Friday, October 29, 2010

Middle School Religion

I must have been about 13, in middle school, when this lady showed up in our classroom. She was in her thirties, pretty, slim, big blue eyes. She was to teach us religion. I don't know what exactly qualified her for that particular position, since I don't remember her to even be a teacher. Maybe she was known to be a devout Catholic or who knows?
Thing is, she went through the routine about God, Jesus and the Holy Crap. Someone asked her what made her be so infuriatingly sure about the existence of God. What prompted her to come to us and tell us these stories? Was she securing herself a place in Heaven, by teaching us the way, by converting our dirty souls to good morals and such?
Here's her answer, and I'm not making this up:
One day she was walking down the street. A man started following her. She didn't know this man, she sped up her pace. Eventually she lost him in the crowd. The next day, this man was following her again. This routine continued, until one day the man approached her and declared his non Christian feelings for her. Oddly enough, her reaction was not run-as-fast-as-you-can-while-screaming-at-the-top-of-your-lungs, which, given the circumstances, would have been the appropriate reaction. Instead, she prayed to Jesus the man would leave her alone. I guess she must have thought she qualified for sainthood or something. The saint of saying "No" to a stalker. She continued her story with more of that struggle between the stranger and herself. I don't remember once thinking of Jesus, or being more attracted to religion throughout her story. I do remember, however, wondering if this kind of story was appropriate for a 13 years old audience. I liked the gal unconditionally at that point. She literally prayed God not to let her cheat on her husband. She was punishing herself for adulterous thoughts. That time was the last time she showed for religion class. I like to believe she caught on with herself and understood the magnitude of her statements and was too ashamed to show her face again, like a good Catholic school girl.
Looking back: repressed sexuality will do more damage than an army of demons.

Thursday, October 28, 2010

the pattern

I am a creature of habit. I love patterns. Never got an addiction because I actually already have my bad habits instilled in my DNA. When will my soul clear?
A depressive, fearful, rejection filled period is always ended with a bang, or a shocking event, to snap me out of my fear and back into survival mode, where I can defend myself with old tools. This time around I realize that my old tools are rusty and they don't work anymore, on the contrary, the more I try to use them the more they poison my life. I refuse to dissociate. I refuse to go back to amnesia. I refuse to forget about my inner child in order to cope with adult life.
May God help me be patient this time around! I don't want to put myself in danger anymore. This time I will learn new skills. I don't care how much it hurts, I don't care how long it takes. I won't go back to survival mode. I'll stick with the fear. I'll stick with the insecurity. I'll make the best of it. I'll be lonely for a while, but one day, the fog will dissipate and I'll be able to see clearly again. Maybe all I'm missing is a spiritual side. Maybe it's time to turn to God and make that leap of faith. Or maybe it's time for comedy. It is hilarious how detached I feel, how I don't have a core, how lost I am and noncommittal. I can't commit to anything, not even a damn addiction. I fight my urge to drink coffee desperate to control some aspect of my inner life. I talk crazy. I either enrage, or piss off people right off the bat. I'm either highly inappropriate, or bitterly sarcastic, which to me sounds simply hilarious. Too bad it's not funny to other people. People enjoy hating me, or simply making me invisible. I'm no charmer. I think I would be good material for a stalker, if only it wasn't that uncomfortable to sleep in the bushes.
This time around, I won't try to end my fear, my pain. I'll keep it and nurse it until it goes away. I'm not in danger anymore. I'll live with this awkward, hateble new me, until other people will accept me too. Thing is: I don't even care about being social anymore. It always ends with me either insulting someone, or creating some sort of freeze that could alienate even Mother Theresa.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

No evil

IF I were to soothe the anguish of another person in trying times I would tell her:
Life throws things at you. Some of these things are ugly and some are down right horrifying. But they are nothing else than obstacles. There is no evil. There are only obstacles. The thing about obstacles is that once you pass them, you feel joy, or happiness. The bigger the obstacle, the bigger the joy.
When an obstacle looks impossible to surpass, you are too close to it. You need perspective, so step away from your obstacle. Do something else, preferably something you enjoy or you are good at. Then, return with fresh perspective and tools and tackle your obstacle again.
I had some awful obstacles growing up. My parents acted like my brother and sister and we were all orphans. They abused and tortured me and left me confused and half dead. As a result, I learned how to take care of myself at a very young age. I also forgot the misery they put me through. For a very long time. I couldn't remember any aspect of my childhood. I guess I was taking a step back from my obstacle. I did lots of other things during my complete amnesia. Then, when I was ready and had tools to cope, I remembered. Remembering was as tough as living those horrific events, I didn't want to get out of bed for about 4 years, I was a ghost with all life sucked out of her. Slowly, during the 4 dark years, I learned new things, new languages, new ways of handling my emotions. I could now tackle my obstacle and defend myself. I decided to stay away from those people. I needed to remember and resolve the problems, to move on with my life and grow into the person I want to be. I want to be proud of myself, of my accomplishments. I owe nothing to those parents, other than my life. I have many things to be proud of, and once I surpass this obstacle, so much joy and happiness will fill my heart. All of this happiness I worked hard for. The bigger the obstacle, the greater the joy of surpassing it.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Rita Levi-Montalcini

