I can’t exactly be sure when it all started.
Maybe it’s cause, as a little kid, I had friends who didn’t think I fit in and didn’t like me to be around most of the time. Maybe it’s cause I’ve met too many two-faced people. Maybe it’s just me and my overactive imagination.
But I seem to suffer from paranoia. Not the kind movies are made of where you think someone is out to kill you, but the kind where you think no one likes you. That’s not even exactly accurate. I know that Jake loves me and I have a few really close friends whom I trust to tell me the truth.
With most other people, I am more guarded than usual and I look for any excuse to conclude that they harbor negative thoughts towards me. It’s like the walking into a room when people suddenly grow quiet effect, but it’s tripled or even worse. Someone mentions something that annoys him or her and I make a quick mental search to see if I’ve ever done that to that person. Are they talking about me? Are they trying to give hints that I piss them off?
I remember watching Pretty Woman years ago and there is a scene where he tells her how beautiful she is and she says that the bad stuff is easier to remember. Even back then, I agreed with that wholeheartedly. Jake must have told me millions of amazing and loving words over the years, most of which I can’t recall, but I can tell you almost every single mean word he used. When he mentions something negative, I am much more willing to accept it as truth than when he compliments me.
Since I know I am screwed up in this manner, I tend to ask my friends to be fully honest with me. I’m less likely to be paranoid about what they might be saying behind my back if I know they can tell the brutal truth to my face. As distinctly as I remember the negative, it’s nothing compared to what my imagination can do, so often times, the brutal truth is much milder than what I cooked up.
Amazing how a few bad friends can ruin you for life.
Previously? Loss of Memories
No thanks to you, I decided what present to give my sister.
This present, which you most probably shall hear more about as it nears completion, includes collecting memories and pictures from family members and friends. One of the things I noticed while we did a similar thing for my mother was that you can easily see a pattern in people’s words. If five or more people say that you’re gentle and kind, odds are they’re probably right.
As I go through the emails, I enjoy seeing other people’s opinions of my sister. I like the similarities cause they define my sister’s core traits. I also like to see the ones who are distinctly different. It makes me wonder why she has such a unique relationship with this person when compared to the others.
Since a large portion of the present is a long story by me, I figured I should dig into my bank of memories and pull out a few entertaining moments. To my dismay, I realized that I can’t remember anything from before kindergarten.
I can recall how much I cried when my mother took me to my first day in kindergarten. I have strong memories of my first day of elementary school. But nothing before the age of five. With one exception. I remember when my sister taught me to read. She was lying on my parent’s bed, reading a newspaper, and I asked her to show me how she read. Starting with the large headlines, she taught me each letter. I can’t remember how old I was but I know it was before kindergarten.
I’ve seen many photographs of my childhood, a whole lot of them with my sister, so I know I’m not adopted. But, for the life of me, I can’t remember anything from the first five years of my life. The symbolism of such a lack of memory must be strong but I have absolutely no idea what it means.
It’s not that I had a sad childhood, we have home videos and photos proving otherwise, but I somehow erased that part of my brain. Maybe I overwrote it with information on how to create hash tables or linked lists.
What’s the earliest childhood memory you can remember?
Previously? First Time
I’m exhausted as I walk through the door. It’s only 8:30am and I have no idea how I will make it through three classes and five hours of volunteer work that’s supposed to follow my appointment.
I get out of the tiny elevator on the eleventh floor and walk down the long, windy corridor in search of the suite number. Even though I can tell the door is not locked, I knock and a voice tells me to walk right in, so I do. As I make my way down a shorter corridor I marvel at the sense of liberty I get from the high ceilings. I should move down to SoHo, I think.
She’s not like I expected at all. I don’t really know what I was expecting, but I do know this is not it. She appears to be in her twenties, American, tall, thin, and pretty. She’s wearing fashionable frames. She’s nice but not in a touchy-feely way. She’s not fake either. Genuine niceness, such a rare quality these days.
I sit at her desk and notice the small glass ball filled with water. Tiny, red fish swim in it. “Do they really live without having their water changed?” I ask.
“Yes, it’s an entire ecosystem in there,” she says. “I didn’t believe it when I saw it either but they live like that for six years.” That’s an eternity for fish, in my experience. I smile at the beauty and complexity of nature and survival.
