This is completely crazy. My last full day in Southern California is almost over. I'm sitting on the chair I just sold to my roommate and listening to my dad snoring upstairs. I just opened a card from my aunt that made me cry and earlier I said goodbye to my aunt and cousins. It's been a whirlwind of a day and I can't believe the time to leave is finally here.
I've taken so much for granted in the past three years and I feel like I'm leaving such good friends behind just to begin again. I'm torn about whether i should really feel happy about the change I'm about to make or sad about the realization that home truly is where family and friends are. This is not to say that I have no family and friends in NC, but to point out that I had an established life out here and it's finally hitting me that I'm totally and completely uprooting. It's actually terrifying.
On a weirder note, I accidentally packed all my socks somewhere I can't access them. Dammit.
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
11 October 2013
01 October 2013
Family, Part 2
I went to see my family last Sunday. It was a nice visit and conversation centered around getting to see everyone more than discussion of what I've been doing, which was nice. My cousin's son played with a set of Fisher-Price golfballs and clubs and asked politely for iced tea and a second cookie. We played Santa animals while the grown-ups talked a bit and he quite enjoyed it.
It was like being in another dimension, walking into the same living room, same kitchen, same den, and same bathroom that I remember from my childhood. What's weird is that I'm pretty sure things haven't changed since my dad was a boy too--the wastepaper baskets in rooms are emptied hourly, dishes don't pile up, and Papa sits in his armchair watching TV on maximum volume. It's like stepping back in time entering their house, and the only change I recognize is that the old tree in the backyard was removed a couple years back.
Then there's my grandparents. 84 and 94 years old, they're getting on in their years, and during my visit I kept it in the back of my head that I might not get to see them again when I visit next year. It was disconcerting, but the strangest thing was seeing how much they've changed since I last saw them. My grandmother has always been a harsh, bitter woman, and she would often take out her anger on her husband, who sits back and takes the abuse, keeping his hearing aids turned down so he can't hear any of it. Due to his poor hearing, Papa would always sit in his armchair and watch family reunions and visits, sometimes asking loudly how someone is doing or question who a specific person was (his grandchildren have all grown up and now we're onto great-grandchildren). But this visit was entirely different. Perhaps because everyone was at the house, or perhaps because she's getting older, Grandma was far more subdued than I've ever seen her. There was very little snark, and when she spoke to me about her health and stress surrounding caring for Papa, she sounded tired and beaten. It's almost scary to see such a change in a person, even a somewhat welcome one. Papa, on the other hand, hardly spoke at all during the visit. His hair is almost gone, and he looks older than he ever has before. For the first time, when I hugged him goodbye, he did not squeeze back when I took his hand.
Everyone else is aging too, and my cousin mentioned that her 40th birthday is looming out there on the horizon. Walking through the house and looking at all the pictures, those of my siblings and me have been largely overshadowed by pictures of the great-grandchildren, my second-cousins, one of whom I've not yet met.
My father moved to Colorado from Los Angeles in the late 80's, then eventually to North Carolina after I was born. I've always believed that part of his reason for leaving home was his overbearing mother. He lived at home through college, and has told me many stories surrounding his mother's inability to accept things that are new to her, like eating fish. Even her children's significant others were subject to scrutiny--it's like that old philosophy that everything should stay in the family and outsiders are not to be trusted. My dad told me that he didn't want to see his kids treated like his sister's children, who learned to manipulate Grandma in order to get what they want and visited her frequently despite her harsh disposition. The decision may have cost him his relationship with his mother, who now holds a grudge over the fact that he doesn't call or send letters often enough (she hangs up if he calls and has sent back letters and cards). It's quite a dysfunctional situation.