Rita is a role model of mine. She turned 101 years old this year and was born in Torino, Italy, a city I've lived in and adore.
In 1986, Rita was handed a Nobel prize in Medicine for fundamental nerve growth factor research. She's famous for a bunch of other scientific and Medicine related discoveries and also as a woman who has influenced culture and history as we know it. She has done things that movies are made about.
I'm reading her autobiography: "In Praise of Imperfection, My life and Work". The book opens with a chapter about Torino. I relieved sensory memories, emotions, heard sounds that I experienced while living in Torino.
I remember reading an interview she gave when she turned 100 and was still working 10 hour days. The quote that stuck with me is: "My body may do what it wants. I am the mind". Fascinating!
The gal is Jewish and made it alive through Hitler's prosecutions, not only did she continue her work in a lab she rudimentarily put together in her bedroom, but she got a Nobel Prize as well. She became a Senator for life and many universities across the Globe offered her honorary doctoral degrees. I wonder what does it feel like to live one's life with pride? I wonder what does it feel like to be proud of all of one's accomplishments? I wonder what would it be like to be honored without becoming pompous, or diminish one's own merits? I wonder what it is like to accept praise without false modesty or arrogance? I wonder what it may feel like to lift your head high and take in the light? I only know how to lurk in the shadow. I don't know how to be friendly without being clingy, hear praise without wondering what the praising person wants from me, trusting the light enough to walk in it and not be afraid I'll be killed. I want to live in the light. I was born with the light, but people have stolen it from me. I want my light back!

Monday, October 25, 2010

Father's mother

She was my paternal grandmother. I must have seen her 5 times in all of my life. She died when I was about 8 (around the time my father stopped abusing me). I remember she smelled bad. She didn't keep a clean house. There was a wooden door at the end of hallway. She opened it and walked inside a small pantry that smelled like mould. A small light bulb that illuminated with a slightly bluish color showed what else was to be found in the pantry: cheese, herbs, big canisters, barrels and lots of spider webs. She took a pitcher full of a vodka-like alcohol and brought it into the house for my father. I begged her not to give him to drink anymore. He was already drunk and he was very mean when he was drunk. She laughed at me. My father abused me that night and the next morning, in a bed not far from the room she was sleeping in, which made me wonder if she knew and didn't stop him, or if she simply didn't care.
Before she died, she fell out of a tree and broke her spine and she was paralyzed for a year or so. She thought I was the devil and didn't want to speak to me, because I had probably told her what her son was doing to me. In her village, legend said she was into witchcraft. My father called women he was afraid of "witches". His mother probably didn't defend him from the fury his own father unleashed on him as a child. His father was very abusive and another legend has it that he slept with his oldest daughter and impregnated her, which is why she had to marry when she was only 15. My father's father died when I was 12. My father was very fake and fearful around him, acting like a 5 year old.

Sunday, October 24, 2010

Car Accident

I've been in a car accident and I'll call it a reaffirmation of life. Through my depression I've never been suicidal. If anything, I feel guilty for having survived and wanting to survive. I knew I was depressed because I simply stopped wishing for things. I stopped desiring, wanting, asking, being jealous about things. I would ask myself why did I want to live that badly: the world sucks! There is pain every day and everywhere you look. Eventually I realized that among all this pain, there is beauty. The more pain, actually, the more beauty there is. People are imperfect, but so beautiful. There is beauty everywhere. I remember snorkeling in the Maldives: I witnessed the greatness of God's creation (I am not a religious person, nor do I bother to define myself as an atheist).
However, I often think about death, trying to pick a good way to die, because I am firmly convinced that we choose everything in life, from the way we are born to the way we die. Sometimes these choices are unconscious and a mere consequence of the erosion that heavy feelings create through our psyche. I will describe heavy feelings: guilt, shame, love. I can't settle for any kind of death. Not even a dignified one. I wonder what would really be worth dying for? An idea? Like Socrates or Galileo Galilei chose to die for? Could I do the same? Or would I cowardly change my mind at the last moment? And if I'd ever be so ready to die for an idea, what kind of an idea would it be? Would it benefit humanity, or just myself? Would I be great enough to share my knowledge with others?
Back to my car accident: It gave me a motivation to get angry and get things done. Anger is a delightful force of nature. Everyday, I didn't have time to look and second guess the future, cause I had to deal with some unpleasant aspect of this car accident. Through it all, I just see reaffirmation of life, something to do, to be angry about, to talk about, to connect to other humans about.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

