Tuesday, July 22nd, 2008
It’s come to my attention that I hate conformity. Even if I am leaning more towards liking something that is very conventional & mainstream, I will either talk myself out of liking it… or I will make use of it in an unconventional way. This goes for music, clothing, jewelry, food & other things. I just don’t like seeming like a follower; like I’m going along with everyone else. I’d rather be a leader.
This isn’t to say that I call myself a Leader; the noble & stressful task of being a sole decision maker frightens me. No, I’d much rather accidentally be a leader. In that very effortless, casual, “Who? me?” sort of way. If I could lead without intentionally trying to, I would feel accomplished. If I could change people’s opinions about themselves, giving them something to think about, if I could influence someone in a positive way, be it physically or emotionally, I would feel absolutely honored. If I could quiet the useless mutterings of conformity in this society, & if I could do this based on my personal experiences & thoughts, while recording them diligently in this diary… I would feel utterly blessed. Maybe this is my true calling.
My mother always said that I had a gift with my words & mannerisms. Aside from looks, I think that would be the next thing people would notice about me: the articulate way that I speak & personable manner in which I open myself up to people & let them in; I wear my heart on my sleeve, so to speak. I care too much & this often gets me into emotional trouble. I think that is why I have a tendency to try to convince myself that helping a certain someone wouldn’t be beneficial; that is… if they have a bit of trouble regarding love or relationships, it’s better to be kind & butt out, than get totally involved in something that I have no power in really changing. I know this based on experience. When I get emotionally involved in someone & in their story, I cannot let it go. I will take them & their problems underneath my wing, wrap my head around their issues several times & never cease to try to fix everything. It’s a dangerous trait of mine, but one I am learning to accept as a gift & not so much a curse.
I am not bragging; I suppose I’m just being practical & very thankful that I have the ability to make people listen to me; something that I haven’t really noticed until recently. All thanks to this honest & eager diary of mine. I don’t know if I realize what I got myself into, really; with this diary & within this entry now.
I also noticed that ever since my entry about beauty — which was not at all meant to be a soapbox edition of attention & complaints — I have shied away from saying certain things for fear that I will seem pretentious & self-centered. & while I know that these things are not true, that I am very humble & modest & meek in my abilities to bring attention to myself, sub-consciously I have been feeling guilty. My husband called me beautiful the other day & after that, he immediately followed with a “Sorry, I know how much you hate that.” & while I understand why he would say that — I was really irate & passionate about everything that was said in my beauty post; I still am — I felt a little sad. I thought, Gosh… did I go about this in the wrong way? Because now I feel like am being misunderstood.
That got me into thinking: words are extremely powerful. I think they may even be more powerful than beauty itself. Because, words can be implied directly or indirectly; they can be mysterious & touching; they can bold & melancholy; they can nonchalant & intriguing; they can be silent & revealing. Which then got me into thinking that I should choose my own words wisely, in any situation, because I’ve seen that they have an obvious power to them. Always, my intention is only to stir up creativity. Most of the time, I am just thinking out loud, contrary to popular belief.
I am sporadic in my words today because my mind is a muddled mess of ideas & interesting thought processes. The proof in that is in the way that I wrote it all down here; if I can write something in 10 minutes flat, without much editting or brooding, then it’s coming completely from my heart & not so much my brain. Which means… this is a real, honest to goodness diary entry, revealing my innermost thoughts & notions.
Also… this is my 100th entry.
t-shirt, from American Apparel; pants are thrifted; shoes, from Ross; headband, from Target; jewelry is miscellaneous.
Monday, July 21st, 2008
t-shirt, from American Apparel; shorts & sandals, from Ross; tights, from Target; scarf used to be my sister’s sarong.
I feel a little awkward taking photographs of myself & my outfits right after my previous controversial post about beauty. I hate to seem the least bit vainglorious or — heaven forbid! — hypocritical. & to be honest, if that is how I seem… I just don’t care. My head is still spinning about that topic but, life (as I know it) must go on, & to dwell on something that will never have complete clarification anyway is not only a waste of my time, but a waste of my energy. For all of my thoughts were dwelling on this complicated subject for months & months, & I am so tired, exhausted rather, of thinking about it. Instead, I am trying to find serenity in knowing that I have had my say, as lengthy & irate as it was, & have laid my words to rest here, in my most safest space.
