Random: Our neighborhood, glass houses, and superiority.

It’s nearing the end of 2010, and here in the Philippines, the cool, crisp winds come often. In the early morning hours and after dusk, my neighbors don hoodies, sweaters, and long-sleeve thermal shirts; they shiver at the slightest bit of cold and walk with their heads bent down against the wind. But to me, my brother, and Rob, this weather feels like home.

The present Filipino weather is oddly reminiscent of New York City, after summer has died down and just as the school year begins. I go outside in the mornings and can’t help but think of cashmere sleeveless shirts, tall leather boots, and long, voluptuous scarves. I want so badly to curl up in bed with Rob and Riley while the curtains swell with chilly breezes and the room smells like the flowers growing on our block. Maybe this is exactly what was necessary for me to slip into vacation mode: a break from the norm.

*****

Our house is the second from the corner. At the corner is a vacant lot that’s full of green vegetation and cat meows. To our other side is a small compound of one-floor apartments which is owned by my paternal grandmother’s first cousins, Minda and Ansing.

As the story goes, Minda and Ansing fell in love when they were teenagers, and against all social conventions, they decided to get married. Now here they are, 50 years later, first cousins and husband and wife, and the love with which they look at each other makes my heart smile.

Across the street from our house is a duplex. The half of the duplex which directly faces us has a small store at its front. Ofelia and her family live in that house; she and her husband are about my parents’ age, and I’m the same age as her oldest child. Of her three twenty-something year old kids, only one works. Her daughter gave birth a month or so ago and stays home, ostensibly to take care of her infant daughter, though Ofelia half-jokingly complains to me about her daughter’s lack of child-caring involvement.

I’ve mentioned this mother and daughter before. When the daughter, Jean, arrived 7 months ago, I thought she might be my salvation. She had lived abroad, we were the same age, and she was going to have a baby. For sure, I thought, we’d have a lot in common and be able to bond. The more I’ve hung out with her, though, the more I’ve realized that she and I just don’t click. Despite her fluency in English, she and I just can’t seem to carry out a conversation. Every time I ask her about something having to do with her daughter, for example, she just shrugs and replies that she doesn’t really know how to respond because it’s her mom who takes care of the baby.

Apparently that’s how it happens here. New parents – especially when they’re in their 20s – defer to their own parents. This boggles my mind on so many levels. I just can’t fathom not having an opinion about how my kid should be raised. And the part that absolutely kills me is that I lent her a bunch of my pregnancy/baby books, and she wasn’t even curious enough to look at the pictures. Like, for real? You know nothing about pregnancy or taking care of a baby, and I’m handing you how-to manuals, and you don’t even want to flip through them? You’re really just going to let your mom raise your kid?

Seeing it happening right in front of me pisses me off. I mean, for crying out loud, you’re twenty-fucking-six years old and you decided to bring another life into this world, and all you do is make your parents take care of it?

What makes it even worse is that Ofelia and Jean can’t stop criticizing Minda and Ansing’s son and daughter-in-law about how they’re raising their five-year old daughter. They call the girl’s mom a witch (which has a less-benign connotation in Tagalog), and go on and on about how some people shouldn’t have kids.

And it all makes me wonder about my own criticisms of Jean, and about perspectives, and if anyone really knows what they’re doing, and if anyone is in a place to judge when it comes to parenting. I’ve learned, for instance, that I’m more sensitive to haughty criticisms from non-parents because they haven’t been down this particular path and shouldn’t be looking down on me from a high horse. (That isn’t to say that the plight of women, in general, isn’t universal; there are people out there who honestly get it even though their sexy parts haven’t spewed out living baby and blackberry  jelly-like placenta.) And after moving out here, it’s become more apparent to me that my perspective is in no way the correct one, or the universal one. But when it comes to something as important as children, should we have a base by which to successfully raise and care for them? If so, who should make it? Is it universal? Or is it as simple/complex as “Keep your kids healthy and happy”?

*****

Now that Christmas is over, the carolers have gone away and kids have stopped coming to our gate and asking for money. I’ve gotten a bunch of emails and messages from people wondering about my atheism and how it’s holding up during the holiday season, and as much as I want to believe that the questions all come from a purely curious place, I can’t help but detect tons of judgment.

