Friday, June 27, 2014

I am the Youngest Single Father Wannabe. With a Teenage Daughter.

I am too tired to write for the day.



But I need to vent because I am starting to feel uncomfortable about life. I am becoming the guy with acid reflux due to stress.



My sister is here until the last week of August. I do not feel a strong sibling bond, but instead I feel a parental bond. The setupis like a single father with a teenage daughter, except I am her older brother and she is not a teen. We are one year apart, and we do not have the best connection, meaning we have not bonded over the years of playing with toys and worms and hamsters.



But far from mandatory is the concern I feel for her, and as much as I do not want to be always in the loop, because she goes out a lot, I need  to know where she is and I need to be here at home to cook and clean. She does the dishes and shares with the bills and it is fine, but we do not talk very much. Except one night when I drank a quarter of a bottle of Bacardi and became chatty. She sat down with me while I was watching House of Cards, which pretty much became blurrier with the alcohol, and we talked. I turned off the TV finally and became chattier, but still I seemed to keep to myself while being the kind of personable person I wanted; I wasn’t the most endearing sibling, and i am very far from a sweet big brother, but the openness of the conversation brought the edges sandwiching the gap closer. Family issues were brought up, and phones, because we are both geeks with gadgets and she defended her Android phone and I help up the Apple banner. The conversation went to partying and I told her that I have come to the level of being able to hold my alcohol and also told her my short courtship with substances (no hard drugs, just weed). It is about knowing what you want, and coming from me who had passed out many times, and in my younger college days, blacked-out (hearing what I did from friends who are better with alcohol than I am, aka I didn’t know what I was doing, aka plastered), I think I have some authority to preach. But in the end, after all the sharing about the crazy nights, I told her to not be afraid to try, and just be responsible enough to hold her own. I am not trying to be lax about it and to be honest, inside my head I was revolting at how my little sisteris somehow allowed to be drinking. She is of legal age, but still it made my little belly flop. But who am I to be strict, when I have fought to be independent. It felt like peeping into the future, if and when I decide to have a child, and the child grows up. Where is the balance, and how do I delegate to herself own well-being when addiction is so easy to fall into? Maybe it is just trust, and I am too young to trust a child, or this little sister of mine, but there is nothing else that makes sense other than to just tell her how much is enough.



This is one of the three I have, and I feel queasy just trying to think about the secrets I have to share with the other two, and what should I tell them, or if I should even. My older brother is living with his girlfriend, and my little brother is going off to a University. He is much smarter than me (when it comes to math). In the future, will all this even matter? If I become proactive in becoming involved in their lives, will it be better for me, or them? Somehow I am trying to dig myself out of obscurity as the second child. I have issues but so do they. Do my issues stand a chance against theirs, knowing mine are just mostly balls of angst?

Whatever. I should know when to stop stocking up on angst as well. It is addictive to lob hateful thoughts and it deeply satisfies, but then again, addiction is easy. I should learn when enough is enough.

Sunday, June 1, 2014

Should I start talking about my life?


I don’t know if I should. I mean, I want to, just not the major parts of it. of course, I have written about my resignation from work, but that has already passed, and honestly I don’t think it would hold any significance when it someone would read a book about my life. It would be a blotch: “….so I resigned from work. And this morning I am over it, thinking about something else entirely.”

But what would make sense to talk about? What would I like to read about someone’s life? His love life? I’d lift a finger –no, a hand, to pick it up and tear up numerous pages about emotions. I do not feel like I should care about emotions except maybe if the author is extremely angry or in doubt, because there’s a plot twist around the corner I’d love to read about. Career? Good luck with mine; I have no idea what I am doing right now. Is this considered a job even, typing about my thoughts in my underwear on my couch, with a bottle of water, an ashtray and a lighter resting quietly on a foldable sidetable? A job, I think, is something that involves stress and its effect. This insomnia I have been having is so different from the one caused by stress, because mine’s caused by HBO. Insomnia, the serious hospital-version, would be related to like, witnessing someone die, or something die, or really bad news about something irreversible, namely: diseases, a break-up, or termination from work, et cetera. Me quitting work is me getting back my relief. Money problems? I have no income starting next month but that doesn’t seem very stressful to think about and thus I sleep soundly from 4am-2pm, which is just normal because I have nothing in my life that is immediate or pressing or incredibly joyful from the day I submitted my resignation letter. Via email. And forgot about the whole thing. And I am ice-walling anything from the office now: emails, texts, memos, because I do not care anymore. I am tired of doing that, and I absolutely hate having to deal with some people at work who pretend to be likeable, but that kindness is the hook and when one gets hooked, he is screwed. So maybe here is the root of the stress.

I am going to brew myself a cup of coffee.

And drop three to five ice cubes in it.