All of that aside: Over the last few months, I have realized that I am a very simple girl; much more simple, I think, than I ever really knew. Just based on my last few shopping trips, I have come to see that I have a tendency to go more for minimalistic & conservative outfits. Most of the items in my closet have no prints or patterns, & I tend to lean more towards clean cuts & modest styles. I prefer it this way. My husband thinks I should dress a little bit more… funky. But I am growing to really adore my personal style more & more. It may not be terribly original or awe-worthy, but it is my own. Not to mention, I have an uncanny way of styling myself on a frugal budget! That is an art, in & of itself.
Friday, July 18th, 2008
I’ve been pondering over the word “beautiful” & have been trying to collect my thoughts surrounding its myths & misconceptions. It’s true that everyone wants to be considered beautiful or charming. Everyone, I’m sure, has wished they could be someone else. All because the grass seems greener on the other side of things. I am certainly guilty of these thoughts & I’m not too ashamed to admit that. Well, maybe just a little.
Talking about “beauty” is difficult for me; I want everyone to know this. I can never find the right words to describe my feelings on the matter. Even now, I am stuttering over my thoughts as though I am speaking them out loud. Beauty has so much relevance in this world, which makes it extremely powerful & impacting. To not be “beautiful” is to be shunned & looked over; to be unattractive (not just physically, but mentally) is to be lonely & undesirable. This cruel world is doing numbers on the minds of women because of these cosmetic judgments. For instance, I think it’s a shame that one must be a certain size to be the acceptable weight; not too thin, not too “fat.” I find it hard to stomach the fact that most plus size models are a size 5. How can that be? I wear a size 5; does this mean I am plus size? This whole idea of beauty & weight & appearance makes me terribly distressed; not just for me, but for others.
I will not lie that this whole subject boils me even more so because, with my outward appearance, there is a bit of a misconception that none of this would be of any concern to me. I suppose I have no real reason to complain, depending on how you look at it. But that’s what troubles me most: why shouldn’t I complain? Does it make me a strange girl to be irked by the amount of pressure that is put on me — by my family, mostly — to be the pretty one? Am I weird to be bothered by suffocating compliments by strangers? Is there something wrong with me that instead of enjoying this attention that I find it disgusting & materialistic?
This so-called “beauty” comes with a price. I’ve been in scary situations where I have been followed in stores by gawking men, holding their crotches & making grunting noises in their throats. I’ve had men in their 60s strike up conversations with me, just to see if I’d like to date them. I’ve been driving in my car, & had hoodlums shout at me from their windows, asking if they could “holler” at me. I have been innocently window shopping in the mall, only to be grabbed by the arm by a nosy admirer & asked, “What ARE you?” (& by this question, they mean to know what nationality I am. Apparently, it’s difficult for people to decipher my ethnicity because I get this infringing question most.)
Disturbingly, I have been poked, pinched & prodded about my weight. There have been so many times where a random stranger will creep up to me & ask me if I ever eat. Some have even asked me point blank if I have an eating disorder. Of course I don’t! But even so, is it any of their business to know why I am so thin? Does it even matter? I’ve toyed with the idea of answering them in a simple way, “Why, yes. As a matter of fact I DO have an eating disorder. Thank you for noticing!” just to see the ridiculous looks on their faces, hoping they have learned their lesson in asking presumptuous & trespassing questions.
All the while, I am not trying to bring this senseless attention to myself. I don’t wear revealing or loud clothes. I’m not strutting down a hot pavement in heels & a cocktail dress. I am not fishing for compliments; I am not expecting approval. I am just myself. I am quiet, shy & a bit timid. Truthfully, I try to go unnoticed most of the time. Yet… people flock to me as though I’m asking for their undivided fixations. Sometimes, I just want to be left alone. Sometimes I want to be treated like I am — dare I say? — obsolete.
There are some women who enjoy this kind of flattery; some are models, some are movie stars, & some are just urban divas in need of a sufficient compliment to lift their spirits. I am not any of these women. I am not one to brag. While I have been blessed with the features of my mother & father, I do not gloat in what has been given to me. I don’t want to be made a spectacle of. I don’t want to be known for my looks or my legs or my hair; I want to be known for my mind & the words that escape my mouth.
