Lots of thoughts randomly inserted - sorry in advance.
Within the last 365 days, I sank into a dark place. This dark place was familiar, but only as an acquaintance - it was like that person you meet and only know on the surface, and nothing more. But this time around, the stint was longer and I became entangled in the darkness.
Scratch that, actually it has been about 525 days of this (and yes, I had to use my excel sheet to calculate the approximate dates).
Anyway, while the smiles and the laughs were real and genuine with those who I've been lucky to be around, I would eventually soon break alone. Many days I would come home and fall on my knees. And to be clear, there was no alcohol or substance abuse involved...my mind just took me there. It was to a point of feeling worthless day over day and I didn't know how to fix it except to let myself be alone and let only the closest and safest people I knew know of the overwhelming sadness. For those who were there, thank you.
In the past, I turned to comedy in moments like this, but this time around, it wasn't there because I decided at a certain point that whatever I contributed was once again worthless not only because I was mentally not available but the work and the process in and off itself was worthless because I was worthless. And that anything comedic that I did was only for attention and validation and who wants to do that? Of course, that's not true, but at the time, those were the thoughts and that's where I was.
It was the same sad tune every day...and eventually my posture changed, the way I laughed changed, I could no longer sleep regularly, my health deteriorated and I lost a lot of weight, and the way I saw things got distorted and I didn't know what to do except to finally seek out help.
Seeking help from someone with a license was the first logical step and to be honest, it did help. It was my left brain saying, "Yo homie, you need to fix this shit. Let people who know about these things help you."
But there was still a part of me that was still not satiated and still very unhappy...and that was my right brain, the spiritual self, that thing that I shut off awhile back because it was stupid and in my head it was just mysticism and mystics were just people who were escapist and out of touch with reality.
I didn't want to be a mystic and I don't want to be out of touch with reality because, seriously, how are we supposed to live, grow, and contribute if we are off twirling in a fake green field filled with lollipops and rainbows while there are people out there suffering? And if we are relying on a higher being that supposedly can help you but only to know that that might not even exist, what's the point? So I shut it off.
Shutting it off was a mistake.
Shutting comedy off was a mistake.
So the question(s) for me was how do I balance the right and the left, when does logic get thrown out the window and the view of the free spirit, limitless, paradox accepting person come into play? Can we strike a balance and let one yield to the other when needed? If so, how? If so, does that make me a right/left mind panderer of convenience because I don't want to be one...
And that's where I landed - how do I become mindfully ambidextrous that makes sense to me and allows me to take in the world in a more productive and positive ways.
To be continued (hopefully).
**Also, thank you to those who responded to my FB Post.
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
Saturday, June 7, 2014
Life Curations
I got a ticket at eighteen that gave me a chance to do whatever I wanted in my life. It wasn’t first class by any stretch of the imagination, but it was a seat nonetheless. A seat to exploration, education, growth, and the realization of myself.
Growing up I was carefully watched over by my parents with every move and activity strategically curated by them. They struggled to make sure our (I had a brother and a sister) foundation was strong by providing us a stable and safe home (the best way they knew how), the pleasure of competitive camaraderie through sports, an appreciation for the complexity in fine arts, and the value of learning and education - we were benefitting in ways that we would only appreciate later in life.
I, then, felt confined, misunderstood, and incomplete despite this regimented love because parts of it wasn’t all me. And after thirty years, these three words would continually be repeated – over and over again. And each time I felt confined, misunderstood, and incomplete, I would run away in hopes of happiness and self actualization.
It’s an ongoing process, and to be honest, I’m not sure whether or not I’m doing a disservice to myself by running away when these negative emotions are present. All I know now is that each time I do move away or remove myself, there are amazing lessons to be found especially after some time of self reflection.
Our emotions are there as signs to take actions to alleviate and turn things around. And whenever I’ve noticed those three words becoming an ever present darkness hovering over me , I would go back to the basic tools given to me, but this time in my own way.
