July 4th, 2024 — 2:56 PM
Content Warning: Mentionings of depression.
I lost my job today.
I was hired on part time for a spotlight gig, for a show called Jersey Boys. You know, the jukebox musical about Frankie Valli and The Four Seasons? I had never heard of it before until my sister started doing spotlight for it back in January, and my dad and I got free tickets to go see it in April. I absolutely fell in love with it—it's such an underrated show imo. You have this incredible cast of guys, especially the lead actor playing Frankie, with a passion for music with these beautiful voices. The show was fun. And when I asked my sister if it's at all possible for me to work part time over the summer, her good reputation got me in on word of mouth—I didn't even have any experience.
I hadn't worked there very long. I was hired for under a month actually, and had only gone to five different days. The first two days were me shadowing my sister; I gained an enormous respect for her watching her in action. She didn't just do the main spotlight, she also queued in the other two spotlights in tandem, a job that requires an insane amount of multitasking and comfort in your own job. This last weekend was my first time spotlighting: I had a show on Friday, two shows back to back on Saturday, and one on Sunday.
It was the most fun I've ever had at a job.
I've been struggling all summer with my depression. Call it seasonal, call it chronic, I don't know anymore, but I've had this overall sense of loss in myself. I was already feeling pretty depressed on not making the cut for my Radiography program for next year (an additional sting knowing that the girl I helped carry through Chemistry did make it over me, a type of bitterness I haven't felt in ages), the summertime makes me feel a type of worthlessness that no other season is capable of. It's the lack of distraction. Lack of motivation. The days blend together for me, my sleep schedule turns to shit, and it's too hot to go out anywhere, especially where I live.
But when I was up there in the spot area, sitting at my huge spotlight that breathes fire on my skin, that's bulky and jerky and hard to manuever when it matters, with the frames that sometimes don't want to lock in place, I felt like I was doing something. That I was making someone else feel happy, doing a job that really fucking mattered. It was the satisfaction of a job well done, along with this immense joy in getting to witness musical theatre—something I already have a love for. When our Frankie would sing Sunday Kind of Love, I'd fall in love with the production all over again. I loved the rush of it all, the healthy kind of stress in making sure your timing is perfect, your iris is the right size, just all of it. My back would hurt every night, neck sore from looking to my right for two hours, but I left feeling so happy.
It also allowed me to spend time with my sister without the influence of anyone around us, something that comes rare these days. We have a rocky, tenuous relationship that I don't want to delve on right now, but to be able to just hangout with her without any of our family holding their breaths at the next fight, or egging us on to fight, felt refreshing to say the least.
The show was supposed to be here for five years—it lasted six months. One of the production companies bailed out, and we couldn't afford to run the show anymore. Half of the cast and crew moved here, just for this show, and all of them are fucked over now. There just wasn't enough money coming in—I blame the location they put the show at.
I can't tell you how hard I cried upon hearing the news. That crushing sense of loss was so visceral, so painful. I really, truly fell in love with this whole show, and I was really starting to feel a sense of happiness again that I haven't felt in months now. All of it, gone in an instant, slipping through my fingers like sand—this shortlived moment that I will cherish so much.
My mom told me on the phone this morning that my sister is so proud of me, that I really impressed her with how quickly I became a natural in such a short time, and it only made me cry harder, because that means I could've really made a thing of this, especially as a way of making money while I throw my own money away at university. But she also told my mom that she will take me to the next production, and the next, and promises to make sure that we work alongside one another for as long as I'll allow it.
And I'm enormously grateful for it, and hopeful for the next performance as well.
July 6th, 2024 — 11:21 PM
Content Warning: Mentionings of emotional abuse and manipulation, future familial death, racism, transphobia, cancer.
I wonder, when my grandma is on her death bed, if she will look back on the 25+ years with me. I wonder if she will die happy in knowing she has done nothing but make me miserable all these years, a punishment for the crime of being conceived — an extension of her vendetta against my mother marrying a Chinese man and creating a family with him.
My grandma has never been your run-of-the-mill grandmother. There was never that classic warm, quaint home, with florals and outdated furniture that smelled like mothballs. Never any fresh baked cookies or warm hugs. No sweet words of affirmation and loving adoration. No; my grandma is rugged. A country woman with a yearning for the desert, even if she grew up in the muggy green landscapes of Pennsylvania. Cigarette smoke and hay bales, a stucco octogonal house built from the ground up, a psuedo ranch always having at least two horses at a time occupying it. My grandma is mean, a glutton for misery — an insomniac who struggles with chronic back pain, and more recently, terminal lung cancer.