When my maternal grandparents passed away, I felt sad that I'd never forged a relationship with either of them. I spent the next couple years that I lived in LA hearing about how wonderful a person my Grandma was, but I feel so young--I don't remember much at all, besides the basics that a grandchild remembers. I remember her generosity at Christmas and how much she loved Santa Fe and southwestern jewelry, I remember her difficult relationship with her husband and how sad it was to see her fade away in the years after she was diagnosed with cancer. I remember that I never got to know her as a person. She passed away the first semester that I was in school in Los Angeles, and had been very sick leading up to it. I didn't know her, and as a stupid kid, I had never seen the importance of trying to get to know her. I regret that immensely now. I hear so much from my mother, my aunt, and other relatives about how giving and wonderful a person she was, how she coped with her husband and how she raised five children as a navy wife, moving every couple years. I learned that she'd wanted a white Persian cat, and my aunt had wanted nothing more than for her mother to be able to have what she wanted. But Grandpa outlived her, and I did get to see him decline. We were never close, but he visited me at school occasionally, and I would go to San Bernadino a couple times to see him. He was a talker, couldn't take a drive without him explaining the history of the area and what used to be in a certain location. We went to an art gallery once in my college town and he spent thirty minutes chatting with a salesman while I stood staring at a boring piece of art. He struggled to take care of himself, buying all his food and produce at the 99 cent store, which sells items close to their expiration dates. We would find food in the fridge that had expired years ago and have to throw it out when he wasn't around.
I feel like I've been rambling and not going anywhere with this.
My aunt likes to say that it's strange to think that you only know your grandparents when they're old. As you grow older, so do they, and so for the self-centered child (as most of us were), it can be difficult to ever see grandparents as different than they currently are. It's true, I only ever knew my grandparents (or remembered knowing them) when they had started to age. I don't recall Papa without hearing aids and participating in everyday conversation just as I don't remember my (maternal) grandmother being able to keep up easily on our trips to amusement parks and zoos. My (maternal) grandfather and (paternal) grandmother have always been angry people in my memory, but they mellowed with age.
Sometimes I really wish that I'd lived closer and could have known both sets of grandparents better than I did. But when I look back at who I was at 15/16, when I would most likely have had the forethought to try to get to know them as people...I know that I wouldn't have done it. Hell, most teenagers don't even get to know their parents as people.
I'm glad at least that I'll have a chance next month to get to know my parents as people, no matter where I end up afterwards.
It was like being in another dimension, walking into the same living room, same kitchen, same den, and same bathroom that I remember from my childhood. What's weird is that I'm pretty sure things haven't changed since my dad was a boy too--the wastepaper baskets in rooms are emptied hourly, dishes don't pile up, and Papa sits in his armchair watching TV on maximum volume. It's like stepping back in time entering their house, and the only change I recognize is that the old tree in the backyard was removed a couple years back.
Then there's my grandparents. 84 and 94 years old, they're getting on in their years, and during my visit I kept it in the back of my head that I might not get to see them again when I visit next year. It was disconcerting, but the strangest thing was seeing how much they've changed since I last saw them. My grandmother has always been a harsh, bitter woman, and she would often take out her anger on her husband, who sits back and takes the abuse, keeping his hearing aids turned down so he can't hear any of it. Due to his poor hearing, Papa would always sit in his armchair and watch family reunions and visits, sometimes asking loudly how someone is doing or question who a specific person was (his grandchildren have all grown up and now we're onto great-grandchildren). But this visit was entirely different. Perhaps because everyone was at the house, or perhaps because she's getting older, Grandma was far more subdued than I've ever seen her. There was very little snark, and when she spoke to me about her health and stress surrounding caring for Papa, she sounded tired and beaten. It's almost scary to see such a change in a person, even a somewhat welcome one. Papa, on the other hand, hardly spoke at all during the visit. His hair is almost gone, and he looks older than he ever has before. For the first time, when I hugged him goodbye, he did not squeeze back when I took his hand.
Everyone else is aging too, and my cousin mentioned that her 40th birthday is looming out there on the horizon. Walking through the house and looking at all the pictures, those of my siblings and me have been largely overshadowed by pictures of the great-grandchildren, my second-cousins, one of whom I've not yet met.