I turned back to people and places that made me feel safe, I started exercising again, I look to comedy, improv, and writing as an artistic and cathartic way to positively address these negative emotions, and I go back to reading and heading to spaces where I could possibly learn and grow once again.
What I’ve seen recently is that when I lose parts of the basic four that’s not truly me, I go back to the negative three.
I’m going back to the basic four right now, but that’s the problem, I should never have lost the basic four in the first place. Why?
And that’s another story and another self reflection that I have to work out in private.
Growing up I was carefully watched over by my parents with every move and activity strategically curated by them. They struggled to make sure our (I had a brother and a sister) foundation was strong by providing us a stable and safe home (the best way they knew how), the pleasure of competitive camaraderie through sports, an appreciation for the complexity in fine arts, and the value of learning and education - we were benefitting in ways that we would only appreciate later in life.
I, then, felt confined, misunderstood, and incomplete despite this regimented love because parts of it wasn’t all me. And after thirty years, these three words would continually be repeated – over and over again. And each time I felt confined, misunderstood, and incomplete, I would run away in hopes of happiness and self actualization.
It’s an ongoing process, and to be honest, I’m not sure whether or not I’m doing a disservice to myself by running away when these negative emotions are present. All I know now is that each time I do move away or remove myself, there are amazing lessons to be found especially after some time of self reflection.
Our emotions are there as signs to take actions to alleviate and turn things around. And whenever I’ve noticed those three words becoming an ever present darkness hovering over me , I would go back to the basic tools given to me, but this time in my own way.
I turned back to people and places that made me feel safe, I started exercising again, I look to comedy, improv, and writing as an artistic and cathartic way to positively address these negative emotions, and I go back to reading and heading to spaces where I could possibly learn and grow once again.
What I’ve seen recently is that when I lose parts of the basic four that’s not truly me, I go back to the negative three.
I’m going back to the basic four right now, but that’s the problem, I should never have lost the basic four in the first place. Why?
And that’s another story and another self reflection that I have to work out in private.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Habits of our Hearts
My action is bad but your reaction is tragic, well, though both can be broken. I’m not your heart, I’m your habit. - Idle Warship"Well, please tell him I said hi. I hope he's doing well, I really do..." And for the first time, I really meant it because he was no longer my habit.
Like any start of a new year, we all make these resolutions to to be better versions of ourselves. For the most part we set ourselves up for failure because many of us go from 0 to 60, burn out, and then go back to what we've done in the past. What we forget most of the time is that for us to make these changes in our lives, it needs to gradually become habitual, but sometimes to make these changes, we need to break out of old habits as well.
One of the hardest habits to break is that of our hearts. Only a few days ago did I realize that I was truly liberated and ready to love again.
Let me explain what I mean because for those who know me well know the timeline of everything and are probably surprised as to why I'm even writing about this so late in the game.
First, the bottom line of this post is to say that breaking the habit of the heart takes a long time. Personally, I really thought it was a done process over a year ago; I moved on (literally and figuratively) and didn't care for the guy I was with for almost 4 years anymore. I knew that we were not right for one another and was simply okay with it. I looked straight ahead and marched forward with my life without him and mentally blocked out as much as I could. No more thoughts of what we could have been, what he did wrong, what I did wrong, or how I could have done things differently to prevent us from getting to that point. All thoughts and emotions of any kind were off limits. Out of sight, out of mind was my game.
Don't get me wrong, even getting to that point took a few months with the support of amazing family, friends, and a shrink. But for the longest time I didn't know what was holding me back when it came to starting any new relationships and why I was consistently self sabotaging myself in the whole relationship arena. Of course it made for funny stories on my other blog, but subconsciously I was doing it for a reason, but I never knew why.
It's true what they say: closure is overrated. But what they don't tell you is that closure with yourself is necessary to healing and that it's a journey that you have to do emotionally alone without any definite time.
About 9 months ago something happened that I didn’t expect; I cried for the first time when a friend convinced me to reach back out to him to say hello in hopes of signifying that we’re ok and that all anger on my part had ceased.