I loathe knowing that beauty is such a big factor in this world. It makes me sick to hear women say that the reason they get plastic surgery to correct their “flaws” is because “prettier women make it farther in life.” Is that really so? I mean, statistically I’m sure… but does it truly matter? & why? To know I am apart of this statistic, a statistic I never wanted to be in at all, infuriates me. I hate knowing that little girls — much like my 13 year old cousin — are obsessed with their looks & depict long hair, for instance, as being one of the biggest indicators of female beauty. Who decided this? Quite frankly, I could care less if I even had hair & I’ve played with the idea of shaving it off, just to prove that hair doesn’t make beauty.
If I could declare one thing to the world, it would be that I am more than just my looks. Because I hate to think that all of the jobs I got was because I was “pretty” or all the friends I made liked me because I was “pretty” or the reason Lover fell in love with me was because I was “pretty.” If I could dumb myself down a little to show that I have flaws & low levels of confidence, I would, if only to make beauty seem useless. I would love to shout from the rooftops of this superficial city “The grass is never greener on the other side.” I would love to tell each woman that they are beautiful, regardless of what they look like. They are beautiful because they are alive, because they are breathing air, because they smile & laugh, because they are unique, because they are themselves.
Beauty is nothing without intelligence. Beauty is nothing without integrity or modesty. Beauty is nothing without personality or imperfections. Beauty is nothing without heart or kindness. Beauty is nothing without originality or self-sacrifice. & even with all of those things, beauty is fleeting.
Wednesday, July 16th, 2008
Even though it happened over a year ago, I am still brutally affected by memories. When I try to overlook the past, the emotional scars stare me right in the face, making me recall that night in graphic detail. I just cannot forget, even while I try my damnedest. This bothers me so much.
After everything, I haven’t been able to look at substances in the same way (alcohol, cigarettes, drugs of any kind). What used to be harmless alcohol is no longer; it is a door into deadly & addicting worlds. The same kind of worlds that almost took my Love away from me. I become uneasy when I know these substances are around me or Lover. I do not drink because of this. I haven’t had a drink in over a year. It’s true that the past (&, shamefully, fear) has aided this decision, but it’s my own choice.
When he comes to bed smelling like booze & cigarettes, my heart falls. When I see him reach for another beer, everything inside of me cringes. I begin to feel all of those emotions I felt back then, when I suspected his dishonesty & bad behavior. All those lonely nights, waiting for him to call; worried sick about him in my bed, trying to reach him during the late hours. I was never relieved when I found out that he was too drunk to remember to call me & so he passed out before even having a second thought about it. He was safe, yes… but not sound. Whenever I brought my ill-feelings to his attention, telling him that I was worried about the people he was around & the habits he was forming, he would soothe my fears, saying that everything was okay; that I could trust him. If there is one word I cannot stand it would be trust. Not just for the meaning — I don’t believe it’s possible to truly trust anyone but yourself — but because it’s such an ugly sounding word. Trust.
Always, he would assure me that I was being silly & worrying over nothing, making me feel foolish for even thinking that something was the matter. Imagine the stupidity (mixed with a bit of pride) I felt when I knew he overdosed. I didn’t know if I should have kicked my own ass for being too dumb to see the signs, or if I should have been proud of my intuition on a matter [drugs] that I knew nothing about. Both completely legit feelings, yet, very contradictory. Regardless, I have never turned my back on an intuition, even when it’s uncomfortable to face. In my heart, I always know; my brain is reluctant to catch up, of course, but I always know.
All of this is not to say that I am in regret; no, everything happens for a reason. I love my husband, more than that small statement can contain. But how do you forget? Rather… how do you really & truly move on? There are days when his overdose is the farthest thing from my mind. Where I feel like it never happened, almost as if it were a horrible nightmare I had. Nothing in our lives now mimics anything of that time, so it seems almost silly to have such vivid recollections. But then… there are days where all I can focus on is the frightening feelings & the deceit that could have — should have — torn us apart.
I wish it would all just stop & let me be alone to be happy in the present. I wish for normalcy. I wish to not be so paranoid. I wish that the scars of the past would stop popping up at all the wrong times. Most importantly, I wish I could have an answer to these questions: do I wish the overdose never happened? or… Am I okay with everything that has transpired, indefinite healing processes & security issues included? I don’t know.
