Unbothered

My fingers smell like chicken. I just finished eating the biggest salad of my life. He was on the phone, but not saying anything (the usual) while I carried on a conversation with a dear coworker I don’t get to see often. He sounded fine, the way he usually does after riling me up for what I think is no reason at all.

No reason at all. That’s the way it usually seems to the other person, doesn’t it? It’s never understood, where “all this” is coming from and what the purpose of it is.

Love. Tina Turner. What does it have to do with anything really?

I was thinking earlier today that maybe my love is just different. Either that or I am incapable of loving others which makes me a cold-hearted or heartless human being, which I am completely fine with. Even without the ability to love, I know what I possess the ability to empathize and to feel compassion for others. I know that I care about people and that is enough for me.

I’m on google now. I’m looking up the word love – who would’ve thought?
n. an intense feeling of deep affection
v. feel a deep romantic or sexual attachment to (someone)

I look at all the synonyms: deep affection, fondness, tenderness, warmth, intimacy, attachment, endearment. Care very much for, feel deep affection for, hold very dear, adore, think the world of, be devoted to, dote on, idolize, worship.

Scratch the last few off; I don’t have such regard for anyone. Everything else seems just about right though.

Just to make sure, I look up affection.
n. a gentle feeling of fondness or liking

Fondness
n. affection or liking for someone or something

What’s the problem? I have all of these. I care for him, want him to be in good health, to eat and rest well, to he happy and successful. I want this for everyone. The only thing I lack is an emotional high, which one can’t be in for an ongoing period – unless drugs are involved – and those moments do come and go, so again, what’s the problem?

I’m impassive a lot of the time.
n. not feeling or showing emotion

I don’t mind that, at all. It means I can care for you deeply, but won’t fall into a wreck if one day you are not a part of my life anymore. I’m fine with that. I don’t want to think that my sanity or emotional well-being is dependent on any one person outside of myself. I have enough trouble trying not to live off of society’s approval.

The bottom line is that maybe I love you. Maybe I don’t. I’m fine with you in my life and I’m fine with you not in my life. Either way I’m unperturbed.  I think this is a good thing. You know, self-preservation? It will help me to keep going in instances where I might become crippled.

But whatever. What do I know?

 

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Ruminations

rumination

Suddenly my mind is quiet, and on and off I wonder what it was that had caused me to be so uneasy. Why was it so big a deal that it had me worried and unsettled, that I thought I had to end it to feel better? Why now do I think that ending it may not be the right answer, but that continuing may not be the right answer either?

What I had wanted in the beginning was peace. I wanted peace from my worries and my unsettled feelings and he was the source of them all. I thought freeing myself from him would give me the peace that I wanted. Now my mind is quiet. My body is slightly less compacted. However, I am not sure that the peace I was after has come to me. I don’t know if peace is what I was really after or if it was freedom. Freedom to be foolish, without guilt. Freedom to be someone I am not, to try it out for a while and see how it fits. Why do I think I would have ended up regretting this though? Why do I think taking this path would leave me unfulfilled and sorrowful?

I wonder what it is that I think I need to find, what experience I need to have in order to …what? See that’s the thing. I don’t know what I want and this not knowing makes me restless and is potentially dangerous. I don’t know what I want, so I’m willing to try everything and take for granted what I have and turn myself into a fool under the guise that doing all this will make me a wiser human being, that it will teach me to cherish what is dear to me and stand firm in what I want and what I believe…

But a sea restrains me from testing out any theory I ever had. All I have is my mind and its noisy ruminations based on nothing but movies, dramas, and internet memes.

I Have a Confession to Make

I am one of those girls. Those girls I saw on television when I was little. The ones who got caught. I am one of the girls whose journal/diary was found and who had her personal and private thoughts exposed without her consent. One of those girls who was ridiculed because of those thoughts and who had to face negative consequences because of them.

I used to think those girls were stupid. The ones who kept diaries. The ones who didn’t hide them well, or who didn’t write in them with code. So I did it, because I was smart. I kept a diary. I wrote in it with code, and I hid it. I wouldn’t be foolish like those girls – the ones who weren’t careful and who got caught.

The thing is though, I didn’t have anything to hide, and no one was looking for anything. I got tired of it. I was only logging daily events anyway. I stopped. It was pointless.

I don’t remember how old I was then. I don’t even remember if I had gotten to the seventh grade.

Four and a half years ago I moved to America. Some time after that, I took up journaling again. It was actually some time before I started this blog, so over a year ago then. I did it because I thought it would help me. I had a lot of things in my head, and no one to really talk to. My best friend was left behind in Jamaica.

My writing started out as poetry. I would find myself writing a poem when I was frustrated, or when I was angry. When something good happened to me I would sometimes write a poem. I would write poems based on my religion, my relationship with God, my relationship with my new family, my new school and the people there, my own feelings, everything. They were coming out so much that I bought a book to keep them in. I even started a blog to share them.

Over time, they weren’t enough. Though they would help to release some emotion, they didn’t take everything. They still left me with something in me that I wanted to get out, but couldn’t. I thought maybe I should start a journal. I used Notebook and I made one. It wasn’t doing anything. I didn’t have much to write. Sometimes I would. Sometimes I wouldn’t. I bought an actual book and wrote in it. I liked that. I kept on using it until it was finished. It was small really. I replaced it with a bigger one. I used both it and the online journal. They both served me well. I used the online one at work, and the physical one at home and sometimes school. They were both still lacking in that they were not able to take all my frustration, but I didn’t have any other options. Talking to anyone who would listen didn’t prove very helpful either. I was just scattering pieces of my story, and that didn’t help to heal it.