---

Cold black coffee tastes a lot off-putting at first, but if it’s really strong, it settles and then gets better and finally tastes like the resentment I carry inside my body, and I am feeding it with black coffee. Better with a cigarette. Not with anything else, not even cream, and/or sugar, because then it would be awful. It feels like some kind of Harry Potter magic spell, like ennervate, and I finally know how it feels like being brought back from unconsciousness except I am fully conscious this whole time. This isn’t sludgy either, because I used a new filter, and I use a new one all the time, which adds up to maybe three a day if I am feeling very faux-productive aka anticipating work. Right now I am anticipating nothing, non-ticipating, because I have told you I do not have work. Anymore. Since yesterday. When I emailed the resignation letter.

Having been brought up with the proper amount of directions how to live my life, thanks to my parents, I have grown into this adult who is sufficiently respectful of all authority figures. Now that I have nothing going on except this thing I am doing in my underwear on my couch while smoking, and if this gets taken away from me, then I shall have nothing. And maybe I’ll cry or whatever. I cannot imagine not being this person I have become.

I repeat, I cannot imagine not being this person that I have become. I have grown comfortable with being the nerdy wallflower, who is really borderline misanthrope, and likes to think about things and pretends he is not very smart, sometimes, to drive people away. I have my means of deflecting people, and I have been successful. Interestingly, ideas get to me fast, and I think about how people think about my ideas and me and then I worry if they would discover me and then have judgments that have real value and then I’ll be very screwed. I value my privacy very much.

I value my privacy more than the privacy of my ideas.

Like this one: I want to be so attractive that I’d be the go-to person for people who want to cheat. I wouldn't have sex with all of them, but just that reputation would be nice to have. I would have a table on my own, with no one to talk to. Sadly I am not, and this is one failure of my gene pool. I could be that person who no one wants to hang out with, because he causes some sort of domestic disruption. But whatever, I am lonely already, so no use for that dream. I have reached my goal already.

Or this one: I do not like being alone, but I also cannot handle conversations. So I just want people in my surroundings, not to talk to, but just to accompany me without really consciously being there for me. They shouldn't even be concerned, and they cannot look at me. When will I be this rich? I have the mentality for it already; all I am waiting for is the money.

--

I guess I am not very good at focusing on things when I am not depressed or up at night or sober. i am now depressed, up at 2am, alone with myself, and drinking alcohol which I poured for myself. Now I can see the wonderful parts I didn’t see the first time I watched this series. This answers why maybe I like being single so much, not because of the hangups or the emotions I do not really want to have, but the total numbness to the parts of my life I would really like to experience but cant because some person is hogging the attention.


Also my emotions. 

A hundred minutes to spare.



It is just the wind that is constantly blowing on my face while I sit here waiting for it to end and for more minutes to pass. I am lonely and do not know whether I should be scared of everything. Plainly, there is just nothing there except for some little clues to many different paths, all I want to explore but sadly do not know where all lead. Little clues to the future that show nothing but my face, the background not unclear but barren, all because I am young and scared, and I am with various people but faces I do not see. This is the setting of my future: a surreal painting I question if finished or just have come undone, abandoned or have come to the ultimate fruition. It is a testimonial on how my present is: diminished, alone and unsure. What is this hesitation, and what is it about all these questions and the rudimentary guilt: have I made a wrong call? I could not be more sure of the decision I made, but is it only for my comfort and have I misled myself into thinking that I have done something right? I boiled inside waiting for myself to gather up the words that would lead to my resignation. It was very comfortable, i was sure then, but now seems to be too calm to be comfortable. So here it is, in my face, the question if I had done it right, because it is my life, and it is not just here and now, but the after tomorrow and through to the coming five to ten years.

I worry about the opinions of my parents, and I worry about the worries of my former peers. How was it that I had been so sure while hidden beneath my convictions were all these opinions and worries. Was I trying to defy them just to satiate my own thirst for rebellion? Did I just end up encroaching my own set path in order to rebel, and ultimately rebel against myself? If I still have to rebel, what am i? What am I still? Or is this all a conscious rational choice borne out of my own demands to be a person that I don’t look down to nor cower from, but respect? Is this a path to self-respect? What are all these questions then? If this is a process that I should take, then the choices I made within the past month were perfectly rational. I am rational. I am on my road to completeness, transcendence and maturity. But how should I be assured if there is just nothing but this cave continuously widening inside, echoing the opinions and the worries that I did not plant myself, but by the people who know me and care for me and my life?

Granted I have some responses that seem to make better of the situation, but I cannot sell to myself a clear statement out of little pieces of responses. The most important responses should be from me. And as I sit here doubting myself, I become deaf to my own potential and I become weak without my determination. And who am I to validate my own potential when I absolutely have nothing to show and seemingly no one to disprove. Was it just false determination then to quit my job, I ask myself now, and do I not have a sincere determination to go after what I really want for myself, using the potential I see very vaguely and wielding it with very hesitant hands. You can tell me that I am afraid and with much trepidation, but I cannot help myself. I’d be glad to see this familiar trepidation in successful people’s pasts, hoping that I will see myself in them. I hope to see something like this sensation bordering hopelessness and I hope to manage myself to encourage my knees to carry me on my feet.


This is me grasping for an honest reassurance, and while I do not want to be told how wrong my life has become, I would like to ask for honesty. The wind still blows, the sun on my face, I have been sitting here, waiting for my life to change.