All of it – the parenting stuff that my block has made me think about, as well as these messages about religion – has been bubbling in my brain, and I can’t help but think about beliefs and about whether certain beliefs – like, about religion, or the existence of God, or about Love, for instance – might hold more worth and power than other beliefs – like, about the weather, and old wive’s tales, and superstitions. Could it be that we can’t held but hold some beliefs to higher regard than others, and that we’re willing to do more for them? And if this is so, and we base so much of our personalities on our core beliefs, can we help but feel superior because of our convictions? I mean, in choosing one set of thinking over another, we’re assigning worth to different belief systems, so that, for example, it’s very obvious that I value atheism more than Catholicism. But does making that decision necessarily involve feeling that I’m better than those who didn’t make that same decision? Is that kind of self-righteousness innate to the human condition?

Iono, man. Lots going on in this little mind of mine… I know I’m all scattered, but what are your thoughts?

Gripes about God, and the many questions they raise.

Okay, so I wrote this and immediately realized that there are MANY talking points contained herein. Like the issue of control and how much of it a parent should exert on their children…

For all the love I have for my life and everyone/everything in it, there are a few complaints that I can’t help but have. My brother and his insistence on coveting the sin of sloth, for example. The fact that there’s only 24 hours in a day. My apparent amnesia concerning the how-to’s of swimming. But the one that’s currently messing with me is being overwhelmed with… religious…ness? Religiosity? Yeah, I’ll go with that. Religiosity. I’m overwhelmed by religiosity.

EVERY DAY, I witness people giving up their goals with a shrug and a “Whatever God wants will happen.” And it pisses me off. So. Much. That. It. Hurts.

So you’re unhappy at your job, in your marriage, with your grades, et al. Why not make a change? Why just accept your circumstances and say that it’s God’s will? The line of thinking seems to be “This is so because God wants it to be so. Therefore, I’ll just bend over and take it in the ass.” And I just don’t get it.

Being here, in this super-crazy Catholic country, where bishops and clergy are spouting off about how birth control is bad because taking control of you’re reproductive health means you’re denying God His choice of how many kids you’re going to have and when you’re going to have them, is driving me cah-razy. There are never any protests or marches or any form of civil disobedience when it comes to the issues that are important to me, and without an outlet, I’m grasping at straws. These are beliefs that speak to who I am as an individual, how I live my life, and how I see the world.

Every day, I’m confronted with religious talk. Prayers are conducted in class. Teachers give sermons about how people should live. Even on Facebook, certain family members can’t help but be all “Let go. Let God.” And it scares me. My world is full of people who carry opinions that are contrary to my own, and when I realize this the first thought in my head is Riley. What if he gets brain-washed by their thinking? What if he spends too much time with our uber-Catholic family members and gives up the values I’ve instilled in him? What then?

I know I have to trust Riley. I know that he’ll be a wonderful, strong, beautiful person no matter what beliefs he accepts about God and religion. I also know that one of the other values I’m ingraining in him is the ability and the will to think for himself. I want him to question everything, and to learn as much as he can, and to make up his own mind about who he is and what he’s about. I can’t help but wonder if and when that value may clash with the atheism that’s in full-effect in our household.

For now, at least, I can still control Riley’s influences and social circle. I’m trusting and keeping faith in my ability to shape a healthy and happy little person. And we’re safe in our tiny corner of the world.

That’s all that really matters.

Next to godliness.

Close-up of Riley brushing his teeth.

At 15 months old, Riley has learned the importance of good dental hygiene realized how yummy toothpaste can be.

Trying out a "big boy" toothbrush.

My mom bought him a cute, colorful starter toothbrush that fit perfectly into his little hands (he’s ambidextrous at this point), and he hated it. He wanted a toothbrush that looked more like Mommy’s toothbrush. That’s just the way Riley is: He wants to be a big boy.

Brushing his teeth while watching TV.

Of course, Riley isn’t perfectly coordinated yet, and he still needs help brushing his teeth correctly. Sometimes, he holds the toothbrush awkwardly, and sometimes he forgets he’s brushing his teeth and tries to talk while the toothbrush is still hanging out of his mouth.

