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DaMiLeA
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Name: betty
Gender: Female
Interests: sexology. biology. therapy. design. making you gawk at something stupid that i just said. :P
Expertise: wishing i had everything and then being thankful that i don't.
Message: message me
AIM:  compulsivemisse
Member Since:
5/13/2002
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| the day i stop bickering....is the day you stop being important to me...
because at that point, i can just nod and smile at you like you were anybody else on this planet
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| mom actually has a schedule.
she's a housewife who is home all day. she has allllllllll day to do her thing. okay, i'm not some ungrateful, OC, gucci-struttin' daughter but it's just weird to me that she finds the need to make statements such as, "omg, it's 4pm, i have to get the dishes washed before it's 5:30pm!" erf? if i am home all day, which i am nowadays, i will attend to dishes if i feel like it at 3:15pm, stop, then re-attend at 4:32pm...maybe. hahha, ok, so maybe that's why my house is so clean. don't let the messy surface fool you, everything is 88% bacteria free. the messy surface is merely a result of a home-all-day daughter and a out-all-day daddy. oh man, talk about under-appreciated.
the other day, when i was leaving the house (not to go to school, not to go to a foreign country, not to go to war, but) to go out with jessica and ryan, she gave me the usual "dress warm, be careful at night, be sure you can trust those you tell secrets to, etc." speech, except i couldn't hear the "etc" because it was stumbling out of her mouth in a way i couldn't hear. the words were being slurred, warped, and mixed into a batter bowl of motherly advice, choking, and tears. it wasn't tasteful and too raw of emotions for my comfort. whenever my mother cries randomly because she remembered that she only sees me, her only daughter, at most 4 months in a year, it hurts me. it's like someone turned on the centrifuge of emotions and is throwing them in rapid circles, shooting out of my unwilling eyes tears that mark my shame. every other time, because i don't know how to react, i yell at her to stop crying. makes me think, is this the same thing that happens when parents yell at little kids to shut up and stop crying. i always thought it was ridiculously illogical to threaten a child in order to stop their tears. yet, here i am, a producer of the same senseless system. so i caught the cutting words before it hit my mother's ears, forced it down my own mouth and swallowed them. they dug their hooks into my esophagus and made it their goal to shred and tear as much as they can before they dropped back into my stomach. that day, i ordered my tears back into their socket, back down inside of me, so fast that i tasted the salt in my mouth from them. then, i extended my arms and wrapped them really tight around my mother, stroked her back and pressed my head against hers, all the while whispering that she was a silly senile woman and that i would never leave her. did i grow up that day? i'm not sure. but sometimes i wish she'd have a schedule for her tears too...
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PS // someone AWESOME got me speakers -- AHHHHHHHHHHH!! xD too bad it won't be in good condition when i get them... :[ bastard. ha! but awesome bastard. omgomgomg, speakkkkers.
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| ha. okay. i admit it 100%. 110%. i am argumentative, AS HELL.
if anyone is in my house when my mother starts rambling about my father cheating on her with her brother's wives just because he showed her to the door in macau. and how (fucking) long ago was macau issues?! a month ago... and she still rambles. don't worry. she won't even forget it when macau issues become 15 years old.
you know that feeling, that stone lodged in your throat, specifically right under your tongue. and tears are fighting to get out of your eyes. thats' me right now. but i'm going to stay calm. im not going to yell at her. i won't yell at her. i will not sink down to her level. im not saying shes the devil reincarnated as my mother because at times she is the victim. she is the woman who doesn't have her own footing. who doesn't bring money into the house. who doesn't have a job and keeps the house under newpaper and plastic bag protection with brands such as "HONG KONG SUPERMARKET". she doesn't have friends that take her out for friday's girls night. she doesn't have an extra child to keep her occupied. she doesn't have her siblings to surround her and make her house noisy. she doesn't have the versatility to transition isn't our times nowadays and be a "hip mom". and im crying now. but there will be no sobbing. no wailing. no words thrusting out of my mouth, stained with the blood from my heart because it teared out too fast at her, cushioned by vile words that only cantonese curses can emcompass the nastiness of it all. i won't. i won't. i won't. im only going to write and block my ears with my music player. why the music player and not the laptop speakers? i need not disturb her and further anger her. i just need to save myself. save myself from all this hate. all this argumentative surroundings. i'm going to sit here passively for once, for once in this enviroment when words like "cunt," "manwhore," "useless bitch" gets spilled across the air so often and so thickly, it's like watching an artist with a canvas of my living room and my mother and father and his brush, his thick brush trickled with vivid red paint is furiously going back and forth the "canvas". he's painting my canvas red. so thick, the air, so thick. my father wants my mother to die, to move out. my mother wants to stone my father to death and then stone all his "women" to death, namely the wives of her brothers. please. please, i can only sit and stare at the words peppering across this entry horizontally as my tears fall perpendicular to it. why can't i do anything? i've tried to moderate. at times, it's gotten helpful but it just goes back to the same old shit. becuase my mother is repetative and my father won't NOT argue back because to stand down to accusations you do not derserve when all you've done is try to raise this family as the sole provider. it isn't fair. so he yells. he yells from a wounded pride. he yells at the pain he feels from being doubted by his own wife. my mother has more friends than my father but i'd shove them into the river any day because they are not what you call true friends. they put ideas into peoples heads, unkind. telling my mother that because my father doesn't come home at 8:00pm instead of 8:15pm (he's always 15 minutes late), that he is cheating on her. WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU TO INSTIGATE THE TROUBLES WITHIN THIS FAMILY? and you wonder where my hate for spineless people stem from. stand up mom, your husband cares about you. why can't you see it? i care about you. why do you think we want to make your life miserable? my father has no one he can talk to. his friends are all off in california or something and he isn't one to complain over the phone. pride. he only has me. 4.5 months out of the year.
