Thursday, July 25, 2013

On loss and in Memoriam

A friend of mine from high school lost his brother recently, and as is often said it help put things into even better perspective. I have a friend my age with multiple sclerosis who is slowly losing her mobility, my sister is at risk of eventually losing her large intestine if her meds don’t take, and my old mentor has almost completely lost his vision due to a degenerative retinal disease. Though the, “it could be worse” way of framing things can be problematic, in certain instances it illustrates the magnitude, or lack thereof, of certain grievances. Stated differently, your problems could easily be seen as blessings to others. As it concerns myself, at present the only thing I have to “complain” about is the dental situation, which next year’s tax refund could easily solve. Problem? Me thinks not.

But allow me to take it back to the impetus for this post, my friend Phil’s brother, Arthur. Though I have fond memories of playing video games with him during my high school years, whenever I think of him, one anecdote in particular stands out.

In middle school I was smoking one of my first cigarettes in the woods, with my best friend at the time, and a couple of acquaintances, one of whom was named Alex. Before the cigarette, which was being passed around like a joint, found itself between my eager fingers, Alex was quick to warn me: “Don’t nigger-lip it.” Though infuriated by the epithet, it’s always been in my nature to internalize anger, and play it cool rather than to get visibly upset, let alone do anything physical, however badly I may want to. The memory, however, remained ingrained in my mind as my humanity and innocence was accosted by his crude admonition.


Fast forward to the high school years. The “nigger-lip” incident had been pushed to the psychic recesses, until I heard that this same Alex had stolen something from Arthur. As the story goes, Arthur went to his house, politely knocked on his doorbell, and then proceeded to knock him with a right hand directly to the bridge of his now broken nose. Alex was left concussed, and I smiled thinking that Karma did indeed have a name, and it was Arthur, my avenger.  

Saturday, July 20, 2013

On second thought...

On second thought, the feelings expressed in the, “I miss her” post, may not have been totally indicative of and consistent with where I am now Though losing her was the most difficult thing I’ve had to deal with, that once gaping wound to the heart, has closed up. I’m scarred up but still going, and am more removed from those sentiments than ever before. I’m not quite sure what prompted that post; I might have been feeling nostalgic or may have simply wanted to remind myself of the perks that relationships have to offer. It’s been so long that I’ve been doing me, that it’s quite hard to entertain the thought of making room for someone as things stand now. Where would they fit in? What purpose would they serve? The long-term goal of most hetero-normative arrangements is marriage and children. I hardly feel suited for the former, and the jury’s still out on the latter. The immeasurable responsibility that comes with child-rearing doesn’t scare me as much as procreating with the wrong woman does. Having to deal with any type of drama at this point, let alone that of the baby mama variety, is exactly what I’m trying to avoid. Things are stable, food is on the table, my mind is sound, and my body is able. Let’s keep it that way.

Saturday, July 13, 2013

Write Where I Left Off.

During one of our recent sessions I told Francis that I felt like my life wasn’t particularly interesting or exciting enough to blog about. Ever one to point out the positives, he replied by saying something to effect of, “look how far you’ve come over the past year or six months even.” He rose a valid point, as the “get right, stay right” campaign has taken me from the hospital, to a homeless shelter, to functional stability.

I have now resided at the same address for a little over five months. For someone whose residential history is something that would make a tribe of gypsies jealous, this is worth mentioning. In Atlanta I had four different addresses in eleven months, then came home to my mother’s house, which, of course didn’t last long. Through it all Whole Foods has been the anchor and one of few consistencies (the other being Francis’ presence) that I can think of off top.

Back to the point though. To someone afflicted by bipolar disorder in particular, or someone going through it in general, I suppose this is evidence that things do indeed get better. When I cannot say, but my own positive trajectory is case in point. I am slowly starting to rebuild. I’m sitting on my bed typing this looking at my closet, and there are a decent collection of jeans hanging in the armoire as well as eight pairs of shoes. The return of the shoe collection is a good sign. Though I only really wear two or three pairs max, this is what it used to be like back in the day, when things were on point. Though I may not ever been as materially overloaded as I was, it does feel nice to ever so incrementally be working my way back to “normal.”

My main goal is to just maintain and improve from this point forward. While I flirted with the idea of returning to grad school, it was more of a whimsical thought, as fleeting as it was impulsive. Aside from the massive debt it would require accruing, my heart was never really into it. I fancy myself a writer, and if external opinion is any indication it’s where my greatest strength, or gift, if you will lies.

All pertinent signs from educators, to friends, to career placement tests have pointed me in the writing direction. I want to inspire and be inspired while doing so. None of this requires a degree or a return to the pasture that in some respects I feel I may have outgrown. I understand that people far older than my 31 years return to school, but in some respects it would be like putting a ladder against the wrong wall than climbing up. A waste of precious resources namely my time, energy, and money. I could be a pretty decent clinician, but I feel most at home writing. Though it may take some time to get the rhetorical ferocity and creative inventiveness back, it’s just a matter of getting the rust off. I look at it like being out of shape, and getting back into top from through concerted diligent effort.