This kid loves to brush his teeth.

But honestly, I’m kind of grateful for all that. He’s only 15 months old, and so advanced for his age in so many ways. My baby’s growing up way too fast.

The secret.

I remember, a few years ago, as I was planning a Drag Ball (the proceeds of which helped out LGBT survivors of Hurricane Katrina), a couple of my friends were telling me about The Secret. They kept on saying how it changed their lives, and all I could muster was a fake smile and the  raise of my eyebrows.

Now, don’t get me wrong: I’m all about the power of positivity and whatnot, but I don’t really buy into self-help mumbo-jumbo. Self-help peddlers are basically saying that they’ve figured out how to do something that you’re doing in a far better way than you’re doing it, and ya know what? They can suck it. As far as I’m concerned, we’re all experts at living – just not necessarily the way everyone else should be living.

But. The latest turn of events in my life? They’re telling me that all this “Throw your positivity into the air, and it’ll come back to you three-fold” crap might actually be working. See, as I’ve been going through the awesomeness of day-to-day living, I’ve been fantasizing about getting pregnant and adopting a baby – and now? I’m pretty sure I’m pregnant and about to adopt a baby. Yeah. Just like that. In a matter of months, I might become a mother of three.

Could I be pregnant?

Fun fact: The week of your last period is considered the first week of your pregnancy.

That means that if I am pregnant, I’m around three weeks along… But that’s a big if. Ever since Rob and I decided to start trying to conceive (or TTC, as all the cool kids are apparently calling it), about six weeks ago, every minute feeling of nausea, dizziness, and pain has had me giddy with possibility. Thing is, ever since Riley was born, my PMS (which was pretty much non-existent before his birth) has been kicked up many, many notches, so the tell-tale signs that I used for my pregnancy with Riley just don’t apply.

If Aunt Flo doesn’t show up by mine and Rob’s anniversary, I’m peeing on a couple of sticks!

No time like the present.

I used to be a major procrastinator, and other than bursts of adrenaline, it never got me anywhere good. Now I’m a mom, and my life is dictated by the needs of another human being, and in order to be successful at meeting his needs while meeting my own needs, and simultaneously staying in my happy place, I’ve caught up on lessons of attitude, preparation, and discipline. New leaf? Welcome! Please keep on turning!

And now that I’m in my happy place, I’m being a hell of a lot more productive. Awesome? Yes. But also, a bit of a mind-fuck. I mean, damn, I thought I knew what it meant to be busy. I was wrong.

Numero uno on the agenda: I’ve jump-started my editing business, which translates into lots of emailing and trying to figure out how the heck I’m supposed to get emails sent to my phone. (This is where my technologically-related retardedness and my third-world residence meet and kill me slowly.) It also translates into me, on deadline, editing papers about FreudeducationpoetrypovertyprettymuchEVERYTHING, and for now, at least, I’m taking it all in stride. So what if I’m charging peanuts? I’m working out the English grammar side of my brain and getting paid for it and learning a lot of awesomeness while doing so. Plus, ya know, I’m earning money by helping people, and that money is going to buy my little guy a kiddie laptop and kitchen set for Christmas (amongst other things). Plus, hopefully I can build on the business I’ve got and someday charge a few more peanuts than my present rate. Hopefully. Someday.

For now, I’m just happy that I’ve found a beneficial way to earn money, aka I can improve myself by doing this job. Smiley faces all around! (No, really. I’m corny that way.) And, ya know, I won’t try to hide it: Getting paid in dollars makes a heck of a difference when you’re living in the Philippines!

So. I’m concentrating on the technological side of things, which is kind of mandatory since all of my clients live in the States, aka on the other side of the world. The editing service website will be up as soon as I figure out what the fuck an SEO is/does and if I need one, and how to design a site (or find someone with compatible style and expertise to do so for me), and all this mumbo-jumbo about web hosting and domain names and OMG, I’m actually a visitor from 1969. This also explains my penchant for Hendrix, free love and medallion necklaces.

Numero dos: Fiction writing. I’ve been working on several stories now for a while, and something’s actually happening with them. Writing is kind of like gardening in that way: You toil in the soil for a while and you know you’re doing something, but you don’t quite know that you’ve been doing anything right until those first buds of green poke out of the dirt.