I can’t explain why I find myself talking about this, of all things, tonight & so terribly late, too. Maybe it’s because he is lying in our bed, snoring & stirring, smelling like that of a bar. Maybe it’s because he was a little dishonest with me tonight; or… maybe I am wrong.
One thing is for sure: this particular wound is taking the longest to heal & acknowledging it reopens it.
“We cannot change our memories, but we can change their meaning & the power they have over us.” — David Seamands.
Sunday, July 13th, 2008
A few months ago, Lover caught glimpse of my bulging, gluttonous closet & told me that he thinks I might have a slight problem; he may have even hinted an addiction. Of course, I objected to this & told him that I could refrain from buying anything until my birthday (which is in September) & that I could do it willingly, at that! He accepted my challenge & so it began. Everything that included clothes & beautification would be illegal: shoes, panties, shirts & shorts, jewelry, makeup. I was doing quite well until this past weekend.
Not only did I purchase some things from Trendy Blanks, but I went on a mini shopping rampage. It couldn’t have been helped; Lover’s family came out from Utah, & we took them to the shops around Old Town. How could we not get a little something? Surprisingly, it wasn’t me that needed to be held back from buying, but Lover. He was pulling things off the rack exclaiming, “Ohh, babe; what about this? Okay… this one, what about this one? Honey! This color would look so nice on you! Hold it up to you; what do you think? Okay, we’re getting it!”
He persuaded me to buy just 3 things: a shirt, a vest that Lover picked out, & a bag.
Parisian shirt & yellow vest, from Forever21; jeans, from Gossip; shoes, from Ross; bag, from H&M.
By the time the shopping was done, having spent more than several hours of indulgence in crowded stores, Lover was understandably exhausted, while I was going into a clothes/shopping coma. It was this weekend that I truly realized how much I loathe shopping. In fact, I’m fine with never shopping again; unless it’s online shopping, of course.
I also realized that I am pretty firm on my likes & dislikes when it comes to my personal style. While in Forever21, Lover was selecting items for me, but I declined practically every suggestion. He would pick out the brightest, most seemingly obnoxious colors; forest greens, cherry reds, neon blues & eggplant purples. It’s not that I don’t like these colors, I just prefer them to be more subtly done & not so in your face.
My poor, little Fashion Conscious husband in training. He seemed so crestfallen at my rejections. I would insist that it’s not that I don’t like what he’s picking out because he is picking it; I’m just not one for loud & dramatic colors. I prefer monochromes, nudes & neutrals; natural & earthy colors. Apparently, Lover would rather see me in sporadic prints & vivacious hues because they go against my skin tone so beautifully. I can’t disagree with that, but then again, I can’t agree enough to wear them. The vest is exempt because it’s not so terribly yellow that I feel like a walking street sign.
Bless my husband’s heart for trying to help.
Friday, July 11th, 2008
(This delightful picture was taken around Christmas time of last year (2007). There is no reason why I look distressed & why my husband looks so debonair & normal. I just can never willingly take a decent picture without making a silly face.)
My husband usually has amazing stories to tell. Last night, I asked him to tell me little Buddhist parables about finding enlightenment. He tells them so amazingly well & I enjoy them as if they were meant to be read before bedtime. I have to say, though, that I never understand these stories. Apparently, only those who have experienced “true enlightenment” could understand the vagueness of these parables — & I am not enlightened. Thus, they usually fly over my head so quickly that I barely have time to try to catch them. When I ask Lover to explain it to me, he just gives me this mysterious answer: “Once you perceive it without using your brain, you will understand it.” I loathe it when he says this.
In spite of that, I love them (& him) & always giggle when each story ends with “& then… he was enlightened.” I feel like that is too much of a dramatic conclusion for such a small tale! These stories are usually about desperate monks who desire to reach the highest level consciousness. So desperate, that they often cut off their arm or their finger, just to show the Master Guru (who has already reached enlightenment) that they are completely serious about wanting to be enlightened.