Those drops of tears happened because I finally confronted my feelings and emotions, and while there was no longer any romantic feelings for him, I realized there was still a different love for him. For a long time, I couldn’t distinguish the two feelings because it was stored away and temporarily blocked with anger and bitterness. While I didn’t care for him and rarely thought of him, I associated him to those feelings whenever a thought or a mention of him fleeted by.
I was at an impasse that I didn’t know existed. I had to break the habit of avoiding what was really lying there and associating it with the feeling of anger because that was the real reason preventing me to move forward and connecting with anyone else. The more I avoided it, the more inauthentic I became because I wasn’t able to connect to others. And until I could really strip away that bitterness that sat at the front of that barrier and look at what was real, I couldn’t move on.
"Well, please tell him I said hi. I hope he's doing well, I really do..." And for the first time recently, I really meant it because he was finally no longer a part of my habit.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Castles
They say you never realize how poor you are until you see your home next to a castle, but had you not known the castle was there in the first place your home was your castle.
Growing up I use to remember my Dad driving us around the richer neighborhoods to look at how beautiful their homes were with their perfectly manicured lawns adorned with bundles of brightly colored flowers. Each bed was laid out the right distance apart where I could see just enough mulch in between. We sat in the car with our faces so close to the window that we could start seeing the windows fog up from our breath. And as my Dad would drive slowly through, we each stared so hard at the homes to try and keep a constant image in our minds so that we wouldn't forget what rich was as he pulled away.
Not more than a few seconds would go by and we would start throwing out property values.
"I bet that house is on the market for $4.5 million!"
"No way, I bet it's worth $8 million!"
"Well, I was watching something on TV once, and it looks like one of the Dallas Cowboys player lived in something that big and it was like $10 million!"
With this amazement, we would just fall back into our seats in silence wondering if we were going to be living in a home like that when we grow up.
Before I even graduated high school, I lived in about five different homes: a mobile home, two apartments, and two homes in two different cities. Each home had a story, and each home signified our struggle to get something more the next time. And since I was 18, I've moved about nine more times and lived in nine different homes.
Growing up I use to remember my Dad driving us around the richer neighborhoods to look at how beautiful their homes were with their perfectly manicured lawns adorned with bundles of brightly colored flowers. Each bed was laid out the right distance apart where I could see just enough mulch in between. We sat in the car with our faces so close to the window that we could start seeing the windows fog up from our breath. And as my Dad would drive slowly through, we each stared so hard at the homes to try and keep a constant image in our minds so that we wouldn't forget what rich was as he pulled away.
Not more than a few seconds would go by and we would start throwing out property values.
"I bet that house is on the market for $4.5 million!"
"No way, I bet it's worth $8 million!"
"Well, I was watching something on TV once, and it looks like one of the Dallas Cowboys player lived in something that big and it was like $10 million!"
With this amazement, we would just fall back into our seats in silence wondering if we were going to be living in a home like that when we grow up.
Before I even graduated high school, I lived in about five different homes: a mobile home, two apartments, and two homes in two different cities. Each home had a story, and each home signified our struggle to get something more the next time. And since I was 18, I've moved about nine more times and lived in nine different homes.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Achieving Whiteness
As I'm cleaning my place, I found a college paper I wrote a few years ago about Vietnamese Americans and the Achievement of Whiteness. I still haven't found the paper that followed this, but thought I'd share since this topic was brought up in recent random conversations I've had.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Broken - Coolie/Kuli/Quli
Definition
Coolie: A contemporary racial slur or ethnic nickname for people of Asian descent, including people from India, Central Asia, etc.[1]
term describing a low-status class of workers
With my head bent down, I stared at my plastic bowl of rice. Remnants of chicken bones with slivers of meat I could not finish laid on top of the soy stained rice. Around me, I could hear my parents' voice crescendo outside of the kitchen where I sat still. Barely making out what they were saying, I knew that time would stand still before the discord subsided.
I held my breath, but my heart still raced.