letter to my mother

I hate my job, yet I continue doing it: I'm recreating a pattern. I relive the abuse in my mind to make myself vulnerable, to learn. This time I'm learning about myself. Everyday I drive to work I think about some memory, about talking to my mother or my father. It'll take time to think about all the damage they have done onto me. I'll have to stick with this work, until I'm done thinking about the abuse. The thinking has to be done so that I can move on. The day I'll quit, I will be reborn as a new, stronger me.
Today I thought about the following scenario: my retired mother is getting old and fears being alone and not taken care of. She tries to guilt me into moving to the old country and taking care of her. My response to her would be:
I have my own life to live. You had plenty of chances of being with me. You gave them all up. You never cared about me. You never knew I existed and those times you were aware of my existence, all you did was hate me. You lied to me too many times, while calling me a liar. You abused me and my trust and my love for you. I won't return to that. I choose to not believe you anymore. I choose to live my life instead of soothing your pain. You chose how to live your life. You wanted to be married to a monster. You loved him and protected him even when you knew it was wrong. I admire you for your strength. I won't judge you for your choices. I'm sure you have good reasons to have done the things you've done. I don't want to be part of it anymore. I'm not interested in saving you anymore. I know I promised to rescue you, it turns out you never wanted to be rescued. You don't even remember me. You keep saying you want the best for me, but how can you want that when you don't even know me? How would you know what the best is for a complete stranger? I am a stranger to you. You have no recollection of me as a child, of how fragile I was, of how you never had enough of a maternal instinct to defend me. Be lonely, cause that's what you picked for yourself. Live the consequences of your actions. I won't feel guilty for you anymore. I take my power back from you. I will love you cause you are my mother and you gave life to me, but I refuse to let you hurt me again. Be well!

Friday, October 22, 2010

Craving Love Essay

In my SIA group, somebody posted this essay:

Please don't be fooled by me. Don't be fooled by the face I wear, for I wear a mask. I wear a thousand masks, masks that I'm afraid to take off and none of them are me. Pretending is an art that is second nature to me, but don't be fooled, for God's sake don't be fooled.

I give you the impression I'm secure and that all is sunny and unruffled with me, within as well as without, that confidence is my name, coolness my game, that water is calm and I'm in command and that I need no one, but don't believe me, please don't believe me.

My surface may be smooth, but my surface is a mask—my every varying and ever concealing mask. Beneath it dwells the real confusion, fear and aloneness. Beneath lies my smugness, my complacently, but I hide this—I don't want anyone to know it.

I panic at the thought of my weakness and fear being exposed. That's why I frantically created a mask to hide behind— nonchalant sophisticated facades to help me pretend— to shield me from the glance that knows— but such a glance is precisely my salvation, my only salvation and I know it. That is if it's followed by acceptance. If it's followed by love, it's the only thing that can liberate me from myself, from my own self built prison walls and from the barriers that I so painstakingly erect. It's the only thing that will assure me of what I cannot assure myself, that I'm really worth while, but I don't tell you this, I don't dare—I'm afraid to.

I'm afraid that your glance will not be followed by acceptance and love. I'm afraid you'll think less of me and you'll laugh and your laugh will kill me. I'm afraid that deep down, I'm nothing and that I'm just no good and that you'll see this and reject me.

So I play my game; my desperate pretending; with the facade of assurance without and a trembling child within. And so begins the parade of masks, the glittering, but empty parade of masks and my life becomes a front. I idle chatter to you in suave tones of surface talk. I tell you everything that's really nothing and nothing of what's everything and what's crying within me.

So when I'm through going through my routine, do not be fooled by what I'm saying. Please listen carefully and try to hear what I'm not saying—what I'd like to be able to say, but for survival I need to say, but what I can't say.

