When I try to make sense of these lingering feelings and insecurities for Sophie… Not even I can make sense of them. I know I do not want to be with him and I don’t love him like I once did, there is too much hurt exchanged and I could never trust him again after his indiscretion. Yet, he left such a noticeable scar, even if it only appears to be a blemish to others.
He was not the first guy who cheated on me. While he was genuine and sweet, he never really did anything notable and more often than not stuck me with the bill for everything. I could even smell the expiration date on him like any other relationship I enter, I’ve always been so logical in my relationships. Still I tried to let myself live in this moment with him and there was something so pure and passionate about the love we shared. There was still something indescribable about him that swept me off my feet.
I had a long overdue heart-to-heart with a good friend of mine. She seems so happy and seemingly has the perfect marriage, she seems so in-love with her husband. She had a previous engagement that had an ugly ending before her current husband and I wanted to know her secret for moving on from something like that.
After 8 years since their break-up and 5 years into her marriage… She isn’t over it in some ways. She admitted she still thinks about her ex multiple times a week. What it would’ve been like they had stayed together, if there was something she could’ve done to make it work, and looking for that initial, unadulterated love like she had with him. She said she never regretted her marriage, she loves her husband, but she loves her ex in some way too.
The thing that registered with me the most was that she felt guilty because her husband fell so hard in love with her and it was so gradual with her for him, it also has never been that type of care-free and passionate romance she had with her ex… And I guess that is my current fear, settling or not finding someone that makes me feel the way I did with Sophie. Even if I do find that guy, the uncertainty that he will leave me.
I’ve been dating and I’ve had “benefit partners” [Personal Rule 31: Friends Don’t Sleep with Friends], but it is all just mundane to me. I also know CPA should be everything I want in a guy and he’s nearly begging me for a relationship at this point. Gosh, the boy even drove hours just to meet me in bufuland, where I am tending to my mum, just so we could get together for lunch because he missed me.
I do like aspects about CPA, but it isn’t that spark or intensity or passion. It is a like for his devotion, loyalty, nerdom, and sweetness. While these are all good qualities and solid reason to like someone, it just isn’t enough.
My friend said if she had a second chance with her ex, she would’ve gone to him to see if he loved her and let him know she’d be waiting if he ever came around. I don’t feel that way about Sophie, I don’t want him back. I just want to feel… Something, for a guy again. I kind of wonder if anything would be enough at this point though.
I know the routine now, unlike the first time my mum got sick. I laugh at the doctor’s jokes as he tries to impress the young daughter of the woman staining the purest white blankets that serve no real purpose with her vomit. I smile as I lie through my teeth when a nurse inquires if I am ok or the last time I ate. I know that with each surgery that I need something to occupy my mind or else it’ll wander to all the worst case scenarios as I twiddle my thumbs in the waiting room for a surgeon who doesn’t care about my mum or who I am for an outcome that could possibly destroy my world. My mum and I both grip the bed rails until our knuckles are permanently white, choking back tears, and forcing ourselves to talk about meaningless topics that neither of us care about. This facade always works… Up until the point where neither of us can maintain it any longer.
When my mum first got sick and the first surgery I waited upon for my mum were some of the worst feelings I’ve had to deal with. I was immediately brought back to reality and shrunk back to a size I haven’t been since those uncomfortable high school years. Every feeling I ever had of adulthood was lost, surgeons and doctors talking to me about diagnosis and treatments, I began seeking for someone to take care of my mum’s problems which is a role my mum had fulfilled for many years… But the realized I was the only one now. I never felt more alone that when I was waiting solo during that first surgery for hours and I was surrounded by families and couples awaiting the same fate… However, they at least had each other. I had no one and in that moment, I couldn’t have detested that feeling more.
It was a major revelation that once my mum is gone, I really do have no one.
This last surgery was different, but still had major challenges I wasn’t waiting for. I didn’t feel the urge to cry from confusion and the unknown fate of my mum as they wheeled her out of her hospital room for surgery nor seeing the shadow of the human I know my mum to be when she is lying so helpless post-opt.
This time I got upset whenever I saw my mum getting upset. There was a last minute change in my mum’s surgery plan that made her uncomfortable. I initially took the role of the adult of reassuring my mum this was her surgery and she could have damn well what she pleased, yelling at the anesthesiologist for intimidating my mum only a few minutes before her surgery… And then walking into the bathroom after she was taken from me to let out the few tears I had been holding back.
The first time, I silently sobbed when they wheeled in this corpse-like creature they claimed was my mum back from surgery. This time, I took care of the bedpans and the vomit from my mum’s chronic bad reaction to anesthesia. I stalked the nurse’s station for any little thing my mum wanted or I thought she needed [Nothing is worst for a nurse than someone who has medical training]. I grimly observed every poke and adjustment my mum was given, questioning all medications.