Early on it was established who her favorite grandchild is — my sister — and who her least favorite one is — me. This is mainly because we are the ones that live the closest to her — my four other cousins are miles away, safe and sound from her constant abuse. Us, on the other hand, lived next door, and grew up with her always in our lives. It's safe to say that she's the main reason for mine and my sister's rocky relationship growing up, because her miserable self enjoys pitting us against one another.
My sister: beautiful and talented. A wonderful singing voice, a love for acting, and captain of the volleyball team. Grandma had all of this to be proud of, but she also pitied my sister as well. My sister and I are half-siblings, but we never grew up feeling this way. My dad treated her as his own from the moment he met her. But of course, my grandma sees this differently.
But me? She thinks I'm uglier. She thinks I'm untalented. She thinks I'm stupid. She thinks I'm troublesome, and loud-mouthed, and too outspoken. She has compared me to my sister my whole life. "Why can't you be more outgoing like your sister?" "Oh, if only you could sing like her." "Maybe your peers would like you more if you were more like her." She thinks I should be punished for being opinionated. She left my mom to an empty house and an unbuilt crib when I was born, deciding to take a trip out of town instead of helping her daughter with a newborn and a five year old — she has always hated me.
She has confessed to my mother before that she purposely says things that will upset me, that will make me react, to "teach me a lesson in patience.". She has confessed to my sister before that she likes picking fights with people, and itches for conflict. She has always been a miserable and bitter woman, unjustly cruel to my selfless mother — envy born from the fact that my grandpa adores my mom, and tends to listen to her over anyone else. I think she has extended that cruelty to me because I am also my grandpa's favorite — a type of insecurity over your husband loving his daughter and granddaughter, I suppose.
Why am I making this blog post right now? I'm in Evanston, WY for the weekend, a new yearly summer tradition consisting of my grandparents coming up here to escape the heat. I try and come up here at least once per summer to enjoy it with them, watching the horse races and going to the lake. It's currently just me, my grandma, and my mom here this time, for my grandpa's health couldn't allow him to come anymore.
My grandma, all day today, has had a bone to pick with me. She gets like this sometimes. Something will put her in a mood — such as my cousin calling this morning, waking her before she was ready to talk about the child he will be expecting soon — and she will be crochety for the remainder of the day. And because I am here, I am the perfect person to take it out on.
It started the moment I woke up — numerous comments inquiring when I'm having a baby. Passive aggressive remarks that are worded in a way that I'm not allowed to be angry with her over — she has mastered the art of manipulation. I, having learned my lesson in "patience", ignore this. Then, later, she decides to talk about bloodlines on the bleachers. "[My mom's name], I think your generation in this family is the last generation with a pure bloodline. Yes, [literally, my other four cousins] are all white still, but my great grandchildren from [two of them] aren't going to be pure anymore (they are married to Puerto Ricans)." Once again, my lessons in patience allowed me to ignore this.
Unfortunately, I have not mastered patience, for it all came to an ugly head at dinner. To condense this already long blog post/rant, she went on to talk about the white woman who is being crucified in the WNBA for "being white", and then brought up transgender people in sports, and I lost it at her. At first I tried to explain to her just how crazy the argument is of people transitioning for gold medals is, and she wouldn't listen to me. I called her argument a strawman, and she argued against it. It was when I looked at her though, and saw that she was giving me this shit eating grin that I knew I fell into her horrible fucked up trap: she got a rise out of me finally. She relished in my anger, in my frustration. So, as someone who was fed up, tired, and annoyed, I made it very clear that I don't give a shit about her opinions on gender and race anymore, and I don't want to hear whatever bullshit she has to say.
Did not end well.
Mom tells me later that I made her cry, that she found it unfair that she "always lets me finish my argument" and yet I never let her finish, always cutting her off. WHY the FUCK would I EVER let her finish her disgusting racist, transphobic diatribe, ESPECIALLY when she KNOWS it is a topic that will get a rise out of me?? Oh, but my grandma, the master at deflection, managed to convince my mom to tell me to apologize. And when my mom brought up to my grandma that she should KNOW those topics are sensitive for me, she feigned ignorance with "I was just trying to think of a topic we can both discuss."
