sometimes, I’d really rather not be a bitch

So I was on Facebook just now. I requested an old high school classmate as a friend, and he accepted it. Looking on his profile, I believe he’s acting in Spain now.

You know, on the inside, though I try not to, I’m always criticizing others. I criticize their clothes, what they do, what they study, why they study that, who they socialize with, what their tastes are in anything. And the list can go on and on and on. And yet, for all my criticisms, a lot of these people turn out just fine. They end up with a cool life, or a good position at a job, or are married. So then, I just end up looking back at my own thoughts and my own life, and I think, “how does something like that happen?” How is it that I can so wildly misjudge a person? And how is it I can be so boring in comparison.

I mean, I’m talking about myself, someone who once wanted to take the stage and act, and perform, and study in NYU. I still want to study there, in fact. I did what I could, though, and stayed here to study acting. But then, in the end, my own dreams could not withstand the weight of obligations, and feeling like I needed to study something “worthwhile”. Looking back, I’ve realized that it wasn’t my dreams that couldn’t withstand life, it was my own lack of faith and lack of real support that couldn’t withstand it. People who become successful in what they like either have a lot of faith in themselves, or have a lot of people who believe in them. I had neither.

So, I guess instead of criticising myself constantly for what could have been, I just…I keep on going. I make decisions based on my failures and I learn from my had-beens and my dead ends and my mistakes. I don’t stop.

Still, maybe if I criticized less, I’d be a bit better off. Who knows though.

don’t cry Delilah, at least you’re still alive

You know, my dad isn’t the person I’ve shared the most of my life with. Neither of my parents’, in fact, know me too well. Or at least, not my current 21-year-old self. With my dad, though, it’s half being exactly his opposite, and half being exactly like him. Some of the time, I love him. Other times, I just want to strangle him, or wish he’d stop talking. I guess it’s kind of like two forces that repel each other but attract at the same time. So sometimes, there’s no real middle ground anywhere.

However, in recent days, two moments have stuck out to me, which have made me reflect more on my mother’s behavior towards him my behavior towards him, and my behavior overall. Both moments have struck me as the kind that inspire and incite love, and wondering whether you’ve done a good enough job or not.

Towards the end of May, my dad and I were driving up to my university, to drop me and my things off since I was going to spend the summer studying and working. That previous weekend, my dad had gotten sick with a pretty bad cold, and really wasn’t feeling too well. But my mother didn’t seem to care much. In fact, if anything, it just seemed more like she was bothered by it. Kind of like, “don’t dump your problems on me you bastard”. In the end, she wanted no part in taking me up to school, and my dad was left doing the work for me.About halfway there, my dad just starts talking about my mother, and how he can’t seem to understand why she is this way towards him, and why why why.

This alone did not bother me. But his tears did.

I don’t think, prior to this, I’d never seen tears in his eyes. But there he was, driving at over 60mph, trying his best not to break down, but slowly the pieces were coming undone anyway. I didn’t know what to say. Overall, I never know what to say. “You’ve got me, though.” He just shook his head, more tears taking the place of the ones that’d gone. I was at a loss. I’d spent much of my adolescence trying to go against him, trying to be independent, trying to do things my own way and on my own. I’ve been, overall, a lousy daughter.

Still, I picked up this tiny stuffed puppy that was down below the radio. It’d been there since my parents’ purchased this car last year, and it’s pretty cute. When you squeeze it, it makes a couple of cute barks, and says that it loves you. Stuffed animals aren’t real, but I always give them as much love as I can. But I’d never done the same with my dad. I looked at him, and looked back at the animal. I squeezed it and pretended that it was giving my dad a kiss. I had it say what I never can say out loud to him.

He smiled.

Later, when I’d finished putting all my stuff in my dorm room, I went back down and gave him a hug. I looked him in the eye and told him that I’d always be there for him. And I meant it. It was that day that I realized that deep down, I’d always loved my father. He’d always been there for me, even when I boarded a plane and flew a few thousand miles away without telling him. And for the first time in my life, I really wanted to be there for him.

I finally broke down later. It took a bit of time to recollect myself. The next day, I found out that my mother and him had had an argument, the kind where things break between yourself and the other person to the point of no repair, and that they were now divorcing.

Today, I accompanied my dad to the veteran’s hospital a couple of towns over. He had an appointment with a psychiatrist. He was given another set of pills. And I realized, my dad has been on pills for the past seven some years. And he’s never gotten better. He never is going to get better. Just the other day he said that I’d always have a place to go as long as he’s alive. But…he might not be alive for very long. He can barely move. He takes so many pills. He’s depressed. He’s borderline suicidal.

All my mother does is express contempt towards him, wondering most of all about money, not how he his or how his health is.

Why is it that now, when I’m just in the beginnings of young adulthood, do I realize how important this guy is to me? Why couldn’t I see this before, when he was younger and healthier and happier? There really is nothing I can do, though. Still, he told his sister that I’m the only thing he’s hanging on to now. I’m the only reason he’s alive.

I want him to stay alive. Even if it’s for just a bit longer.

hello, I’m good-for-nothing.

Pardon the mess while I figure out my way around here. I had a very nice introduction entry already up, and I can’t quite seem to figure out hat happened to it. I certainly didn’t delete it. So thus far, I’m not sure how much I like WordPress. But I digress.

So, hello. Welcome to my blog, Can’t you just fix me? For those curious about the title, it’s a play of one of The Dresden Doll’s songs, The Perfect Fit. I’m a very big fan of the duo.

Now, what’s behind all this madness? Well, think of this blog as a Part II. Its counterpart, Part I, began over two years ago, in an effort to fix myself. I had come to the conclusion that I was a good-for-nothing who needed some fixing, like a doll that gets sent to a repair shop. So the blog became an exploratory search of myself, with all my observations and my perspective on them. Still, after awhile, the blog fell victim to, firstly, not being able to keep up the same writing style, and secondly, to time and lack of it. It’s sometimes quite hard to keep up with the blogosphere and one’s own blog, so I called the curtains.

But then, why a Part II? Because, even though I’d long decided that there really was nothing wrong with me, I want to figure out what’s wrong with the world, but also, figure out what’s right with it. I want to express what I think about everyday, mundane things, and about things going on in the world. I want to express personal things. And I want to see if maybe, by writing it all, I can find the solution. And if one person can walk away with their own impression on things, then that’s good enough for me.

So sit back, and enjoy.

For those interested, you may also read my other blog, open your legs. The subject matter is quite different, but it might just interest you.