Japanese and Chinese characters cover most of the decoration. For a second, I wish I were still in Japan and then I remember how lonely I was and how sick I’ve been and I feel glad to be home.
She asks me questions about my medical history and lifestyle. As always, the word “stress” comes up more often than it should. I tell her that I’ve come to accept that I like living on stress and she nods. I don’t even bother to imagine what she must be thinking. I can’t be the only weirdo she’s ever seen; we do live in New York City after all.
She makes me stick out my tongue and checks my pulse on both hands simultaneously. She then takes me to a small room, containing only a chair and a massage table. She tells me to take of my socks and pants and lie on my stomach. As she sticks the needles in my body, she warns me about the small pinch. In some cases, my body jerks involuntarily. It’s not really painful but I can certainly feel most of the needles in my body.
She leaves me be for a few minutes and then comes back to take them out. She mentions that I might feel elevated pain or numbness and that it’s normal for the first time. We make an appointment to see each other again on Monday and I walk away, worrying about the pain that’s still shooting up and down my leg.
I run to the corner of the street and jump in a cab, away from the calm of her suite to the madness that is my life.
Previously? Knowing the Future.
Heather‘s mention of Tarot card reading made me remember my childhood struggles with fortune telling. When I was fifteen or so, my sister and her friend went out dancing on a Saturday night.
At the early hours of the next morning, I woke up cause of a commotion in the living room. The girl that my sister went out with was in the hospital. The story goes that somewhere around two hours into the night, she went over to my sister and asked if my sister wanted to come along to another bar a few miles away. My sister shook her head, so this girl and a guy left the bar, saying they’d be back in a few hours. In OJ fashion, a third guy joined them in the car, but he was totally drunk. The driving guy wasn’t so sober himself and there are several versions of this story, one being that he was really drunk and another that a car was chasing them and cornering them. Either way, the guy ended up smashing right into the wall of a tunnel with a sharp turn and the girl flew out of the window (at the time, you weren’t required to put on a seatbelt in Turkey) and was plastered all over the wall.
The driver was only slightly hurt and the guy in the back walked away without injuries but also slept through the entire event. The driver then picks up the remains of the girl and hails a cab (says a lot about Turkey that a cab was willing to stop for a guy carrying a really bloody girl) and takes the girl to the nearest hospital. She lays in a coma for several weeks and then comes out of it long enough for the doctors to consider doing reconstructive surgery on the originally breathtaking girl’s now non-existent face. But the next day, she lapses back into the coma and dies.
After she died, there were a lot of rumors circulating that this girl used to consistently go to a fortuneteller. Supposedly, this fortuneteller told her that very week that she was going to die during that week. While the likeliness of this story being true is slim to none, it still gave me the creeps.
To add to my disdain of palm readers and such, my neighbor went to see one with a bunch of her friends and they were all in the room together when this woman tells my neighbor that her father is cheating on her mother. Even if the fortuneteller was totally wrong, is this something you want to hear in front of your friends?
Putting my skepticism or lack thereof aside, I don’t think I could possibly stand hearing potentially damaging news, from someone who is supposed to tell the future, and not dwell on it.
It’s not that I’m not curious, I’m just really scared, I guess. Cause you know what? I have more than enough worries already.
Previously? Totality of Life.
For the longest time, I’ve struggled with having too many areas of interest. I’ve always felt like I don’t know enough about anything. While most people have a specific area of passion, I want to know it all.
This might seem like a neat flaw on the surface, but the lack of depth in my knowledge base depresses me. Is it better to know a lot about one thing or a little about many things? I love the idea of being a practical expert on an issue, but I don’t want to sacrifice the time that would take away from learning millions of other things.
I know that I prefer speaking seven languages half-assed to speaking one amazingly well and I think most people would agree with that preference. At the same time, I think I should master at least one language. Just like how I should master programming since it’s the profession of my choice. I spend hours and hours wondering about this dichotomy in my personality.
Today, my Italian literature teacher talked about the “Renaissance Man” analogy that people like Leonardo DaVinci symbolized. He talked about how Dante sort of started that era by being a political figure as well as a poet. He mentioned that these people were into experiencing the totality of life.
Experiencing the totality of life. That’s exactly what I want to do!
I want to play musical instruments. I want to draw and paint and sculpt. I want to speak nine languages. I want to study literature. I want to study Math and Physics and Biology. History and Politics. I truly can’t think of subjects where I have no interest at all.