And suddenly the kitchen door swung open and I turned to look at the two people I loved yet feared the most attack one another with animal like rage. My Mother was sobbing, her eyes red. She ran over to the kitchen sink to get back her balance and composure. My Father crossed over her to the cabinets, opened it with force and grabbed a porcelain dish in each hand. With all his might, he threw each one in front of my Mother cursing at his existence. They shattered into shards across our laminate flooring. All I could do was stare at my Father while a surge of emotion that I knew so well started stirring in me.
He turned around and walked up to me with his eyes fixed on mine. I did not know what to do, so I stared back. My Father was shaking, his demeanor cracked, and I could see his eyes filled with guilt, regret, and rage. With his fist clenched he pounded his chest and wailed in agony, "I, your Father, am only a coolie! And that is what I will always be. Nothing more. Nothing."
And with those piercing words, my eyes welled up with tears, and finally in the wake of silence we cried together.
----
That was the summer I realized how heavy the baggages were, and I constructed a position for myself to be in where I could change what was dealt. I carefully molded it the best way I knew how in my young mind. The structure was seemingly flawless for an eight year old. Who knew that this moment would be the catalyst to what would take years to undo.
To be continued...
Coolie: A contemporary racial slur or ethnic nickname for people of Asian descent, including people from India, Central Asia, etc.[1]
term describing a low-status class of workers
With my head bent down, I stared at my plastic bowl of rice. Remnants of chicken bones with slivers of meat I could not finish laid on top of the soy stained rice. Around me, I could hear my parents' voice crescendo outside of the kitchen where I sat still. Barely making out what they were saying, I knew that time would stand still before the discord subsided.
I held my breath, but my heart still raced.
And suddenly the kitchen door swung open and I turned to look at the two people I loved yet feared the most attack one another with animal like rage. My Mother was sobbing, her eyes red. She ran over to the kitchen sink to get back her balance and composure. My Father crossed over her to the cabinets, opened it with force and grabbed a porcelain dish in each hand. With all his might, he threw each one in front of my Mother cursing at his existence. They shattered into shards across our laminate flooring. All I could do was stare at my Father while a surge of emotion that I knew so well started stirring in me.
He turned around and walked up to me with his eyes fixed on mine. I did not know what to do, so I stared back. My Father was shaking, his demeanor cracked, and I could see his eyes filled with guilt, regret, and rage. With his fist clenched he pounded his chest and wailed in agony, "I, your Father, am only a coolie! And that is what I will always be. Nothing more. Nothing."
And with those piercing words, my eyes welled up with tears, and finally in the wake of silence we cried together.
----
That was the summer I realized how heavy the baggages were, and I constructed a position for myself to be in where I could change what was dealt. I carefully molded it the best way I knew how in my young mind. The structure was seemingly flawless for an eight year old. Who knew that this moment would be the catalyst to what would take years to undo.
To be continued...
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Soul in a Perishing Body
In a room full of people the other day, I noticed a figure that sat down right behind me. I turned around to see who it was, and for a moment, caught myself staring and instantly turned back around.
His face was tout and shiny, his right ear lobe was missing, a few fingers were gone, and his lips were barely noticeable. A burn victim from an auto accident, and all I could think of was the unbearable life he must have. But as he stood up, introduced himself, and explained his story it became apparent that he was not the one who was suffering. He didn't see his life the way we assumed it to be.
Instead of victimizing himself, he took another approach to life and used his experience as a vehicle to educate others on the way they see themselves in this little realm we call life. It's not about the material and superficial things that makes us happy, but the experiences we have through seeing our purpose in life a little differently because in the end, we are nothing more than a soul in a perishing body.
I wanted to cry as I heard his story, and as selfish as this may sound, I wanted to cry for myself.
Instead of victimizing himself, he took another approach to life and used his experience as a vehicle to educate others on the way they see themselves in this little realm we call life. It's not about the material and superficial things that makes us happy, but the experiences we have through seeing our purpose in life a little differently because in the end, we are nothing more than a soul in a perishing body.
I wanted to cry as I heard his story, and as selfish as this may sound, I wanted to cry for myself.
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