave
• Spontaneity hair cut

P.S. I’ve included one of the art pieces I’ve been working on. It’s still a work in progress. Between work and writing, squeezing in time to paint is truly a challenge. Nonetheless, it’s worth it!

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That Inner Critic: Reluctant Starts and Endings

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art, creativity, culture, Editing, hermits, photography, Writing

Unkindly, caustic feelings seem to surface more at night than during the day. Is it because once we are alone and have no other distractions left we stare at the wrinkles in our hands until we start seeing red, rubbery eggs?

My mornings are pleasant regardless of the weather. My afternoons are long, infectious yawns. But my nights are never the same. I expect I will write or paint and pursue other hobbies. Instead I find myself spending too much time watching television, rolling my eyes at another Anime with an uninspiring female protagonist, and feeling my productivity, my commitments, fall somewhere between the cushion seats.  I’ve sadly had this happened more often then I should permit, but once you’ve fallen into this routine—a closed jar of pensive, nagging thoughts—getting back on track is not easy.

I had a feeling the other night. I had put off writing longer than I should have, which only exasperated this feeling. My chest started to knot. I hadn’t written anything seriously in a few weeks. I had jotted a few, nonsensical lines in my black, small notebook I take wherever I go, but that is only a temporary fix. After all this is just one aspect of writing. For me to feel happy, I must be actively engaging in the writing process. When I stop prematurely, I’m disappointed. It’s like buying all the ingredients to a recipe you wanted to try but you kept postponing until one night you were ready to give it a whirl, but the ingredients are rotten or have spoiled.

Passivity can be our friend or our worst enemies.  When I am doing nothing, sitting still, or falling asleep, I have this feeling in me that is difficult to describe. I’m sure others have felt this. It sometimes makes you drop your head like an anchor into sea of linens and cushions when you’re not sad or angry. The world looks different to you. You’ve undergone some profound transformation, or something, and suddenly you gain a somber form of clarity. Or sometimes it makes you just stare at everything, not with your eyes, but somehow you’re gazing at everything with your stomach, elbows, and hands. I don’t know. There’s no one way to describe this feeling I had the other night. It’s a feeling, damn it. There is no verbally italicizing this.

I found myself grabbing my journal by my dresser. I have several of them. I can’t even remember when I started keeping a journal (I didn’t care about tracking dates back then. It was too much time to think about time.) I still remember my first yellow, spiral journal though. Cheap. Folded at the corners.  Two, bulky white numbers painted on it. Faded blue lines on college sheet paper. I wrote more than just my life in it; I crafted stories and thoughts I wasn’t even aware of then. Journal writing was therapeutic for me. It inspired my work and lead me to some remarkable discoveries about myself.

Unlike my first journal, my new journal is a little more sophisticated: milky, tan leather with ink dyed flowers and suede rope tie. By the time I reached for it, I had already spiraled into maddening, self-obsessive thoughts. I couldn’t believe how much time I had spent on other things when I should have devoted it to writing. I folded into myself and retreated to my bedroom. I wanted to write my thoughts down to calm my nerves but instead started to read passages that I had written in the last two years.

I was very surprised.

Failure. Hysterical. Need. Insecure.  These words were scattered all over the pages like the stars in the sky. Mind you, I’ve been told by a few that I am my own worst critic, but that is such an overused phrase that it loses meaning after a while.  And I’ve always believed that there needs to be a part of yourself that must be able to approach and challenge what you have written from an objective point of view.  Reading passages upon passages that you have written about yourself, however, is more convincing than someone telling you “you’re too hard on yourself.”

I obscured my work with myself, nevertheless.

We are told to just write. Ignore your inner critic. Editing comes later. My inner critic had bested me for many reasons. I suppose when you’re a Hermit like me with few friends and writing companions, you value your thoughts and opinions highly and trust them more than others, especially when you work with representational, confessional work where you, the writer/artist, are the subject. I assumed I knew my work better than anyone, so I saw the flaws and areas that needed improvement.

Editing comes later.

This already assumes changes will be made. We already have it in our heads that your initial work will have mistakes and you’re inner critic will take care of it. How easy it is to forget ourselves in our work and treat it as extension of yourself. Isn’t it, though?

Then I remembered something my old art teacher said to me. She whispered, “It’s a great start though.”

Our inner critics make us treat our work like we treat ourselves: harshly and unforgiving. When we pause momentarily to view it, we stop analyzing it as something with

potential and see it as a possible, finished piece. We begin to phrase things in our head like “I need,” or “I could have,” which subverts the whole notion of editing. We begin to focus on ourselves related to the piece instead of the work itself. It’s an easy mistake, but it can leave you unwilling to write for a while. And as I said, if I am not writing, I am not too happy.

I have no doubt that our inner critics can be our best editors for writing. Treat them like a tool. If you find your inner critic working overtime and you’re

avoiding mirrors and ponds, forgive yourself. Forgive it too.

I hope next time I’ll have a painting up (I’ve been a little busy with that, writing my novel, and trying to figure out what to do with all these zucchinis!)  I’m very open to suggestions and comments!

If you liked the last photograph, please continue to support my friend, Jacklyn, by checking out her blog at http://interlineasphotography.blogspot.com/2013_08_01_archive.html which shows some of her newest pieces.

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