When the Master Guru senses their madness (& that’s really what it is: sheer & tangible madness, because really… who cuts off their arm, for Heaven’s sake, to prove a point?), he will tell them to do something completely off the wall — like purchase 3 pounds of flax, for instance — & apparently, that will show them the way to enlightenment. Suddenly, just as it’s getting interesting, Lover will announce: “& then… he was enlightened” which signals the end of the parable. These stories are often so serious that this simple statement from Lover sends me into fits of delightful laughter. & I can’t explain why it’s giggle-worthy. The way my husband says “& then… he was enlightened” just tickles me & makes me swoon, just ever so slightly. His voice is so deep & smooth; he never stutters when he speaks. Or… maybe he does stutter, but I would never notice because I’m too engrossed in the vibrations that his speech tends to send through my body. (This is quite true, by the way.)
A few months ago, my husband shared a story on his blog. This story is painfully true; almost to the point of disbelief. & when he tells this story, I do not laugh. I cry. Naturally, with every story there are 2 sides. In this case, one is his & the other is my own, because I was there as the story unfolded.
I wrote my side of the story in a haunting detail not too long ago, but threw it away; I couldn’t bear to publish it. Mostly because I didn’t want to immortalize it. Even speaking about it now, as vaguely as I am, it sends shivers down my back & reluctantly brings me back to the times when Lover & I had no connection; when there were nothing but secrets, lies & dishonesty between us. While I still kick myself for throwing such a decent piece of work into the garbage, I eventually realized that Lover’s story is our story together, no matter how sorrowful or shameful; that even though I didn’t tell my part, he is speaking for both of us. I am his wife, after all & it is his story to tell… not mine.
While I still play with the idea of rewriting my side to this story, I can never come to a decent conclusion. But that’s quite fine with me; everything in its right place, of course.
I admire my husband for having the courage to speak so candidly about something that hit us so terribly hard. I love him for his integrity & for his strength. I look up to him because of his ability to keep moving forward to become a better man for our little family & for himself. Despite our hardships in healing from the past, he is my hero, completely.
The story of his overdose on cocaine & his recovery is here.
Tuesday, July 8th, 2008
My life has been blissfully uneventful lately; & this makes me a pretty boring girl, because I never have anything to talk about. No stories to tell, no gossip to indulge in. Just everyday conversations, habitual chores & intimidating silences when I am alone. This is not to say that I’m complaining; I’m not. I enjoy my free time & I miss it when it’s gone. It’s just that wish I had something important to say these days. To be that girl to tell the funniest joke or the one who makes the best chocolate chip cookies. Something (anything!) at all.
My writing has suffered tremendously because of my stagnant little life. I can no longer conjure up amazing thought processes or heavy-duty contemplations; it’s as though I’m on vacation. My brain doesn’t seem to register that sort of important-like goal making, that “lets get down to business” mindset. Again, I’m not complaining; whining, mostly. I just wish I could give people something to talk about.
My husband & I have been terribly out of sync these past few months. We never get bored at the same time anymore, & if we do, it’s completely sporadic, like in the middle of the night when we should be in bed. If I am sleepy, he is wired & wants to wrestle in the sheets. If I am full of energy & ready to people watch, he is reluctantly glued to the couch, half awake/half asleep, breathing deeply & insisting that he’s not falling asleep. So because of this out of sync-ness, we go in & out of moods. I’ll adjust my mood to be more calm like his, & right as I’m drifting off into relaxation & mimicking his deep breathing, he is ready to get up & go somewhere & do somethings & wreak some havoc. & vice versa: he’ll begin to amp himself up for a “gay old time” (as we like to put it) so I can finally stop pestering him to get out of bed; & then I’ll become so lazy all of a sudden that nothing gets done. Equally, we both get irritated & exasperated, & that makes for a very long weekend.
Tonight is nothing short from Typical. Lover got tired almost immediately — I cannot blame him, for he works so very hard, without one complaint — & ended up retreating to our loft to “rest his eyes.” He’s been sleeping there ever since (7pm) & I was left downstairs, cold & lonely, watching an Alfred Hitchcock movie. This usually happens. We never go to bed at the same time. It’s never too far apart; no more than an hour or 2, but still… we’re completely out of sync. I hope that this is normal; because it’s often misconceived that in wedded bliss, the sun sets & rises on each other & that we’ll be too busy wrapped up in each other to barely come up for air. Of course, this is true on some days, but on most… we’re usually involved in something opposite each other. Life, usually.