Cry me a river.
When was the last time she has asked me about my major, about my hobbies, about my jobs or my collections or my aspirations or my thoughts on fucking HORSES or something? SHE DOESN'T. Because she doesn't care. And she never will.
You would think being diagnosed with lung cancer, a tumor that has not gone into remission and probably won't at this rate, she would maybe start thinking about her limited time on this Earth. About how she wants to spend the last few years of her life with me, someone who has always forgiven her, always went out of my way to visit her and care for her through her constant abuse of me. But she won't.
I'm just glad my misery has brought her joy. At least that means there was something about me that she loved.
July 11th, 2024 — 7:38 PM
Some days I don't think I'm very good at writing.
I mean, everyone thinks that way, right? My art isn't good enough, my writing isn't good enough, nothing I create will ever be good enough. But I guess my biggest concern is that I'm too tropey, that my characters have no depth, that they aren't interesting, that I ramble too much in my stories, or ever explain things without needing to. I tend to let things I see on social media make me self conscious (a horrible, horrible habit, I might add) and then start overanalyzing my writing.
Am I writing a story and adding tropes? Or am I trying to fit a story around tropes? I'd like to think I'm the former. I do have a rough storyboard laid out for Cassio and Lucien, it just takes time to get there. "I thought you said they're going to become a bit of a 'dark' romance, with toxicity and codependency. Why is it all this fluff right now?" Because I have to build my way there, of course, but also because this journey as a consistent writer is actually a lot harder than I expected. I've never been good at writing the hard stuff — any type of turmoil between them is difficult for me because I love them so much, even if it creates the story I want. Also, I guess I'm a glutton for the tropes, for them falling in love and being sweet with one another. But it rounds back to the original question — am I too into it?
I guess it doesn't matter one way or another — why limit myself because I'm scared of someone thinking my self indulgence is annoying? Maybe I do over explain myself in the first person POVs, maybe they don't have as much depth as I thought, but I just wish I didn't care about the opinions of others. Even if the reality is that nobody reads my writing (understandable, who am I! I'm just another random person on the internet.), I wish I didn't let other people's opinions dictate the amount of fun I'm having. But it's human to want approval, to want praise for your hard work, and so I'm stuck in that horrible middle ground.
Lately I've been struggling with my next addition to the story Take Me As You Please. I thought writing Lucien's POV would've been easier for me, since I've had him as an OC longer than Cassio and I used to RP with him consistently. But I'm realizing now that I used to write him very different than I am for myself, and that type of character he really is, compared to what I made him to be for other people RPing is a lot more complex and difficult than I imagined. It's always fun getting to know your OCs better, but when writing them? It's a drag, a bit of a nightmare, because I have to relearn him all over again through the process and it's hard.
This blog post feels a little silly for me to make since I'm just rambling, and I don't think it's helped much in making me feel better, but I still feel good getting it out there anyways. I've never been one for journaling before and I've always struggled writing my feelings down, so I like to think this is another way of practicing writing for me. Any form of self expression is better than none.
August 5th, 2024 — 12:45 AM
August is my birthday month.
More specifically, the 27th is my birthdate. I've always kind of loathed my birthday actually—it's always happening during the first week of school. So you get the back to school nerves, along with nobody really giving that much of a shit that it's your birthday because they're too busy catching up from over the summer, and then the day passes and it's over and done. Even in elementary and middle school, when my class had a total count of 30 students, did some of them simply forget. It's even worse when you're in a big high school, and not a single friend of yours is in the same class as you, and nobody really gives a shit this time because you are essentially a stranger all over again, and by the time you manage to make some new friends and someone asks the day has long since passed. And they will forget by the next year. Repeat cycle.
It compounds, year by year, the empty feeling of my birthday. I think starting college so late has me feeling worse about it these days: turning 26 this year (losing my family insurance!), still having a couple years left to get my degree (didn't get accepted into my program this year. Maybe next year...?), it turns into something shameful. All of these bright-eyed, bushy-tailed 18 year olds fresh out of high school, are so very, very alien to me. I feel the age gaps between me and my peers, even if I am terminally online. And they feel it too: the wedding ring, my outdated fashion, my low-rise socks—not to mention I'm becoming more visibly masc, teetering on the line between Cis+(tm) or non-binary; people tend to avoid me.
