I was in advisory the other day. These two were talking about their dogs. And the cute things that their dogs do. And the mean things that the people around them did to their dogs. And how their dogs gave them these injuries. And they spoke so quickly. They spoke twice the speed that the average person could tell a story. I put myself in the situation. I thought about my experiences with dogs. Then I quietly said to them, "You guys talk rather fast. I wish I was a good storyteller." And of course they said I was. I didn't understand why they said I was. But they said I was. And then, they urged me to tell a story. So I did.
The only story I can remember, (ignoring the fact that our family had failed to take care of at least 7 dogs) was when my mother became very angry with me after school, and refused to walk beside me as we headed home. She remained ahead of me. So of course I got to witness it. My mama was bitten by a dog. It was minor, but I felt like a dick anyway. She didn't turn back to me. She hardly expressed anything at all. She just tried to get away from the could-be rabid dog. We both got home, and she told the neighborhood what happened. I felt like an even bigger ass. She still wouldn't look at me. That was kindergarten. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how my mama could resent me so much. Maybe because I could never say much to her. Not even till now.
After I'd told them this story, I realized how little I really have to verbalize. I don't insist on verbalizing. I don't feel the need to open my mouth when I feel what I have to say doesn't matter. In fact, after telling my story, I wished I should've just kept my mouth shut and observed around me like I always do. Thinking about that story always reminded me of how much of an ass I could be.
On my mother's birthday, we were at Reno. My sister and I bought her two additions for her shot glass collection the day before (the irony of collecting such items when she's completely abstinent from alcohol). We even bought her a card from the gift shop. Well, we'd slept through that night with our parents down at the lobby gambling the night away. And around 5 or 6, they would get back to sleep. That morning, my mother slept next to me rather than my father. I was uncomfortable, to be honest. My mother and I hardly ever reached such close proximity. So through my sleep, I kept very still as to not disturb her. But then, she rested her head on my shoulder, and that is when my brain started steaming up with thoughts. My mother prefers my sister. She asks her what color to highlight her hair with. She asks her which outfit would suit better together. She goes to her for little favors involving the kitchen or anything most in the house. Usually, we just exchange a few words. I didn't know what to feel then. I didn't know how to respond. It was obvious that my body was not in a welcoming positiion that greeted "Good morning mama, happy birthday!" I set myself stone. I laid there as still as an ice sculpture melting by the ticking seconds. One thought came to mind anyway, "my mother loves me."
My sister awoke then. She whispered to me whether we should give her our present now. I affirmed, but then headed to the bathroom. I chose to miss out on my mother's reaction. I just listened from that distance, and murmured comments to myself. When I'd come back, present-time had already passed. My day ended in bed, asking myself why I couldn't even just say it.
Well, my mother is off today. She's in her room watching television, while I was in the living room watching television. I don't like to go out when she's home. But my sister does, all the time. I slept on the couch, and I dreamt the strangest dreams. And I remember that every time I have a dream, and a ghost sits on me, and I cannot move, I yell for her in my dream. And I wish that she would take me away from that psychological pain. But excluding the night when I'd called for her from the bathroom in 2003 (or 2004?) because I was bleeding and freaked out when I'd realized I'd gotten my first period, I'd never really called for her since. Not in that INEEDMYMAMA way atleast. I thought I could take care of myself.
But I'm waking up by the day, and realizing more and more that I need my mother...more and more. I don't know why, and I don't know how. I just feel that I do. Because I'm losing myself in the messes that I create. And I'm running out of shoulders to turn to. And I'm just trying to understand the things that are happening. And sometimes, you just need your mother. And you just need her to look at you with concern, and know that she cares even when you convince yourself that she doesn't. Like when you come home with flowers, and she doesn't say anything. You just want her to say something. Anything. Things are happening to me. Just say something. But like this two way street that always seem to be congested by traffic, I don't say anything either. And my mother and I are just very alike. We are not materialistic. We are stubborn and short-tempered. We do not express everything we need to express. My mother and I just are. And that's why it's so difficult. One of us has to crack.
To end this long blog, I just want to say that I'd woken up from a dream where I'd been urged to watch porn online. It was so fucking strange that I woke up and almost did so. Just kidding. But I did wake up and realized it was 3 something in the afternoon. The sky is blue. And I'm home again with my brother and my mother. But none of us are interacting. And we are not doing anything. It makes me regret staying home. I just want to do something in this house besides getting lost in my thoughts. Fuck, I've said a lot on this entry. I should stop.
I'll stop.
I'm going to go back on the couch and try to play nice with Blithe. I'm working on this not-being-an-ass thing. And if anything, I'm going to start with him because he gets the worst end of the stick out of anyone in my life.