I’m starting to see a couple of buds poking through my writing, and it’s getting me excited. I’ve already started emailing colleagues and friends from my editing/publishing/hella creative days, and so far, so good. There are big things happening in this part of my life especially, and it’s making me fantasize about getting off the nursing route altogether and being a full-time writer.

For now? I’m just keeping my nose to the grindstone and waiting for something good to magically materialize on my computer screen like a gift from the gods.

Numero tres: Making another baby. This right here has got me thrown for a loop. There are so many things to consider, like finances, and the fact that I’ll be delivering my baby over here aka Am I really comfortable with that?, and the unavailability of childcare… It’s mostly that last one that I’m worried about, because there’s no reliable daycare over here. And family? I’ve got none to depend on when it comes to taking care of Riley, let alone another little one. It’s just… I want one. Right now. So badly.

I’ll admit, that’s high on the crazy meter – even for me. I mean, who does that? Let their feelings control their actions, instead of logically think things through when it comes to having a baby?

Wait.

Everyone. Everyone does that. And the rewards? Immeasurable. I think it’s safe to cross this one off my worry list/agenda and just see what happens…

On body image and style.

Back in '96, when I had 36DDs...

 

These days, with 38C's, more style, and lots of body issues.

Okay. So. A number of things are going through my head right now, like the need to tell y’all that this shirt isn’t the only thing in my closet that’s seriously old. I have a tank top that I’ve worn since I was 2. Yeah, go ahead and read that again. It’s a 100% cotton yellow tank top that my aunt bought for me in the Philippines, with yellow lace fringe. The last time I wore it was circa 2002, as a belly shirt, with crazy-tight ripped jeans and rainbow suspenders. I’m now saving it for my future daughter(s).

The other thing that I’m thinking is: How come my boobs look the same? I mean, two cup sizes are supposed to do something, right? And I know for a fact that my boobies are a lot smaller than they were before I got pregnant. So, um, huh? Are the angles deceiving? Or do those two inches really make that much of a difference?

Why does this matter? Well, for the greater part of my life, and for most of my adult life, I was the smoking hot Asian chick with the hourglass figure to kill for. Nice ass, huge tits, and slender everywhere else. Then, I got knocked up, had a baby, and got pretty damn skinny, all around.

I know, I know. Cry you a river. Thing is, that was my identity, ya know? I’ve spent my whole life knowing what to wear to accentuate my best features (plunging neck lines, and all-around curve-hugging sexiness), and now that I don’t have much of a figure to show off, that stuff just makes me look like I’m trying too hard.

So I’m starting from scratch. Just the basics, really. Figuring out what works for me, my body, and my style. And working it.

I’m currently in love with suspenders and hats, and completely engrossed in designing earrings.

Hodgepodge: Migraines and big moves.

My fever went away after 3 days. My cough is still lingering after almost 2 weeks (it only comes once in a while and no longer makes me want to gag). And my drippy nose is still trying to win the prize for Most Likely to be Confused for a Faucet. But this headache? It’s the worst.

I used to get migraines. Painful, white-hot, searing, blinding, debilitating migraines that made my whole head feel like it was a bass drum. They’d last for an hour or so, and were generally aided by all the weed I used to smoke. These days, I get the same kind of crazy-ass migraines, but only on the left side of my head, right above my eye. And the worst part? No Mary Jane to help me through the yuck.

I’ve only ever gone to one doctor about these headaches, and I’m thinking I should find a trusted MD on this side of the globe ASAP. There have been too many instances of strange to ignore, and before they get out of hand, I’d like to be certain that I’m not being checked up by some quack who also gets paid good money to use a toilet-cleaner-looking brush on womens’ girly parts. What? Have I not told you that story yet?

*****

So you know that big fight Rob and I had? The one that we’ve had over and over and over again, but using different circumstances to describe the same problem? Yeah, that one. It’s pretty much a projection of all of the fears that I have about relationships aka all of the phobias my folks’ whack-ass marriage have implanted in my head. And after we sorted through all of the stuff that makes me a horrible partner all of my issues, we reached this funny conclusion:

We’re getting married.