My father moved to Colorado from Los Angeles in the late 80's, then eventually to North Carolina after I was born. I've always believed that part of his reason for leaving home was his overbearing mother. He lived at home through college, and has told me many stories surrounding his mother's inability to accept things that are new to her, like eating fish. Even her children's significant others were subject to scrutiny--it's like that old philosophy that everything should stay in the family and outsiders are not to be trusted. My dad told me that he didn't want to see his kids treated like his sister's children, who learned to manipulate Grandma in order to get what they want and visited her frequently despite her harsh disposition. The decision may have cost him his relationship with his mother, who now holds a grudge over the fact that he doesn't call or send letters often enough (she hangs up if he calls and has sent back letters and cards). It's quite a dysfunctional situation.
When my maternal grandparents passed away, I felt sad that I'd never forged a relationship with either of them. I spent the next couple years that I lived in LA hearing about how wonderful a person my Grandma was, but I feel so young--I don't remember much at all, besides the basics that a grandchild remembers. I remember her generosity at Christmas and how much she loved Santa Fe and southwestern jewelry, I remember her difficult relationship with her husband and how sad it was to see her fade away in the years after she was diagnosed with cancer. I remember that I never got to know her as a person. She passed away the first semester that I was in school in Los Angeles, and had been very sick leading up to it. I didn't know her, and as a stupid kid, I had never seen the importance of trying to get to know her. I regret that immensely now. I hear so much from my mother, my aunt, and other relatives about how giving and wonderful a person she was, how she coped with her husband and how she raised five children as a navy wife, moving every couple years. I learned that she'd wanted a white Persian cat, and my aunt had wanted nothing more than for her mother to be able to have what she wanted. But Grandpa outlived her, and I did get to see him decline. We were never close, but he visited me at school occasionally, and I would go to San Bernadino a couple times to see him. He was a talker, couldn't take a drive without him explaining the history of the area and what used to be in a certain location. We went to an art gallery once in my college town and he spent thirty minutes chatting with a salesman while I stood staring at a boring piece of art. He struggled to take care of himself, buying all his food and produce at the 99 cent store, which sells items close to their expiration dates. We would find food in the fridge that had expired years ago and have to throw it out when he wasn't around.
I feel like I've been rambling and not going anywhere with this.
My aunt likes to say that it's strange to think that you only know your grandparents when they're old. As you grow older, so do they, and so for the self-centered child (as most of us were), it can be difficult to ever see grandparents as different than they currently are. It's true, I only ever knew my grandparents (or remembered knowing them) when they had started to age. I don't recall Papa without hearing aids and participating in everyday conversation just as I don't remember my (maternal) grandmother being able to keep up easily on our trips to amusement parks and zoos. My (maternal) grandfather and (paternal) grandmother have always been angry people in my memory, but they mellowed with age.
Sometimes I really wish that I'd lived closer and could have known both sets of grandparents better than I did. But when I look back at who I was at 15/16, when I would most likely have had the forethought to try to get to know them as people...I know that I wouldn't have done it. Hell, most teenagers don't even get to know their parents as people.
I'm glad at least that I'll have a chance next month to get to know my parents as people, no matter where I end up afterwards.
26 September 2013
Worrying
I inherited a terrible habit from my father: worry.
As a child I felt anxious about a lot of things: whether or not I was as smart as I thought myself to be, whether I would pass my classes or ace a test, whether I would ever gather the courage to talk to the cute guy in my English class, what I wanted to study in college and where I wanted to go, whether I would figure out my life before it started, and whether I'm doing things wrong.
I would also worry about things that were outside my control like: what if the other third-graders make fun of my clothes? what will happen in the Middle East (I was a strange middle-schooler)? what if my parents aren't happy ever again? what if my siblings aren't successful in life?
I still worry constantly. What if the job I'm currently in is where I still am in six years? What if I get married young and then regret it? What if I get pregnant and don't want the child? What if I end up living in a terrible neighborhood? What if I change jobs and the new job is worse that the old one? What if I'll never become a writer because I'm just not good enough?