Leonardo and Dante were both amazing at everything they did, which is why they are the quintessential Renaissance men. I don’t share that quality, but at least I share the drive. And that can’t be bad, right?
Totality of Life. Doesn’t it sound so wonderful?
Previously? Tunes and Memories.
If you’ve been here before, especially lately, you might be aware that I seem to be hostage to severe mood fluctuations lately. Or maybe you have been here before and you’re just not very insightful. Either way, Jake’s had to work a lot lately due to some major changes in his job setup, so I’ve been having a lot of time to myself. Which, considering the aforementioned shifts in emotion, is not a particularly healthy thing.
So today, in an attempt to keep my mind busy, I went through the mp3 archives on my machine and clicked on random songs. If a picture is worth a thousand words, a tune must be worth a thousand memories. With the fist few notes of each song, I was transported somewhere in my past.
During high school, I spent a good three months desperately trying to memorize the dates of the wars the Ottoman Empire won and the agreements that resulted from these bloody messes. While I failed that class twice, I can easily recite you every word of every song I listened to back then. Not just the Turkish ones, either. I can spew out English, Italian, French and any other language, anything but the dates or names of those stupid agreements.
Not only can I remember the words to the songs but I also have specific scenes attached to each and every song. Even the ones I hated. The ones with painful memories. The ones that still make me cry. The ones that make me want to pick up the phone and call a friend with whom I should have kept in touch. (Ironically, I also remember all the phone numbers.) I can tell you where I was when I listened to it. Who I was with and how I felt.
So I decided to conduct an experiment. In an attempt to prove I’m not the only freak who remembers lyrics over historical dates and also to have some fun, I’m collecting evidence. If you care to entertain me and maybe help out restore some of my sanity, send me the title and singer of a song that, within the first ten or twenty seconds, causes scenes to replay before your eyes. I also want to know something about the memory. The amount of detail you choose to share is totally up to you. I’ll put up a page with everyone’s replies, so if you have a web page, make sure to list it in your mail so that I can link to it.
What are you waiting for? Tell me!
Previously? Destruction.
I stare at her as she sits on my bamboo chair, eating her lunch. Words, or more accurately accusations, boil up inside me but I say nothing.
As she tells me her most recent stories, I keep trying to remember how we became friends. What were the things that brought us together? That made us so close?
When I look at her now, I can’t remember a single idea we share. Can I still be friends with a person who’s the epitome of most things to which I morally oppose? Should I keep trying? Questions dance in my mind as I try hard to concentrate on her words. But I only hear bits and pieces. It’s as if she’s acting out a foreign language tape, emphasizing the important words while the others fade out into the background.
I can’t move beyond what’s so fundamentally wrong to me. My mother’s words echo in my ear; “What makes you think you know what’s best for her?” I don’t. I so don’t know what’s best for her. But I can’t imagine it’s this. Her life has had nothing but curveballs since this saga began. How many bad things must happen before we can agree it’s a sign?
It’s all so inconsequential to her. As if these aren’t real people and their lives aren’t being destroyed alongside of hers. I feel like getting up and shaking her, so her senses can move back to where they belong. And then, once more, I remember my mother’s words. I don’t know where they belong. Maybe this is their new home. Maybe this is who she’ll be from now on. I should be happy for her. In many ways, she’s more content then ever before. Shouldn’t that make me ecstatic?
Well, it doesn’t. And I know this isn’t the best for her. I know she’ll be hurt and I hate not being able to prevent it. I don’t know what’s best for her. But I know this isn’t it.
I don’t tell her anything. I’ve said all I can. Now, I just wait.
Previously? Never Mind.
Crack.
When I was a teenager, my friend Karen’s knees would crack each time she bent down. My mother’s knees did the same. I remember thinking how neat the sound was and how I wished my knees would do the same. Cracking your fingers is just not the same as the fragile sound that escapes your as knee joints bang against each other involuntarily.
Even though, I knew that the sound was an outcome of bone ends touching each other (well I don’t really know that to be a fact, actually) and, that in the long term, this sound was a bad omen for the future of your bone, none of that took away from the coolness of it.