And it's not as if I haven't tried to make friends, to branch out. But instead I am seen as a tool: oh you're smart, can you help me study? I'm going to text you pretty much all the time begging to compare our homework and quiz answers. I'm going to invite you to study sessions in the library. I'll even walk with you to the garage since we both parked there. But our conversations are strictly educational, and when summer hits I'll be gone. Thanks for helping me pass Chemistry by the way.
It's all very isolating.
I have my family at least, right? They, of course, do give a shit about the day I age. But that's bittersweet for me too. I celebrate it almost every year with my grandpa, his birthdate just five days before mine. A tradition I've always had since the moment we all lived in the same city. And I do dearly love my grandpa, I have never minded sharing our birthdays together. But he's sick now. He doesn't have much time left, not really. What'll happen when suddenly my birthday is spent alone? When it's a day of mourning? That's the thing about getting older: people die. That inevitable truth. He will die someday, and while people will put on that happy face and sing me my song, his chair will be empty next to me, and we all will feel it.
But I will still have to share my birthday with someone. My two brother-in-laws also happen to have August birthdays—to be honest, everyone has an August birthday—and so we must all meet in the middle to celebrate the three of us aging. A boring, tiresome affair with a family that actually hates the passing of time, stuck living in the past and divulging in their routines due to fear of forgetting. We will eat hamburgers, my father in law will complain about his not being well done, there will be a Sam's Club cheesecake, and nobody will talk about anything meaningful or new. Rinse and repeat.
And how do I even start on the idea of receiving gifts from people? It's always what do you want for your birthday? Any ideas?, but I am so tired. I can't think of what I want when I have bills to pay, when I am on the brink of poverty at any given moment. A mortgage, an AC unit payment from when the stupid shit died last summer, my electric bill being insanely high from the 120 degree temperatures, and whatever other fucking payments I need to make. No, guys, I can't really think of a knicknack or toy I want this year because I'm too busy worrying if I can afford my home. Oh, but how I loathe money gifts. It makes me feel terrible. Like I'm not really an adult; I'm just a child who is in over their head.
Maybe I am.
August 11th, 2024 — 6:29 PM
Content Warning: A LOT of self-loathing. Sorry.
I've been feeling stagnant.
Are "August Blues" a thing? There's a plethora of things it could be; a multitude of factors that weigh down on my sore shoulders. Atlus with the Earth, Sisyphus and his boulder, Prometheus and the eagle.
Impoverished, subdued, I feel no joy or excitement in the day to day, and as the start of my meaningless semester looms over my head with each passing second, everything feels heavy. Maybe I'm stir-crazy, driven to madness within my constant four walls. Can home be a prison? It feels like it. But the heat is so oppressive, the gas prices are too high, there's nowhere to go, nothing to do. My parents are constantly busy, so visiting them has even become a chore. My partner, honey dearest, is my only friend and companion, but even that becomes tedious when there is nothing to say or do. Want to watch a movie? Want to watch a show? Watch watch watch. The TV mocks me, my computer screen burns my eyes, my phone is shackled to my wrists. I'm surprised I even know what day of the week it is anymore.
I'm so painstakingly lonely. I have no local friends—I am an afterthought to my partner's friends. I'm an obligation. With his bright eyes and easy-going smile, able to strike up a conversation with even the most dour of faces, he is golden and I am dull. I've been scorned by so many people I've once known, faces I mourn for I know that I'm no better; I've done my fair share of scorning. I think most about the people who were the worst for me, people who were unpredictable and moody, constantly breaking apart in front of me and begging me to fix them—am I so terrible to miss that type of dependency? To be needed and wanted? I know I am loved, even if it's not by many. But I need my partner, I need my parents. I don't think they really need me, they just love me enough to have and to hold me.
What happened to my drive? That wonderful, aching desire to create? Staying up till 5AM drowning in code, in my own writing? It's like I finished my latest writing project and...lost it all. And it's not as if I don't have things to do—I have so many things I need to work on for this Neocities page. Notebook pages full of ideas for my next, and next, and next writing ventures with my OCs. A needlepoint work in progress begging for me to continue. Where did it go? It's not as if I'm not still staying up till 5am, reading books on my phone, forgetting to eat and sleep and talk. Rotting in my bed. Anymore the simple act of sitting upright makes me exhausted.
I'm so tired. I sleep all day and I am still so, so tired.
My birthday is in 16 days. I don't know what I want more: everyone to remember, or everyone to forget.