Hold off on the congratulations and all that good stuff because it’s not even Facebook-official yet. It’s just, ya know, something that we’ve decided. Like where to have Sunday brunch and which school to send Riley to for pre-K. Sure, it’s a considerably bigger decision, since I’ve been afraid of the M word for as long as I’ve been able to pronounce it. But for the most part? It’s just another fact, and I’m not in a position to blow it up into a bigger deal.

The thing is, I’d like to be in a position to blow it up into a bigger deal. As in: I’d like to talk about my gorgeous and lavish wedding and all of the engagement and bachelor/bachelorette craziness and the guest list and food and how cute Riley’s going to look in a mini tuxedo. I’d like to talk about how much fun the honeymoon’s going to be and how we’re definitely going to have another baby within the next two years. I’d like to talk about the bigger, better space we’re buying for our growing family, and the chicken coop that I’m putting in the backyard and how much fun our three dogs and three cats are going to have chasing those damn chickens.

But the only part of all that that’s true is the bit about the animals. Everything else? Pipe dreams, my friend.

At this point, we’re having a blast in the Philippines, connecting with our roots, learning about our heritage and culture in a way that’s simply impossible without living here, and enjoying the heck out of the crappy economy and the fact that I get paid in dollars. We’re kind of in a strange in-between, a stopover before Real Life begins.

And as much as I appreciate everything this stay is, I also have to acknowledge that it’s another story Rob and I will pull out and laugh about when we’re living the life that we’ve got planned.

But this? It’s not the life we’ve got planned. It’s just a detour, an awesome aside that makes life more interesting.

It’s a lot like the growing pains of other couples who are starting out: only, instead of laughing about the roach-infested $1200 studio apartment on top of the crack den, Rob and I get to reminisce about the orange-violet-indigo sunsets and the Hepatitis B-infected street food of the Philippines.

And this is posing kind of a problem. Because, yes, living here is a blessing for a million and one reasons. It’s revamped my writing style and voice and given me at least a dozen novels worth of material. It’s given me the opportunity to bond with my extended family and acknowledge sides of me that have been dormant. It’s given my fledgling family the healthy and amazing start we deserve. But it’s temporary, and that temporariness is getting to me and Rob. We’re craving the real deal of New York City streets and hustle and bustle. We’re anticipating all the hectic chaos of having multiple kids and buying a house in The City That Never Sleeps. We’re thinking about the cost of a wedding with at least 200 guests (because, c’mon now, my baby shower had damn near a hundred guests).

And that leap? From quaint, family-friendly, relaxed atmosphere of the Philippines, to the demands of the NYC economy and culture? It’s staring us in the face and getting us a little excited. And scared. And ready.

So we’ve been tossing around the idea of Rob moving back sooner than expected. Maybe as soon as 6 months from now. And earning his degree in the States. And generally doing an overhaul of his stocks and bonds, and figuring out what’s best to do about his investments.

And we’re reconnecting with people who have big leads on uber-well-paying (though ethically-questionable) jobs, as well as jobs of the less seedy variety.

And we’re setting aside money for this life that’s supposed to start in three years: the one that we just wouldn’t be able to afford if we stuck to the current plan.

And as much as this all excites me, it scares me, too. Because I could do quaint. I could do relaxed. I could do comfortable and simple. But then, while living that comfortable and simple existence, I’d probably work myself into an ambitious frenzy trying for a life that I’m terrified is too far out of my reach.

This way? All of our options are still at our fingertips. And we have the comfort of the Philippines to boot.

Above all else, I’m a mom.

And it comes easily to me.

And I won’t apologize for that.

*****

Riley has a viral respiratory infection, and what that means is that we have a baby in the house who’s constantly coughing as if he’s been a chain-smoker for 40 years. He’s having trouble sleeping, eating, and finding the will to stand up.  Once in a while, the coughing fits subside, he feels like his regular self, and he’s dancing/jumping/smiling/laughing. But those moments? They’re too few for my liking.