One the morning of February 1, 2001, I got a glimpse of the feeling behind the noise. As I picked up my arm to help myself off my bed, several bones made me aware of their presence. On the way over to the bathroom, with each movement of my left leg, I became immersed in the symphony of my joints conducted by what I assume must be my herniated disc.
After a half-a-day of cracking, I decided it might be a good idea to call my physical therapist. I must have been right cause he asked me to come over immediately. Apparently, the sounds coupled with the tingling sensation and pain traveling the length of my left leg isn’t a particularly good sign.
So I rip myself away from the fascinating world of SQL queries and limp to the therapist. He pulls my legs, uses the sonogram and the heating machine, cracks my pelvis joint so loudly that I’m not sure I will ever be able to procreate, and makes me lie in several uncomfortable positions. And then he gives up. He asks me whether the pain is gone and all I can think of is how now both of my legs are hurting. Helplessly, we part to reconvene the following morning.
On my way back to work, the symphony continues.
Crackle. Pop.
After another hour of idly staring at my beautiful, black flat screen, I pick up my coat and join the commuters of the 6 train.
Now that I can fully appreciate it, I decided I don’t really want my knees to make that sound. Where did I get off wanting to be cool anyway?
Previously? Phone Call
Words spill from my mouth before I can think. Even as I’m saying them I know it’s going to end bad. Yet I can’t stop myself.
We’ve been here so many times before. At one point, these words had become second nature. They felt comfortable and common, like chewing gum as we say in my language. We’d yell them out without any consideration or worry about hurting the other person. Something small would become the most important issue ever.
But not lately. We’ve been much better. Which is why I’m mad at myself for using the same words, the same tone. I desperately try to get a hold of my thoughts but my emotions are on overdrive. Inside my head, I scream at myself. I take a few deep breaths and finally manage to stop.
Tears are trickling down my cheeks. I whisper, “You knew what I would say and you’re now mad cause I said it.”
He concurs. I guess we both wish I were different. But do people truly ever change?
“Just do whatever you want. It’ll be fine either way.” I’m in too much physical pain to go through this.
He knows what that means. He’s frustrated, but he’s not mad. I know he loves me. No one else would put up with this much. I feel like hugging him. I hate it when he’s away.
“I mean it. Go, have fun.” To my surprise, I do mean it. I don’t have the strength to make a big deal out of it.
He tells me he loves me and we hang up. I start wondering why I don’t mind. Did I stop caring about us? Do I love him less? Is it just that the physical pain is overpowering everything else?
Or is it that I’ve finally begun to really trust him?
Not really. But I wouldn’t realize that for another year, which was when I learned that sometimes it’s best to cut your losses and let go.
Previously? People I Like
“You don’t like anyone,” she says. I can’t tell whether it’s a disapproving tone or a matter-of-fact one.
“That’s not true!” I protest a little too strongly considering the lack of accusation in her voice. I start naming my friends. People I love, people I like and people I can stand. It’s not a short list, I do like many people. “It’s just your friends’ children whom I don’t like.”
She’s not hurt. She already knows. I’m not trying to blame her. It’s not her fault that her kid doesn’t fit in. I’m the weird one.
“She’s just not nice,” I continue, desperate for approval. “She looks down on people and talks behind their back.”
“It’s been ten years since you last talked to her. Is it possible that she changed?”
“People never change.” The words come out but I don’t know if I mean them. I do believe that people change. But I also believe that it requires extreme effort for that person. I know that these people are too uncaring or too stupid to change. I don’t tell her all this because I don’t know how to put it nicely. I don’t know how to say it without sounding judgmental.
The truth is I am judgmental. Especially when those people are the subject matter. I’m not willing to give them another chance. I don’t want to have anything to do with them anymore. Not ever again. I’m sure a psychologist would disapprove of such blockage of emotion, but I don’t care. I need time to heal and fifteen years hasn’t been enough.
She’s quiet as I remember the unpleasant moments of my childhood. “I don’t know why you feel so uncomfortable. You’re so much more successful than they.”
I shake my head. She doesn’t understand. I’m not even sure I understand. “It’s not about that. I don’t care if they’re successful. I want them to be successful. I’m the problem. I’m the one who has to get over it.” I’m the one who needs to stop shaking each time I see one of them. I’m the one who needs to stop turning into the ugly, weird girl they made fun of each time they greet me.