I must admit that I have been shying away from this little diary — getting too personally involved in it, I
mean — because I know that there is a listening audience. An audience of strangers, yes, but still… a listening audience. I have always been a bit timid when it comes to being put on the spot, & while I’ve tried to make sure that this place is the most safest of them all, I feel like the spotlight is constantly on bright here, exposing me to the world, making me vulnerable & susceptible to jeers (or cheers, maybe).
& to know that I am putting myself willingly under a microscope, not only within my own thoughts but within my massive, unimpressive wardrobe, well, that is far from my character. & by far, I mean… far. & that just makes this whole thing even more interesting because I’ve always been overly private. Again, I am not complaining; just whining, I guess.
Then, I begin to think just how many people actually read my diary & how many feel like they know me so well already, just on what I’ve revealed here. I’m curious to know, actually. I’ve often wondered who might these people be; what might they look like? & could we ever be true friends?
Button-down frock, from a thrift store; rolled up capris & sandals, from Ross; messanger bag (filled with all of my tricks), from Forever21.
Monday, July 7th, 2008
This weekend was terribly hot, terribly long, & terribly lazy. There were only 2 days that I got dressed up. On the other days, I was locked inside of my tiny, air conditioned apartment, wrapped in the arms of my Lover, clad in pajamas & bed head. & even then, he still calls me beautiful.
My 4th of July was nothing to brag about. Lover & I stayed indoors mostly, watching The Twilight Zone marathon all day. In the evening, we went for an alcohol run (Lover’s drink of choice was beer, while mine was root beer) & the only fireworks we saw was in our own front yard. We are impeccably low-key.
Friday: rummaging through Ross, keeping a low profile.
Dress, from long ago; vest/dress-thing, from Angl; shoes, from Ross; necklace is my own.
I found this dress at the same place I found this dress. The name of the store escapes me now, but this dress pretty much started my new-found fashion freedom. Up until recently, I had always worn it with jeans, because I found it too short. (I have a tendency of keeping my best assets concealed.) But with it being so hot, how could I wear this marvelous dress with jeans? I don’t think I could.
Saturday: running errands & a UFC fight.
White shirt, a hand-me-down from my mother; shorts & sandals, from Ross; Om necklace was a present from Lover.
I like to think that this simple attire would be perfect for treasure hunting or lounging along the beach. But really, I wanted to wear something easy in order to accentuate my new little treasures: my gold sandals.
These darling little shoes are by Chinese Laundry, which doesn’t matter very much to me. What does matter is that I wanted to buy these shoes several weeks ago. They were $15 at the time, but I talked myself out of buying them. (Gas & groceries are of more importance, after all.) I thought I would never see them again… until yesterday. I was scouring Ross again & to my surprise, I saw the shoes hanging on a rack. The best part was that they were ridiculously reduced to $6! I think I may have squealed in delight, but I don’t remember. Now, normally, I wouldn’t be so excited about a pair of shoes — because they’re just shoes, for Heaven’s sake! — but I adored them the moment I saw them, & to find them at such a steal… I was just flabbergasted.
Lover even said to me, “See, honey? See what happens when you have patience? Now you’ve got your shoes.” & I thought, Yes… & they’re all mine. (If I knew how to mimic the perfect evil laugh, I would have, right there in the middle of that very crowded store.) I guess I did do a bit of treasure hunting…
I’d also like to add a few things, regardless if they matter or not:
- Ross has some very interesting shoes as of lately. Before I found my treasure, I was oogling over the exclusive brands of shoes they have to offer: a lot of Marc Jacobs shoes; heels, flip-flops, flats & strappy sandals, marked ridiculously low. Also, Nine West, Jessica Simpson & Chinese Laundry heels galore. I don’t know what they did to score such exquisite shoes, & if I wore heels I would have been in sheer heaven. But I don’t, so I wasn’t. Nevertheless, I was quite impressed.
- I am very surprised (& partially thrilled) at how tan I’ve gotten. I didn’t think I was getting that much sun. But apparently I am, since I am now sporting the perfect shade of bronze. I used to dislike the darkening of my skin; so much that I would rarely go out in the sun during the summer. & although I am still trying to get used to my new color, I think I fancy it a little.
This very long weekend with Lover was wonderful; so long & wonderful that I’ve become perpetually longwinded.