I dislike hiding, honestly, I dislike the superficial game I'm playing, the superficial phony game. I'd really like to be genuine, spontaneous and me, but you've got to help me, you've got to hold out your hand, even when it's the last thing I seem to want or need.

You can help wipe away from my eyes—the blank stare of grieving dead. You can help call me into aliveness each time you're kind, gentle and encouraging. Each time you try to understand because you really care, my heart begins to grow wings, very small wings, very feeble wings, but wings.

If you choose to, please choose to. You can help break down the wall behind which I tremble. You can encourage me to remove my mask. You can help release me from my shadowed world of panic and uncertainty. From my lonely prison.

So do not pass me by— please don't pass me by. It will not be easy for you. A lone conviction of worthlessness builds strong walls. The nearer you approach me, the blinder I may strike back.

It's irrational, but despite what books say about man, I am irrational, I fight against the very things that I cry out for, but I am told love is stronger than strong walls. In this lies my hope, my only hope, please help beat down those walls with firm hands, but with gentle hands—for a child is very sensitive.

Who am I, you may wonder? I am someone you know very well. For I am every man you meet and I am every women you meet.

- Charles C. Finn

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Inward

When a child is born, rest must follow. The mother and the newborn must be cozy and comfortable and the world must become a stable place where the baby can grow and explore without danger.
I never had that. My father beat my mother during her pregnancy. She actually spent the last 2 months in the hospital, for fear of losing the baby (me). When she came home, father was convinced the baby was not his and beat her again. My mother gave me to my Grandma, at 6 months and I stayed there without almost seeing my parents for 3 years. Then, one day, they showed up and took me away from the safety I knew at Grandma's. They took me to the hell hole they called a home. My father started abusing me when I started kindergarden (around the age of 3). He was a demented sociopath, drunk most of the time, telling me how I was stupid because I let him take advantage of me, as if we were equals, as if I had a choice.
Now, I find my life to be a safe place. I'm not used to this. I'm waiting for something evil to happen out of nowhere. I'm anxious and socially awkward. Oddly enough, the depth of my being feels like a newborn: I don't know anything and everything around me is new and scary. Thing is, this time, I can enjoy it. This time I can feel cozy for a while, get bored with the stability, explore the world around me in a safe way. I need to learn what safety feels like, so that I can reproduce it later for my kids. There will be plenty of times for me to take chances and live adventurously, in the future. Now, I just want to curl onto myself and sleep in a corner of my soul, where it's cozy and no one can hurt me. I feel like an egg that hasn't hatched yet. I can take my time and come out only when I'm ready. Let's just hope I'm not only repeating a pattern.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Looking Back

Looking back at my childhood, I realize I got gypped. Childhood is the only moment in your life when ignorance is chief and is accepted as a source of absolute happiness. The child explores the universe with honest candor and without negative intentions (aka anger). I was forced to learn. My ignorance was taken advantage of. I didn't know anything about human sexuality, but I was forced to learn. Therefore, I associated learning with pain. I never had the pure bliss of ignorance and that's where I got gypped. As an adult, it's too late to claim my ignorance: I know too much about the world, I'm too afraid to explore, I'm too old to be brave. Knowledge is pain. Ignorance is bliss.
This state of things is far from being fare, but it's my lot in life. I wonder what should I do with this lot?
The hardest part of my childhood being taken away from me is that I never accepted my vulnerability. To this day I find it difficult and have to rationalize my need of giving love to others. To this day I follow the pattern of giving my heart unconditionally, before asking anything in return, before learning about the person I give my heart to. It's like I'm inviting people to abuse me: "I will love you now, if you'll love me later". In my own way, I'm mimicking the ignorance of a child, hoping that this time, the outcome would be a happy one and settle down the conflicts in my heart. I should be the adult. I should grow up and take the necessary precautions, and learn the necessary socially accepted behaviors when it comes to giving. It's time for me to accept I was wrong. It's time for me to accept I got gypped. It's time for me to accept I was the fool. It's time for me to accept the humiliation. It's time for me to cry for my dead childhood. It's time for me to move on.
I should learn that the love and respect from others doesn't ever come unconditionally, but I must work for it. Giving mine so they'll give me theirs can't work. I should find what I'm good at and do that. I should find my purpose in life and follow that thread until I won't need to beg for love and attention, but it shall be given to me.