I forgot though, about those foolish girls. I forgot about them and became one of them. I never wrote in code. Doing that is bothersome anyway, but I also didn’t hide my journal. This time I didn’t think I needed to. I had a bedroom. People don’t go into other people’s bedrooms. People don’t go into other people’s belongings. Even if you saw something, you’d leave it alone, because it didn’t belong to you. I thought, no one is going to come in here and read this. I was right, for a time. No one went in and read it. I never even thought about it much. I didn’t write in it every day, or every week for that matter. I didn’t have time for that.

But I shouldn’t have forgotten. I shouldn’t have forgotten those girls. I shouldn’t have been so trusting.

Now I’ve become one of them. I’ve become an idiot. An ungrateful and selfish person. A person who is negative. A person who hates.

I shouldn’t have forgotten those girls.

Saturday Morning with Daddy

A journal entry from Saturday, January 4, 2014

I understand now, why he can’t understand, why he probably never will. Cows and pigs and goats and donkeys were never a big part of our lives. They never stopped us from going to school on Fridays. We never cried with the rest of our community for people going to America, never went to the airport and waved until we couldn’t see them anymore, and then cried with everyone on our way home. I have never cleaned a floor on my knees, never polished one with a coconut brushed. Never had to carry anything on my head. Happiness being a bunch of crap to him makes sense now. We have television and computers. We can take vehicles to school. We have shoes, more than one pair.

 

He said we should remember where we’re coming from and look where we are now. But he doesn’t know what he’s telling me to look at. I remember laughing there, with my friends at night. Enjoying myself at school. Knowing the people I lived with. Having family and friends around me. When I came here I bought myself a laptop after working for the first time one summer. It was my first laptop. I bought and got clothes, bags, shoes, hair products. I’ve used four phones, in three years. But he doesn’t understand. We don’t care that much about the materials. I would prefer to have one good friend over a laptop, or all the clothes and shoes I could buy. He doesn’t understand how isolated we feel, how isolated we are. He has worked all his life, and he still does. He is okay with keeping his head down and leaving his back to the sun, but we need people. We need love. Love doesn’t come from computers, or clothes or shoes, or even good grades. They don’t come from his absence, or his inability to understand that we need him, not just to provide for us.

 

I don’t want him to die. I want to teach him. I want to make him understand what we feel, one day, when he is willing, when we have time. I want to talk to him and let him know who I am, and ask him what he thinks, find out who he is. I want to tell him why I cry, and why…but maybe he won’t get it. He won’t get it right now.

Tuesday Afternoon

I’m going to write. Because some guy just pissed me off

>>I keep getting interrupted.

Anyway. This guy in a blue shirt was by the door talking on the phone when I walked in today. I was still in my coat and everything so I didn’t say anything to him. He wouldn’t know that I was an employee here. I didn’t think I looked like one. I left him alone. I went to the bathroom. He was still there when I came back. I still didn’t say anything. I still wasn’t working yet. I still didn’t look like I worked here. By the time I had gone to the back, put my things down, and come back out, he was still there, but he was barely audible amidst the low rumble in the library, so I didn’t say anything to him. Plus I had already passed him twice without saying anything. I thought I would be ineffective if I said anything then. Therefore I didn’t.

After a while there was another patron by the gates talking on the phone. Her we could hear. I didn’t want to say anything just because I wasn’t in the mood, but then a student needed help with the copy machine. I thought it was a great and timely opportunity. I would help her with the copier and I would ask the lady to step outside with the phone call. She was, after all, right there.

I went to help the student, but before I did, I asked the lady to go through the door. I asked the same of the man in the blue shirt, who was still there. The lady apologised and stepped back. I didn’t watch her. The gentleman, in a not gentle manner, asked if I could hear his voice. He asked at least two times, maybe three. His voice was raised. My back was turned. I busied myself with helping the student with the copy machine and completely ignored the rude man yelling at me. When I was finished helping the student I turned around and saw that the lady was still inside on the phone. I thought she had gone out. That added to my anger.

I had just come in to work. I had had a low morning and a close to awful night. Why?

>>Oh look, this is good enough to put on my blog.

Oh I forgot one thing. It looks like I really do hold grudges.

There were four of us behind the desk and nothing for me to do, so I decided to take a walk around and push chairs in. The guy was sitting at one of the tables in front and while pushing chairs in I ended up at his table, on his side. He called to me. I asked if he needed help. He said yes. I asked with what. He said it was okay. It look like he finally realised that I work here, like he was trying to make amends for yelling at me. I was professional, but not warm or friendly. I was still upset with him. Whatever that was was not working to appease me.

>>

After my walk around the library I came back to the front and sat at a computer. The man had a phone call again. He went to the same area where he was before. This time I could hear him clearly. The library was quieter and so there was no noise to cover up his voice. I asked someone else to make sure he was outside with the phone. My coworker went and motioned to him that he needed to go outside. He raised his voice again and asked if it could be heard. My coworker told him yes. He then went outside. When he was finished he came back in and said sorry to the inside of the library before he quickly went into the bathroom.

I don’t know if I like sitting in a pile of muck or what. Why I like looking at chaos around me instead of getting up and putting it into order. I don’t like the sight before me. I don’t want to look at it, but that’s what I do. I look at it. I just look at it, and I wish it wasn’t there. I know very well that I could probably get rid of it if I did something about it, but I just leave it there, and look at it, and wish it wasn’t there, and lament it’s existence before me. This isn’t something I want to do, and at the same time I do it I chastize myself for doing it, for being like that, for just looking when I can do something.

I can blame others. I really can. I can blame others and give good reasons, but that makes me irrelevant. As if all of what I am has nothing to do with me and everything with them. They’re to blame for all of this mess and none of it’s me. But some of it is me. A lot of it is me. Because I can do something about it, but I just stand still and look. And I don’t know why I do that. It’s not like the view is any good.