It’s been 4 1/2 days since Riley’s initial fever broke out, and I’ve been skipping out of school to love him up and make him feel better. Turns out, Riley’s a lot like me: once he’s sick, he whines his little head off until he either forgets to whine or has fallen asleep. And what do I do, being his mom and knowing that he probably inherited that trait from me? Well, I’ll tell you what I don’t do: I don’t eat or sleep or stop crying. I’m way too busy giving him all kinds of meds (something to stop his river of snot, something to stop his terrible cough, and something to settle his stomach because he’s been vomiting), playing with him to get his mind off the pain, giving him nebulizer treatments, and cuddling him. And the crying bit? That’s from the frustration of knowing there’s nothing else I can do to make him feel better.

I only showered once yesterday, and ate one meal, and slept a few hours after proving myself unable to carry Riley while blowing my nose, singing lullabies, screaming at the cat, and cooking dinner. Judging from the long line of snot that’s finding it’s way to my handkerchief and the soreness of my throat, I caught Riley’s infection, too. Typical overachiever me, always going above and beyond the call of duty.

Not sleeping? Not eating? Crying out of frustration? Well, I’m just as sick as my kid/patient! Ha! I win!

This isn’t unlike regular childcare. Only, typically, I don’t cry. Unless I’m having one of those sappy Hallmark card-type moments where Riley walks over to me then solemnly plants a kiss on my nose and all I see as he backs up are his perfect dimples and his tender smile. Those moments always squeeze tears out of my eyes. They remind me why I love motherhood. They remind me of how easy it’s been, and how lucky I am.

*****

This is the part where I launch into a schpiel about motherhood and feminism and other stuff that requires you to raise your nose because the stink of my privileged ass just might make you faint.

I talk a lot on here about how easy it is to be a mom, and I don’t want you to misunderstand what I mean. I’ve had acquaintances say things like, “In that case, everyone can be a mom!” and I always squint as I try to figure out if they’re being sarcastic. Because yeah, everyone can be a mom. But not everyone should be a mom.

I have a certain idea of what a mom should be like, and I decided that I wouldn’t become a mom until I could personify that idea. I’m not saying that my idea of the ideal mom is perfect or that every mom should strive to meet my standards. I’m just saying that it’s something that I ascribe to, and that there’s nothing wrong with it. I have the right to be the best parent I can be, and the facts that I willfully choose to be that kind of woman and that I excel at being that kind of woman are not to be held against me. Dammit.

Motherhood is easy because it’s not about the day-to-day stuff that wears me down. It’s not about not having the time to do ___, or looking all kinds of disheveled or unfashionable or unkempt because I don’t have time or money to devote to myself. It’s not about putting dreams on hold or putting your kids up at the top of the pyramid.

Or actually, it is about all of those things, but only insofar as you want it to be about those things. First and foremost, motherhood is about choice. Not just the choice about when you’ll be a mom, or what circumstances eventually lead you to be (or not be) a mom, but the choice of what kind of mom you want to be. There are as many kinds of mom as there are walks of life, and personal preference is the only sure standard between them.

I’m not saying that it’s easy to devote your life to someone else. I’m not even saying that you should devote your life to someone else, child or otherwise. All I’m saying is that I made this decision, I own this decision, and I love this decision. It fulfills me. It improves me. It encourages me to believe. To have hope. And faith. And strength. And perseverance. And it’s because of all that it gives me that I find little miracles and particles of fun and magic in every tiny part of this endeavor. Because I believe motherhood is awesome, I find awesomeness in it that other women don’t seem to find.

And that’s cool.

We all see things differently. It’s what makes us beautiful. It’s what makes us unique. Just because some women have an easier time at motherhood, it doesn’t make them better moms or better women. And it also doesn’t give anyone the right to discredit the value of their experiences.

*****

I’m having a hell of a time juggling a sick baby with the demands of work, school, partnering, and having my mom visit. It hasn’t just been difficult. It’s been extreme. Like, the most extreme you can think of, times ten. Think: bat bites; snake attacks; marathons of watching Blue’s Clues and listening to nursery rhyme DVDs; drunk relatives who smash your house into tiny pieces and ruin your kid’s first birthday party; and jet-setting, term projects, dancing on tables, re:-dick-you-lust,-Leigh drunk cousins vomiting all over celebrities, and studying nursing theory. That was last weekend.