I also still worry about things outside my control. What if my young cousins forget who I am or we grow apart and I don't see them often enough to soothe my guilty conscience? What if I try to become friends with my parents and for one reason or another it doesn't help our relationship? What if I do this move across country and it turns out to have been the wrong decision.
There's the fear of making mistakes, and then there's the fear of others making mistakes.
I had a conversation this evening with my roommate about worry and our relationships to others when we are trying to give them advice or guide them or teach them from our mistakes. She does it with her teenage sisters, hoping to keep them from making the same mistakes that she did as a young adult. I reminded her that the best thing she can do for them is to be a role model to them, not offer unsolicited advice except in the most non-judgmental way, and to listen listen listen to them, treat them like equals and not children, and allow them to come to you with their mistakes, their concerns, and their problems so that they can feel that there is a non-parent in their life who cares about them enough to want to see them succeed.
Of course, I finished telling her my feelings on things, and I immediately wondered what the hell I'm doing with my brother. He's becoming independent and finding his way in life and here I am in the same boat as my parents and aunt feeling like I need to do all I can to guide him and ensure that he doesn't sink. It's the worry that I feel, and I wouldn't say that it's misplace, but it's misguided. Yes, I should worry about him as much as I worry about everyone else, but no, I can't change the course of his life just by giving him unsolicited advice that encourages him to do things the way I did (or wish I did). He will need to learn on his own how he wants to live his life and if he makes mistakes on the way, better to learn now than later. By worrying and guiding and helping for the past two years (the guiding didn't affect much), all I've done is ensure that I will be more worried that I was in the first place because now I feel like my interference was a key to his success, when really all it may have done was hinder it. At least hinder independence.
I'm probably rambling, I don't even have my contacts in. But this is something that has been bothering me for a while--I spent so much energy worrying about other people that I would displace well-founded worry about my own life and situation.
As a child I felt anxious about a lot of things: whether or not I was as smart as I thought myself to be, whether I would pass my classes or ace a test, whether I would ever gather the courage to talk to the cute guy in my English class, what I wanted to study in college and where I wanted to go, whether I would figure out my life before it started, and whether I'm doing things wrong.
I would also worry about things that were outside my control like: what if the other third-graders make fun of my clothes? what will happen in the Middle East (I was a strange middle-schooler)? what if my parents aren't happy ever again? what if my siblings aren't successful in life?
I still worry constantly. What if the job I'm currently in is where I still am in six years? What if I get married young and then regret it? What if I get pregnant and don't want the child? What if I end up living in a terrible neighborhood? What if I change jobs and the new job is worse that the old one? What if I'll never become a writer because I'm just not good enough?
I also still worry about things outside my control. What if my young cousins forget who I am or we grow apart and I don't see them often enough to soothe my guilty conscience? What if I try to become friends with my parents and for one reason or another it doesn't help our relationship? What if I do this move across country and it turns out to have been the wrong decision.
There's the fear of making mistakes, and then there's the fear of others making mistakes.
I had a conversation this evening with my roommate about worry and our relationships to others when we are trying to give them advice or guide them or teach them from our mistakes. She does it with her teenage sisters, hoping to keep them from making the same mistakes that she did as a young adult. I reminded her that the best thing she can do for them is to be a role model to them, not offer unsolicited advice except in the most non-judgmental way, and to listen listen listen to them, treat them like equals and not children, and allow them to come to you with their mistakes, their concerns, and their problems so that they can feel that there is a non-parent in their life who cares about them enough to want to see them succeed.