it's all redundant. my mother won't stop mumbling things like "you stupid cunt, you dumb bitch, i work so hard blah blah." and my father isn't old enough to be deaf. it's a small house, there is no place to run to, to hide. so he tells her to stop, and she tells him to shut up that it's none of his business what she says becuase she has a right to talk to herself. he asked her to stop. she didn't stop. she NEVER stops. so my father yells. he's a bellower, so loud, so thunderous. maybe they don't really do this but i feel like pencils and glasses shake with his words. so my mother now goes back to her friends and tells all of her friends that she is a wife that suffers from an abusive husband that verbally insults her. i tried to be unbias but i can't. i suffer the same mummbling as my father. and my father has never angered me unless i deserved it. im like my father. we are honest. we didn't have much support growing up, and i have more than him. we're just trying not to disappoint. we are not superiorly confident people. we make up for it by taking pride in our work, to almost a level where we can boast about the few things we have managed to achieve in life.
and the words are starting to blurr on the screen. but i will not yell. i will not upset. i will not sink down. i will not give you anything to attack me on. i will not ask for it. i will only allow my words to pepper across this page while my tears move perpendicular to it all...
this is what i wake up to. on a lovely, mostly sunny, 88 degree farenheit Sunday morning. crying is no longer a sissy thing to do. it is the only way i can escape, so don't mind me if i may seem weak to you. in my world, i am being as strong as i can be. i will be my own superman.
!!!
taking refuge in "superman" by brown boy
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| i try to be strong.
not so much for myself, but for those around me. no, it is not a sign of my kindness, but rather a sign that i am weak and insufficient as a sole individual. i need others. i need them to need me. hence why i love helping people because for a moment i'm needed. but wether it be tutoring, hearing out that stranger in a cafe, or hearing out my girlfriends, i find that occasionally i get too wrapped up in "the help" and lose my connection to the empathy part of it. i dissect my self-experiences, in hopes that i can shed some light and spare those, who want the help, from the mistakes i've made. or even, to have them make the mistake, but with a better ability to understand their own situation so they don't just .. hate.
but what's the point. i still hate. i'm still the one in pain. although it helps, for a split second, to feel like i'm beyond the situation and left it in the dust behind me, i only feel extra stupid when i catch myself suffering in that same "moment" i tried to help a friend get over. it sucks to be led to believe that you were number one but not lied to enough so that you can enjoy the delusion.
rather lie to me completely or confide in me. leaving me inbetween is just asking me to hate.
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inspiration: it's not a great show, but i rather like HOUSE's content with his compulsive need to know
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| it's amazing what you find when you clean your house. old birthday cards, love letters, statuettes, dust bunnies, pictures...
i'm sure a lot of you find this: old schoolwork. i'm looking at my old AP Bio lab book right now. everything was impeccably neat; two lines of writing in one college-rule line throughout the whole page. diagrams in perfect correlation with its explanations, kind of like an annual report for a company.
i remember there was always one problem i had when it came to handing in school work: procrasination. i barely ever enjoy the work i did, just always rushing to hand it in on time and so many close calls because even in a last-minute job, i still want everything to look perfect. i guess that's how i got away with it all, that extra effort. teachers never would have guessed that i was a procrasinator.
i look through the 40-something pages of labs. it would have been 120 or so pages had i not written so small. even back then i didn't like to waste paper. and now i'm throwing it all out. i'm ripping the pages off the spine and placing it in the trash bin, neatly. i have one lesson in my head for myself. notes, neatness, and preparation are only good IN the moment. once the moment passes, there really is no way to grasp any of it back. if you missed the information, you missed it. that's it. but if you prepared and understood everything in the moment, you'll most likely remember or recall it for the rest of your life.
i tried very hard as a high school student and i still do as a college student, but i'm trying in all the wrong ways. neat notes, organized folders, mint-condition text books. none of it adds to my enjoyment or what i learn or experience but they all act as the preparation for the "next step". there's no point in preparing if i'm going to miss the next step all together. sometimes it pays to get a bit messy and let things fall apart in life. i guess you were wrong, mom.
its funny what you become, despite all the signs you showed when you were younger. math queen that metamorphed into an enamored writer. i forget my past loves.
there's a life analogy to all this, the lab book and all. to my g-fishie, sometimes it's worth breaking down and losing your cover of impeccable perfection and neatness. at least you can say you lived in the moment.
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