PS. I think the portion about dogs started because I fell asleep watching The Butterfly Effect. The dog in the bag, and my sins. And that just triggered this beefy entry.
The Butterfly Effect and its great ending. I love a good, not-happy ending.
The only story I can remember, (ignoring the fact that our family had failed to take care of at least 7 dogs) was when my mother became very angry with me after school, and refused to walk beside me as we headed home. She remained ahead of me. So of course I got to witness it. My mama was bitten by a dog. It was minor, but I felt like a dick anyway. She didn't turn back to me. She hardly expressed anything at all. She just tried to get away from the could-be rabid dog. We both got home, and she told the neighborhood what happened. I felt like an even bigger ass. She still wouldn't look at me. That was kindergarten. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how my mama could resent me so much. Maybe because I could never say much to her. Not even till now.
After I'd told them this story, I realized how little I really have to verbalize. I don't insist on verbalizing. I don't feel the need to open my mouth when I feel what I have to say doesn't matter. In fact, after telling my story, I wished I should've just kept my mouth shut and observed around me like I always do. Thinking about that story always reminded me of how much of an ass I could be.
On my mother's birthday, we were at Reno. My sister and I bought her two additions for her shot glass collection the day before (the irony of collecting such items when she's completely abstinent from alcohol). We even bought her a card from the gift shop. Well, we'd slept through that night with our parents down at the lobby gambling the night away. And around 5 or 6, they would get back to sleep. That morning, my mother slept next to me rather than my father. I was uncomfortable, to be honest. My mother and I hardly ever reached such close proximity. So through my sleep, I kept very still as to not disturb her. But then, she rested her head on my shoulder, and that is when my brain started steaming up with thoughts. My mother prefers my sister. She asks her what color to highlight her hair with. She asks her which outfit would suit better together. She goes to her for little favors involving the kitchen or anything most in the house. Usually, we just exchange a few words. I didn't know what to feel then. I didn't know how to respond. It was obvious that my body was not in a welcoming positiion that greeted "Good morning mama, happy birthday!" I set myself stone. I laid there as still as an ice sculpture melting by the ticking seconds. One thought came to mind anyway, "my mother loves me."
My sister awoke then. She whispered to me whether we should give her our present now. I affirmed, but then headed to the bathroom. I chose to miss out on my mother's reaction. I just listened from that distance, and murmured comments to myself. When I'd come back, present-time had already passed. My day ended in bed, asking myself why I couldn't even just say it.
Well, my mother is off today. She's in her room watching television, while I was in the living room watching television. I don't like to go out when she's home. But my sister does, all the time. I slept on the couch, and I dreamt the strangest dreams. And I remember that every time I have a dream, and a ghost sits on me, and I cannot move, I yell for her in my dream. And I wish that she would take me away from that psychological pain. But excluding the night when I'd called for her from the bathroom in 2003 (or 2004?) because I was bleeding and freaked out when I'd realized I'd gotten my first period, I'd never really called for her since. Not in that INEEDMYMAMA way atleast. I thought I could take care of myself.
But I'm waking up by the day, and realizing more and more that I need my mother...more and more. I don't know why, and I don't know how. I just feel that I do. Because I'm losing myself in the messes that I create. And I'm running out of shoulders to turn to. And I'm just trying to understand the things that are happening. And sometimes, you just need your mother. And you just need her to look at you with concern, and know that she cares even when you convince yourself that she doesn't. Like when you come home with flowers, and she doesn't say anything. You just want her to say something. Anything. Things are happening to me. Just say something. But like this two way street that always seem to be congested by traffic, I don't say anything either. And my mother and I are just very alike. We are not materialistic. We are stubborn and short-tempered. We do not express everything we need to express. My mother and I just are. And that's why it's so difficult. One of us has to crack.
To end this long blog, I just want to say that I'd woken up from a dream where I'd been urged to watch porn online. It was so fucking strange that I woke up and almost did so. Just kidding. But I did wake up and realized it was 3 something in the afternoon. The sky is blue. And I'm home again with my brother and my mother. But none of us are interacting. And we are not doing anything. It makes me regret staying home. I just want to do something in this house besides getting lost in my thoughts. Fuck, I've said a lot on this entry. I should stop.
I'll stop.
I'm going to go back on the couch and try to play nice with Blithe. I'm working on this not-being-an-ass thing. And if anything, I'm going to start with him because he gets the worst end of the stick out of anyone in my life.
PS. I think the portion about dogs started because I fell asleep watching The Butterfly Effect. The dog in the bag, and my sins. And that just triggered this beefy entry.
The Butterfly Effect and its great ending. I love a good, not-happy ending.