Of course, I finished telling her my feelings on things, and I immediately wondered what the hell I'm doing with my brother. He's becoming independent and finding his way in life and here I am in the same boat as my parents and aunt feeling like I need to do all I can to guide him and ensure that he doesn't sink. It's the worry that I feel, and I wouldn't say that it's misplace, but it's misguided. Yes, I should worry about him as much as I worry about everyone else, but no, I can't change the course of his life just by giving him unsolicited advice that encourages him to do things the way I did (or wish I did). He will need to learn on his own how he wants to live his life and if he makes mistakes on the way, better to learn now than later. By worrying and guiding and helping for the past two years (the guiding didn't affect much), all I've done is ensure that I will be more worried that I was in the first place because now I feel like my interference was a key to his success, when really all it may have done was hinder it. At least hinder independence.
I'm probably rambling, I don't even have my contacts in. But this is something that has been bothering me for a while--I spent so much energy worrying about other people that I would displace well-founded worry about my own life and situation.
21 September 2013
Moving Update #1
So apparently saving a draft doesn't quite work the day I thought it did. Ah well, I did post something last night, but I wrote it a few days ago.
I've been wanting to draft something about being alone, but I'm still working out something good, so perhaps tomorrow.
Today will just be an update about my packing. Fascinating, I know.
As I have mentioned before, I'll be moving across the country (back to NC) mid-October, and I've already begun packing most of my things now so as not to find myself freaking out during my last few days here. I have multiple times made the mistake of packing and disposing of items hours before a flight leaves and it always turns into an incredibly stressful day. I intend for my last few nights in LA to be relaxing and happy, since I'll be leaving so much behind.
I spent last night watching Mulan and wrapping up my paintings. They're really going to take up much less room than I'd anticipated, which is great news. I just hope that the glass doesn't break on any of the pieces. My brother helped wrap up the pottery and sculptures that I own, and I packed everything away in boxes and placed it all in a pile in the living room so I can get a sense of whether or not it's all going to fit in my car. I will not be getting a trailer, so a lot will have to be sold. Downsizing will be nice. I have a few nice things that remind me of my family and I'll be keeping those items, but I don't want to be a slave to my possessions.
This morning I walked out to the soccer field to see my cousin's soccer game (which I should know doesn't last that long, I mean, the kids are 7 and 8). The 8-year old clung to my leg and wailed about how she doesn't want me to go. I feel so guilty moving so far away from my aunt and her two kids, but I feel it's a necessary step. I've already planned how I'll keep in touch with them, but we'll see how it goes. After all, I missed my aunt a lot when I was a kid and she visited yearly--it still didn't feel like enough.
Weather's still trying to change here. I hope I didn't make a mistake packing all of my long-sleeved clothes already. It doesn't get that cold in October out here, right? I can't remember anymore.
I've been wanting to draft something about being alone, but I'm still working out something good, so perhaps tomorrow.
Today will just be an update about my packing. Fascinating, I know.
As I have mentioned before, I'll be moving across the country (back to NC) mid-October, and I've already begun packing most of my things now so as not to find myself freaking out during my last few days here. I have multiple times made the mistake of packing and disposing of items hours before a flight leaves and it always turns into an incredibly stressful day. I intend for my last few nights in LA to be relaxing and happy, since I'll be leaving so much behind.
I spent last night watching Mulan and wrapping up my paintings. They're really going to take up much less room than I'd anticipated, which is great news. I just hope that the glass doesn't break on any of the pieces. My brother helped wrap up the pottery and sculptures that I own, and I packed everything away in boxes and placed it all in a pile in the living room so I can get a sense of whether or not it's all going to fit in my car. I will not be getting a trailer, so a lot will have to be sold. Downsizing will be nice. I have a few nice things that remind me of my family and I'll be keeping those items, but I don't want to be a slave to my possessions.
This morning I walked out to the soccer field to see my cousin's soccer game (which I should know doesn't last that long, I mean, the kids are 7 and 8). The 8-year old clung to my leg and wailed about how she doesn't want me to go. I feel so guilty moving so far away from my aunt and her two kids, but I feel it's a necessary step. I've already planned how I'll keep in touch with them, but we'll see how it goes. After all, I missed my aunt a lot when I was a kid and she visited yearly--it still didn't feel like enough.