Though getting an MSW would certainly help me be of service to others, I’m not even sure if I’d excel at it. While I can be a great listener when I want to be, I can be as aloof and spacy as others when the mind drifts. Furthermore, being a therapist takes a lot of objectivity and patience; though I’m sure this is part of their professional training, part of me is already knowing my first instinct would be to shake the shit out of non-compliant or frustrating clients. 

I just edited/updated this post then Chrome decided to crash on me. Hate it when that happens, may or may not revisit this post. 
______

Friday, July 12, 2013

The Write Way

I’ve started to write again, not just here on the blog, but an old co-worker/mentor/friend tapped me to ghostwrite the foreword for a book he’s working on. It feels good to get the juices flowing again, as it had been some time.

Left to my own devices, I’m not always sure what to write about, but when given “a beat” so to speak, it helps. By beat, I mean it’s like a rapper having something to go off of, as opposed to rhyming a capella. That’s something I do miss about school, was the external motivation it gave me to write, and typically do my best work. Intrinsic motivation can be hard to come by, for whatever reason.


I applied for a writing job, which would have paid considerably more than Whole Foods, enough to make the commute to the financial district worthwhile. Besides, in would have put me in a better light to shine; to make use of what others told me is my greatest strength. I’ve pretty much capped out as a cashier at the Register. I done learned all of the produce codes, I can. What I’m doing at work, isn’t exactly making a difference in anyone’s life, and isn’t that what we are all most ideally put here to do?


Wednesday, July 10, 2013

Yes, I'm ready.

Recently I've been wondering if I haven't found someone to date because I still have feelings for her or if I still have feelings for her because I haven't found someone to date.

If the past decade is any indication, I'll always have feelings for her in some capacity as she is the quintessential, "one that got away." At the same time, despite the tone of the recent "I miss her..." post, though still present, the nostalgia has transformed from a beautiful sadness to far more of an acceptance. 

I've heard about something called eternal mourning as practiced by women in rural India after their husbands pass. Instead of remarrying they wear black everyday in memory of their deceased. Also, there is semi-confirmed legend of Joe Dimaggio, who sent flowers to Marilyn Monroe's grave every year until he died. Part of me thinks there is something honorable and romantic about notions of static and perpetual mourning. 

If love is in the cards for me, I'm almost certain it'll be a process as opposed to a head-over-heels type of deal. I feel as ready as I've been in years to entertain the prospect, but speaking of the matter, there is that tricky part of finding someone. After creating and deleting an okcupid account for the last time, I've decided that I'm a bit too old school for the online scene. The women I received messages from weren't my type physically or otherwise (despite the site's matching algorithm) , and left much to be desired. 

Then there's the old adage, "The best way to get over someone is to get under someone new." Though I'm not knocking those who have casual sex, it's never been my cup of tea. Besides, at this point, after doing me (literally and figuratively) for so long, full-blown intercourse may be a tad much for the senses right now. Perhaps I forgot how bomb meaningful sex can be with its innumerable benefits, but I was reminded at work recently when a cute co-worker of mine (perhaps inadvertently) grabbed my hand. I got a rush off it, and if that's all it takes to tingle the senses, something tells me continuing to abstain may be the best course of action.

Then again, in the heat of the moment, with years of pent up energy within, the hormones could have their own plans. I've been spending a lot of time recently thinking when it'll happen again for me and with whom. As Barbara Mason belted out so magnificently and magically, "yes, I'm ready."

Say it Ain't So Francis.

My therapist, Francis, is leaving. This marks the second straight therapist of mine who has left for greener pastures to be a clinician at Harvard. My feelings were mixed. As much as I love Francis' more than competent ears (I swear he is like a voice recorder, able to echo back my thoughts at his whim) and high vegal tone (i.e. his naturally chipper demeanor), I feel like I'm in a good place (thanks in large part to having gone to therapy consistently over the past year) and am ready to go without seeing someone for a while.

He is often my go-to confidante for my truest thoughts, and it dawned on me awhile back that after a point, confiding in and depending on a clinician as a social outlet may be inhibitive towards developing certain types of pro social bonds outside of his office. I'm more comfortable using the word, "I" with Francis than with pretty much anyone else. Maybe I've been spoiled by his expertise, but it seems most people don't listen but rather wait to talk, so leading with an "I" in general conversation often seems to leave me frustrated. I'm not complaining as I'm far more of a listener than a speaker, but it is nice to have someone to vent to, who is 1)genuinely concerned with the goings on in your and 2) savvy and seasoned enough to assist in making sense of my thoughts.

Sunday, July 7, 2013

I Miss Her ...

But a few things I miss.