Here’s to more of that kind of extreme living. It’s my idea of pure awesome, and quite frankly, it’s what I signed up for when I became a mom.

Two steps back.

I’m suffering something of an identity crisis. It’s not that I have a bad handle on who I am; I think I have a pretty good handle on that information, actually. What I can’t read is what others think of me, and that’s strange because for most of my life, I’ve known the opinions of others way before I’d formed an opinion about myself.

There is a series of questions that strike like jackhammers at my identity as a woman, and as a mom, and as a New Yorker, and as a Filipina, and as a woman of privilege, and as a writer. These sources of my identity are linked and intertwined and directly related, so that the empty spaces where answers should be are even longer and deeper and wider than I’d ever imagined possible. I’m being shaken. To my core.

And the first thing that suffers is my ability to write.

I’ve always prided myself on having something important and beautiful to say, and having a poignant way of communicating those ideas. But now? Nothing matters. Or rather, everything matters. So it’s hard for me to weed through my feelings and find a thread of artistic reprieve from reality.

It’s like being a pregnant woman with hormones fluctuating and eyes  dripping like faucets. (Only I’m not pregnant. I don’t think.) I just can’t help but be overwhelmed with beauty or tragedy or mundanity or loss or love or hate. I just can’t help it. I’m feeling too much and I don’t know how to stop it. Every little thing that I’m personally experiencing is affecting me. A lot.

So I write, but I don’t feel the rush of joy, power and urgency that I used to find by writing. I read, but nothing I read hits me. Not at my core. It all feels so distant, so far removed from me and my reality. Topics that used to provoke strong responses merely cause a thin glimmer of recognition. That stuff used to get me so.worked.up. Not anymore.

Why is this the case? For one thing, I used to have a lot of gripes, all of them cliche and familiar: Not too long ago, I was going through my quarter-life crisis. Nothing made sense. Or, they made good, sound, logical sense, but they didn’t jive with what I thought my reality should be, and that fact didn’t make sense to me. I didn’t have a plan, I didn’t know where I was headed in life, and I didn’t know what I wanted. Plus, I was a perpetually broke POC/New Yorker who did sex work. So I had a lot of fish to fry.

And now? Not so many. Not by a long shot.

All of the fish that I fry these days are organically raised in my own ponds. I make them. I own them. They are mine because I choose for them to be mine, and not because I have inherited them through the slant of my eyes or the cravings I get now and again for pussy. I still identify as a POC and a woman and a feminist and a bisexual, but I’m not so sure that many POC, women, feminists and bisexuals can relate to me. After all, I’m living in a third world country where, by dint of my birthplace/citizenship and my light complexion, I am uber privileged. Also, because of these facts about me, no one ever attempts to put me in “my place”, even if they believe this place is rightfully mine due to my sex/age/sexual orientation. And the fact that I’m already in a happy and healthy long-term monogamous relationship with a dude? Not only has that curbed a lot of my appetite for the kind of danger that slutdom can bring, but it doesn’t invite unwanted insinuations based on my sexual preferences.

I read blogs and magazines about feminism, and I read blogs and websites about race, and I keep informed about what’s going on in world politics. But none of it makes me bat my lashes. So this one believes this and that one believes that: Why the fuck should I care? Aside from thoughtful articulation, I find little reason to give a damn.

Yet, without caring, I’m stuck. My words don’t make sense. They fall flat and lifeless to the page. They lack the sense of purpose they previously had.

Maybe this is a phase. Maybe once I finish a novel that I’m proud of/nursing school/traveling/having lots of kids/[insert other milestone], I won’t be so afraid to claim these other issues as my own. Maybe I just need to devote my present to my family, my friends, my education, and my writing, and as time goes on, I’ll find the strength to spend on worrying about things that will never change, like bias. Maybe I just don’t have energy or patience to waste on anything that won’t give me results. Maybe I’ve lost hope, or I’ve become more pragmatic, or I’ve simply stopped making those problems my problems.

I just know that a little reflection is necessary. Sometimes, when you’re backed up in a tight corner, the best thing to do is go in reverse. It’s the only way to turn some corners.