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Inner child

I kept reading about this inner child that needs to express its feelings about the abuse. The more I read, the more I realize my entire persona is being taken over by my inner child. I react like a child to most events around me. I'm fearful, socially awkward and I literally have an anxiety attack every time I'm in public. I don't know how to joke, my mind draws a blank even during the most basic conversations.
I spend a lot of time in the house, by myself. I work weekends and during the week I do chores around the house, because repetitive actions make me feel safe and allow me to reorganize my mind. I can't sit still, unless I lay on the sofa, playing some game on an ipod. I also play a lot of computer games, wasting time, rather than take care of my "to do" list. Then I feel guilty for having wasted that time and I pick a fight with my partner, to feel important, or to lecture him about something.
My inner child wants to play a lot and doesn't care much about my grown-up needs. My inner child wants to be on vacation forever, while the adult me is worried about not having a retirement plan, about not finding a better job than the shitty one I currently have. My inner child wants to eat chocolate and candy, while the adult me is worried about my cholesterol levels and the weight I've gained. My inner child refuses to work, search for a job or even think about handling rejection in a responsible way. The adult me knows that this situation can't last forever.
I'm trying to jump start my life. I'm trying to apply to grad school and feel already defeated because I'm facing some obstacles in obtaining recommendation letters. I worry about taxes I can't afford to pay and the mere idea of having to organize myself in order to apply for financial aid, makes me want to spin in circles and sing nursery rhymes, while my mind settles for a safe spot. I'm tempted to hate my inner child. I know I should be patient and nurse it back to health so that I can move on with my life in a safe way, but how long will it take? How long should I parent this child for? When will I be free to make some adult choices? I need to be active again. I have nightmares about not being successful enough and I can't bare the idea of being a loser. I've always been an overachiever. Am I missing out on life to sort out my childhood demons? I'm envious of my partner because he has a great job and makes enough money.
I drink coffee and my mind races through the maze of my daily routine. My inner child is bored and completely uninterested by all this grown-up talk.
I feel like the adult self should know better and pick up the inner child and move on to a better place where both the adult and the child can feel safe in a natural coexistence. But where is that place? What do I need to get there?

Monday, October 18, 2010

Adam Carolla is an Ass.Hole.

I opened the November issue of Playboy magazine and read an article called "We've built a Minimum-Wage Gilded Cage", by Adam Carolla.
The article seems to be an excerpt from his book.
I'm not going to judge Playboy for having published this article, since they're a business and they do it for the money.
But what is Carolla thinking? Does he imagine himself as some sort of a superhero fighting the Villain who is an underpaid and overworked miserable anonymous worker? What kind of crime is Carolla fighting and what powers does he have? Knocking over poor people and cruely reminding them that they should consider themselves lucky to have a job? Is he seriously bashing the underdog? Is he serious when he calls the U.S. Communist? Cause his article is not even remotely funny. Oh, but I forgot: Carolla lacks the humor, he replaced it with the decibels.
This dude takes 2 pages complete with caricatures, to explain how the minimum wage people are Nazies, in the way of his VIPness. He calls them "10 cent an hour people" and wonders how dare they do their job and not roll the red carpet the minute he arrives some place, making him waste precious time he could otherwise spend being a douchebag. What are you going to do next, Adam? Punch a homeless guy in the face because he stinks up the air you breathe? Or save the world like a true super hero; only in your case, you'll take the "10 cent an hour people" (which is the majority of the world population) and arrange them like Dominoes. Kick the first one in the face and laugh when they all fall just like Dominoes. Then plant your superhero flag in their butts and proclaim that territory yours, cause you're edgy like that.
As for the book you wrote, can you even spell? Or did you simply paste your name on yet another ghost writer's work, to follow today's trend of illiterate overrated, talentless "stars"?
Not all of us have laminated VIP passes, Adam. Most of us must work long hours in jobs we hate, so that we can merely put food on our tables. Excuse us if we're a little frustrated and we ruin your day with our pissy attitude. Excuse us, if we don't take time to recognize your douchebagginess as VIP and risk our already meager jobs, in order to accomodate your immediate VIP needs. Did it ever occur to you that people simply don't like you and that would be why they refuse to serve you?
Your headline is: "Being underpaid shouldn't be an invitation to be an asshole". Allow me to disagree. Being poor is a perfect excuse to be an asshole to those like you, who are overpaid for no reason at all. Excuse us if our being underpaid is ruining your mood. We didn't mean to upset your Royal Assholeness, with our poor, depressed and ugly faces.
I would stop reading Playboy, but the magazine redeemed itself a few pages later in the same Novemnber issue, by publishing a very interesting interview with Zach Galifianakis.