I miss her light, a brilliant levity she brought to my life that has been absent ever since.
I miss her voice, the unmistakably pressured speech that flowed through tightly clenched teeth and pursed lips.
I miss her smile, the shy, uneasy, yet adorable way she would grin as if she didn't know how.
I miss tearing up the mall around Christmas time for her, as she was truly appreciative of the bounty I brought back. Giving was its own gift as I got to see her eyes light up as she opened up her presents.
I miss her body laying on top of and next to mine. Her petite pear-shaped figure had a gelatinous consistency that simply melted into my own weight.
I miss the inside jokes, most of which concerned ghetto-isms that she lived and I admired her for surviving.
I miss the way she would make me proud of her and us. Nobody expected us to last as long as we did. Even though it was only two and a half years, people somehow seemingly expected us to fail even sooner. She would run into mutual acquaintances on campus, and tell them we were still alive and kicking, then report the interactions back to me.
I miss her being the one-stop shop for all of my social needs.
I miss the magnetic pull she had over me. I remember being out with my friends at a party on campus one night, and all I could do was think about her. I couldn't wait to leave, and ending up doing so early, to come home, lay next to her, and watch a Reese Witherspoon movie (Freeway) that she liked.
I miss her deep, layered, complex spirit, embattled soul, and textured personality.
I miss how she was like ready-made family when I was 3,000 miles away from my own; a yet-to-be wife, who had the familiarity of a cousin, the vulnerability of a daughter, the warmth of a mother, the soul of a sister.
I miss the way she would stare at me for no reason, her longing gaze through strikingly round orbs that protruded ever so slightly and were separated at a distance slightly greater than average, but not abnormally so.
I miss the way we were in our own world together; in a time when nothing mattered except our shared space.
I miss the way she would teach me Spanish idioms that she would utter when exasperated (hijo de su puta madre maaaan!), and laugh when I spoke properly due to my textbook training.
I miss her being my down-ass chick, that went go any extreme lengths to prove her love, though she didn't even have to, most of the time I was left nonplussed at her demonstrations of affection.
I miss the wildly unpredictable, usually inappropriate, things that would come out of her mouth at any given time.
I miss her, the cheerleader who wasn't afraid to tell me how special she thought I was, at any given time without prompting.
I miss her fearlessness, wrapped up in her five-foot frame.
I miss her fiery temper that would explode on impulse.
I miss her intellect and inquisitiveness as she would be my "scout" for information, devouring books by Mexican authors (e.g. the late, great Carlos Fuentes and Octavio Paz), and then reporting her findings back to me.
I miss her uncommon honesty, a bluntness that rubbed many the wrong way, but one that I adored.
I miss her inexorable dedication to self-improvement.
I miss her introspective queries that began with, "Do you think___??"
I miss her love of rap, and her ears that would listen to the same songs as me, just to hear a clever/favorite line.
I miss her diving into my world head-first.
I miss her preoccupation with the number seven (perhaps why I felt compelled to write this on 7/7)
I miss her irreplaceable, run-through-a-wall-for-you love.
I miss her; boy, I tell ya, I miss her.



Get Your Shine On

In the wrong light even the the most brilliant diamond won't shine right.

Monday, July 1, 2013

From the Outside Looking In.

I learned a sibling of a friend (who also happens to be black) seems to be having his own struggles with bipolar disorder, and as fate would have it found himself in the same psych facility that I have been in countless times. Hearing tales of his mania, which include a newfound religiosity, grandiosity, paranoia, and delusion evoked many a feeling and unearthed many a memory that had long ago been repressed.

While his descent into mania was shocking, I was left even more incredulous by the concern that the condition generated from his loved ones. To know that that  was me at a time (okay, several times) was humbling and left me incredibly appreciative (or even moreso, I should say) of those who have reached out in support and care during my rough patches.


meh.

I'm not quite sure why the motivation to write has been so low over the past couple of months, but that's not to say there haven't been any goings on worth mentioning.

I'm still at Whole Foods, and it's been just over seven months now. I've never held a single job for over a year, so that's my goal. It helps knowing that even the slightest hiccup could spell disaster as it's my main (read:only) source of income. Stated differently, my back is against the wall, and without the meager earnings I could just as soon find myself back homeless. So yea, I go to work everyday, do my job to the best of my ability, and repeat.

The job provides a nice escape from the suburban miasma that is Newton. My co-workers and the clientele are incredibly diverse, so it doesn't feel as vanilla as other jobs in the area have left me feeling in the past.

Speaking of work, a co-worker of mine moved him. Having him here has been good for the spirits, as he carries a positive energy and a solid work ethic to boot. Gone are the days when I would come home from work solo, pound a 40 oz, and commence to getting high. The chemical dependency has abated, and now I only drink and blaze in moderation. I'm glad I nipped it in the bud, because 1) they weren't the cheapest of indulgences and 2) nicotine is still a major vice of mine, so there was no need to "be greedy" (as my friend put it) or pile on so to speak.

I've been working out consistently for just over three weeks now. I'm hovering around 195 lbs with a body fat percentage of about 16%. While not great, it leaves room for improvement, as ideally, I'd like to be the same weight, but around 13% body fat. I benched 225 a couple of times cleanly, and feel like if I keep this pace up I'll set a new personal record of 245 in no time.