Weather's still trying to change here. I hope I didn't make a mistake packing all of my long-sleeved clothes already. It doesn't get that cold in October out here, right? I can't remember anymore.
16 September 2013
Daydreaming
Daydreaming has gotten me into trouble more than once. As a kid, a teacher tripped over me while carrying paint and blamed my inattentiveness and daydreaming for the accident. As an adult, I've lived with my fantasies but done very little to make them come true.
When I went off to school I used to dream about what life would be like in college. I'd work hard all day and party all night surrounded by the most intelligent people I'd ever met, make great friends, have fantastic romances, and discover myself.
When I was in grade school I used to imagine who I might be when I became a teenager. My goal was to be anyone other than who I currently was. Everyone seemed exotic and the possibilities were endless.
The possibilities are still endless, but it's becoming clearer to me that hard word is just as important as having the dream if I want to make it happen. I wanted to be a pianist--I needed to practice. I wanted to be likable--I needed to be a friend to others. I wanted to be successful--I needed to work hard. I wanted to be a writer--I needed to write.
I achieved some of these but not others. I have expectations for myself but the daydreaming (that I seem to do constantly) isn't useful in the least when it comes to doing those things that I need to do in order to achieve the success I crave.
It's sad really. I'll miss the daydreams about being a big-shot editor who drives a sports car and wears fancy outfits every day. I'll miss dreaming about how I'd furnish my mansion or designing my ideal library. This is not to say that I'll never do these things again. But never again can I allow these fantasies to take over the time I should be spending doing.
There's a book called The Reality Bug (within the Pendragon series by DJ MacHale) that depicts a place where a vivid virtual reality machine is developed and everyone can live within their own imagined reality where everything goes their way all the time and anything can happen. Of course, the problem was that no one saw the need to live in the real world with its ups and downs when they could jump into a fantasy world where everything is always up, never down.
It's a dangerous thing, to become so infatuated with an imaginary reality and never to strive to change your true reality.
10 September 2013
Storms
It's trying to be autumn in Southern California. For the first time in a couple weeks I was able to venture outside comfortably in a sweater and hear the sound of feet crunching dry leaves in the gutter. I like the change, but it's miniscule.
I remember driving up to Ohio one September about ten years ago to see the burial of my great-aunt in her childhood home. The trip was largely uneventful, a good opportunity to say my last goodbyes to an aunt I barely knew, and to get away for a bit with my mother. We drove through the Appalachian Mountains, and while I remember very little of the actual drive up, I remember the colors. The autumn leaves in western North Carolina and Virginia were the most beautiful I've ever seen in my life. At one point we drove up a mountain out in the boonies, going around and around the tight curves until we got to the top, where we were greeted with the most beautiful sight--a sea of treetops, and a variety of color that I've not seen since.
It was glorious and I miss it so much. Southern California has its perks, but I prefer the forest to the beach, and while it's nice to see mountains in the distance, it's also nice to drive through country roads and see the trees go from lush and green to orange, yellow, and brown, then bare sticks waving in the wind.
I think it's time to leave.
I remember driving up to Ohio one September about ten years ago to see the burial of my great-aunt in her childhood home. The trip was largely uneventful, a good opportunity to say my last goodbyes to an aunt I barely knew, and to get away for a bit with my mother. We drove through the Appalachian Mountains, and while I remember very little of the actual drive up, I remember the colors. The autumn leaves in western North Carolina and Virginia were the most beautiful I've ever seen in my life. At one point we drove up a mountain out in the boonies, going around and around the tight curves until we got to the top, where we were greeted with the most beautiful sight--a sea of treetops, and a variety of color that I've not seen since.
It was glorious and I miss it so much. Southern California has its perks, but I prefer the forest to the beach, and while it's nice to see mountains in the distance, it's also nice to drive through country roads and see the trees go from lush and green to orange, yellow, and brown, then bare sticks waving in the wind.
I think it's time to leave.
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