She’s quiet again. She’s not a quiet person. Neither of us is. I know she wants to say the right words. The ones that will pop me out of this self-deprecation. Be happy, she wants to order. Instead she says, “You have so much to be happy for.”
“I know. I’m happy,” I reply.
I am. Mostly.
Previously? The Unthinkable
We sit on my green couch facing each other. We’re talking about nothing important. I tell him about my days and how my pain hasn’t been decreasing. I tell him my feelings and my thoughts. The dark thoughts.
“I just thought about that the other day,” he says.
“Did you think about how you would do it?” Ask them if they’ve thought of how. That’s when you’ll know how serious they are about it, I recall the words from my college training.
He nods.
I look at him. I want to say something pithy, but words refuse to cooperate. Who am I to give advice when I’ve thought of it a million times myself? He’s sensible and he knows all the right words to say in this situation. So it’s pointless for me to use them on him. But I try anyway.
“You need to book a vacation,” I say. “Just get away for a little while. It will relax you and help you put things in perspective.”
He nods. He tells me he says the same thing to his employees. I know he knows. He knows he knows. I ask him if he wants to see a professional. “Maybe it’ll help”, I say. “What do you have to lose?”
I tell him I know someone. I tell him she’s really nice. He says he might. We both know he won’t. Not yet. Not now.
On the surface, there’s nothing wrong. Work is great. Love is great. Life is great. But something must be askew. Why else is he staring at the ceiling at nights? Why else won’t the feeling go away?
“We’re just sad people,” I say. “We’ve always been that way, we’ll always be that way. That’s why we choose to partner with happy people. Cause we know we’re sad inside. It’s no big deal. It’ll go away.” Yeah, right. I’m not fooling either one of us.
He smiles. “I’ll go home and book a vacation tonight.”
“Good. Make sure to do that. Mail me and tell me what you booked.” I hug him.
There are a million things I want to say, but I don’t.
Previously? Touch Me.
I am a very touchy-feely person. I’m not sure if it comes from the Spanish blood, European upbringing, or having been hugged a lot as a kid. But I touch people almost constantly when I talk. Often times it’s such an automatic reaction that I don’t even realize I’m doing it.
I don’t mean to imply that I touch people in inappropriate places. I generally touch their hands or their arms. For some reason, I believe that touching lets me get my honesty across better. It somehow projects the sincerity of my emotion or caring to the other party.
Most of my friends are used to the fact that I hold their hands when either one of us is sharing a difficult emotional situation. I hug my friends almost all the time. I even kiss their cheek at times. In Turkey, people kiss each other on both cheeks to greet. Men kiss other men and women other women and women kiss men and vice versa. In America, that would likely scare the crap out of an observer, but in my country it’s common practice. You even kiss someone you just met, in most cases. It’s not sexual, it’s not even physical; it’s just a common custom.
I believe that the physical and sexual aspects of touching are way overrated in this country. If I’m walking down the street hand in hand with a female friend, it doesn’t mean I’m lesbian. It means I like my friend and I am enjoying spending time with her. When little kids hold hands, we think it’s cute how they like to hang out to each other, but as we grow up the same bond becomes inappropriate and a taboo.
Why?
Why can’t I hold someone’s hand or kiss him on the cheek or give him a warm hug without it being about wanting to fuck him? Why can’t I touch him as he shares a difficult moment, or even as he talks about nothing specifically important, without people thinking that I am trying to turn him on?
Maybe I am weird cause sexual thoughts are not primary in my head. Often times, other people get the wrong impression that I’m trying to drop hints about how interested I am in pursuing a physical relationship with them. I never get sexually aroused when a friend touches me. Not even when a stranger does, even if he’s attractive to me. I am only physically excited if I already love that person in that way. I know this is weird to most people but I think that maybe it explains why I don’t think twice before I touch people.
I just wish more people would hug each other. I feel like so much emotion and healing can be passed by touching someone else and I’m sad that there is so much taboo associated with it. I don’t know why some cultures respond to it better than others do.
Do you?
Previously? Inquisitive Mind or Bully?
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projects for twenty twenty-six
projects for twenty twenty-five
projects for twenty twenty-four
projects for twenty twenty-three
projects for twenty twenty-two
projects for twenty twenty-one
projects for twenty nineteen
projects for twenty eighteen
projects from twenty seventeen
monthly projects from previous years
some of my previous projects
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