Posted 1:47 PM by Anonymous

10, 000 TEARS AND NONE THE RICHER

Hey guys, I’ve dug up a journal entry from years past. You guessed it, I'm not feeling inspired to write and I'm not about to force myself to write something either, at least not today. This particular journal entry was the first one written after I moved [far] away from home- a particularly traumatic experience. All things considered, I was embarrassingly vulnerable at the time and had very mixed feelings about the sordid departure as I was embarking on a new unplanned phase of my life. At the time, I was escaping attack from every which direction you could imagine. It was a period when everything fell apart and I was just trying to outrun my misfortunes...I have been with R (my current SO) for at least 3 years now. And, no, I've never taken antidpressants, nor will I ever. If you're a daddy to a sweet adorable little girl, this may enlighten you a little bit about how a daughter will break a father's heart in time and how much it hurts, though she may not express it physically - all grown up.

On a side note, prayers for Key. God bless her heart, her soul and her family.

Now indulge yourselves. I had to unlock my diary for this sucker.

Saturday Oct. 14, 2000. 5: 39 a.m.
It’s been a month, hasn’t it? And too much has happened and I feel it is a crime for me to have been so lazy.
Well, I’ve passed the initiation phase of a relationship and now I fear that I am growing more and more attached. Just today, after R left for his biweekly 5-hour drive to see his son and attend to business at the other auxiliary offices, I felt almost sad as I waved him off from our 3rd floor window. Was I getting so soft?
I meant to write about Pierre Trudeau, our beloved 15th Prime Minister, who passed this month. I had thought up such an honorable farewell poem expressing my gratitude for feeling as though I somehow belonged as a minority in what seemed to me, a whitewashed country. His vision of Canada as a leader, or my interpretation of it, seemed somewhat idyllically spanned to include me in it as one of his own. I felt a part of a nation and his warmth certainly made me believe that equity stands firm within him. I felt like he was on my side and I rooted for him, though Trudeau mania was gone before my time. Like his son Justin said in his last words at the public funeral procession in Montreal, “Rest, for you have earned your sleep.” Indeed he has. Pierre was 84? years old. I feel awful that Sarah (his illegitamite daughter) has lost her father at such a young age. I hope that his absence is replaced by a genuine surrogate parent to nurture whatever emotional anomalies she may encounter along down the road. As for the boys, they’ve got a tough act to follow and I feel for them in that respect as well. I know what a load of pressure that can be and then to be scrutinized nationally and to a lesser degree, internationally, boy, I’ll pass.
On a more selfish note, I’ve been seriously considering a doctor visit for a therapist referral. I think it may be time to be prescribed for my mental debunk. It's hearsay, but I may be suffering from a mental disease and pills really aren’t such a bad idea? So I’m a little low on seratonin, I don’t think it would hurt to give these artificial wonder drugs a try. At this point, after 3 years of non-accomplishments, I think the suggestive possibility of relying on drugs is welcome in my sanctuary. I’ve had enough of this blundering wave-it’s time for lift-off. So I’ll hide them from R. Denial shall bite me no more. So I accept the failure to make myself naturally happy and I take the pills. Go against society’s insult to popular belief that there are sad people for no real apparent reason, get artificially stimulated and move on. You can have everything and still be sad. So it is a disease. I’m mentally diseased.
On another note, my progress in *Narnia is nothing short of mediocre. I haven’t found a decent job yet since I got here and part of the reason was because of my slow adjustment to being alone and finally parent-free. I have cried in shame, guilt, relief and sadness for my far-away family many times after the telephone was hung up. It’s true I miss them, but I wouldn’t go back. It would be 10 life squares back on the board and one penalty miss a turn. Forget it, I could never catch up in this game where I feel as though I am already so many squares behind. O.k., so R and I are in a 1 bedroom, 3 floor apartment in northeast *Narnnims. Of which we occupy rooms behind door #305. (equaling 8-for the number conscious individuals like R) The significance? Who knows. We almost have a routine now, except we are still waiting on a job for me. I admit that my job search effort is not as thorough as it could be, but there are my excuses of the 'emotionally traumatic' nature. The other day I received an e-mail from my brother writing under the false name “Saint” that he suspected my father was drinking again because he had thrown out some chardonnay bottles and I broke down in front of R’s eyes. He witnessed a real “Mira” moment. Me, silently dealing with the breakdown process-first the shock and the blur of the blinking cursor, then the slow methodical reminder that someone is watching…so the suppressed display of emotions, the physical displacement to get away and be alone…then the intense torrent of 'flood thoughts’ that overtake your body and propel you on a journey to question, assess, decess, articulate, then lay blame... and finally to bow out and allow the suffering to complete the grand cathartic show. Ultimately, I paid the price and cried for my father’s self-destruction and how it hurt me that I may be the root of his descent to end mortality. He quit drinking cold turkey at a real low point after being diagnosed with diabetes; a trade-off for what he had secretly feared might have been some kind of fatal cancer. His liver was a mess. That day I sang my tenfold choir Messiahs and Hallelujahs to the heavens, my 20 years of prayers had been answered. Though he still smoked cigarettes.
In any case, I was hurt because of our tarnished relationship and how I felt responsible for his pain. It killed me that it was this way and how he was reacting to our sour result. I didn’t want it to affect him. So late night, the rented movie went ignored and I lay in bed trying to breathe from all sinuses and cavities freshly swollen shut from localized edema and fluid overflow and tried to stay head above the water that was floating my heart up to my throat within the parameters of my rib cage. I was drowning in my own remorse and I could feel the suffocation wreaking havoc on my panic button. My thumb went numb with tingles and I shook it violently in anguish. So on it went as I struggled to breathe calmly from my mouth…that chest not inflating much less deflating properly. Eventually, I fell asleep with R’s surely arm patting me from time to time…trying to laugh off the remnants of that painful ordeal. So I fake laugh with him over light jabs and fake tickles, believing still that laughter is the best medicine. Something my father anonymously taught me in his wake.
I continue on, bravely. As weak as I am, each day at a time, now getting desperate for a suitable job while R continues on with his share of stresses, as my #1 supporter and lover. God I love that man. I am in charge of mess duty. My Korean cookbook arrived in the mail yesterday and I STILL can’t cook. Keph said the other day, ‘Man Work, Man come home, Man HUNGRY’ tell me about it. My man comes home, his throat dried out, lunging for food. He’s very patient. I am very lucky.