Coming home with my mum this time was a whole different story. She has always been partially dependent for help with her previous surgeries, but this was the first time she was completely dependent on me for help. She can’t bathe herself, she can’t sit on a toilet, she can’t get dressed, she can’t walk, etc.
My mum is doing better, though there have been some bumps in the road to recovery and there could still be more ahead. It’ll just be a miracle if we both make it out of this sane. I am also starting to realize I can’t do this alone. My mum and I are both reaching our breaking points, stress levels have peaked and we are both emotional wrecks. We are both fiercely independent and I don’t think either of us knows how to depend upon other people… I just know her health with only get worst eventually and I can’t care for her myself. I just wish I could give my mum a better life, which I also know I can’t do myself either.
I think back to my Grams and my mum, both telling they think I can “marry better” A.K.A. Poor immigrant girl saved by wealthy prince charming. I also remember the routine of dating those type of guys as well. I have never had an issue of a guy wanting me for a girlfriend, any guy I date does want that. I create a nice façade of charm and sweetness, knowing the routine to make every guy feel like is not like the others, which he inevitably is… Which is why I run at any sign of commitment, particularly from these guys. At times like this, I keep thinking about how this type of lifestyle would be better for my family though.
When I walked into the bank today, the resurgence of anger occurred again. However, this time I felt less guilty for yelling at the young and dumb bank clerk because it was someone just like her that gave out my bank account information to a habitual addict that has a bad track record of taking money that doesn’t belong to him, my father.
I try to think back to when my mum was that young and dumb girl was my own mum standing behind the counter. A bank clerk was her very first job when she moved to the U.S. I have a hard time picturing my mum as ever being young or dumb enough to give out my bank account information. My mum has always been so logical and methodical.
Since I am back in my mum’s area for a few weeks so I can take care of her after her surgery, one of my many small goals was to close my bank accounts. The first obvious reason was my account privacy has been compromised and the second being that this is a small bank that is located nowhere near where I currently reside so it is merely inconvenient as well.
I was already cooling after my heated discussion with the young clerk about the importance and legal ramifications of bank account privacy when she asked me which accounts I’d like to close…
I thought the answer was simple, mine. I have a savings and a checking account… But then I found out there was one more.
This other account being a joint one with none other than my father.
Once she mentioned this account, I vaguely remembered it. It was started when I was really young. My father has a couple bank accounts set up around the world [Or wherever he might end up since he is more nomadic than myself] so he can get his fix wherever he happens to be that night.
When I was little, I remember my father said it was our “escape” money. I am my father’s daughter in many ways, though I don’t frequently admit it. I have his temper, as the young girl at the bank can testify. I also have his hunger for travel.
He used to tell me all these beautiful stories as a kid about beautiful people, beautiful architectures, beautiful museums which tantalized the inner art history nerd in me, and beautiful nature in all these strange lands I had never been. He promised me he’d take me to all these places, but like our path through life together, this joint bank account was just another history littered with broken promises.
When I got older and moved to the U.S., this is the account where I used to deposit my work wages because my father wouldn’t allow me to have my own account and I was a minor. He would go through that to feed his habit and lifestyle choice just as he had with our travel funds.
There was nearly 600 USD in this long forgotten joint account.
Initially I just closed my personal accounts. I went back to my mum’s place with my head hanging low because I felt guilty at just the thought of wiping out the joint account I had with my father.
Yes, after all the hardships and heartbreaks he has caused, I still have a hard time crossing him. I think part of me will always love him in some way and that residual cheerleader is still dormant within me that my father will get better. I also know he has stolen more than that amount of money from me while I was working and if he does discover that there is money in this joint account… Well, you can all guess what he will spend it on.
I made a second trip to the bank today. I still feel uneasy with the extra 500 USD sitting on my nightstand until I can get back to my area and my new bank. I couldn’t take the entire amount, but I still made sure to get it in cash in case the bank should decide to freeze the check.
Moral of the story, never be stupid enough to put someone else’s name on your money.
I have a habit of mocking the suburb in which I went to uni and currently reside. It is one of the richest and whitest suburbs surrounding Chicago so it is easy to laugh at it, but can also make you feel utterly like an outcast [Something which I am reminded of everyday].
Boho Chic and I were spending the infamous “Black Out Wednesday” before U.S. Thanksgiving. This was a ritual neither of us had taken part in previously. We tried to go out to the bars, but the lines were wrapping around the bar and I never am “that girl” whom sweet talks the bouncers into letting me in while the rest of the crowd will be shivering out in the Chicago winter for hours more. I either wait in line with the rest of the comrades or go home and drink for free.
Boho Chic and I had chosen the latter.
We were supposed to meet the group of secondary boys [CPA’s male group] out. Him and I haven’t been on a regular communication basis lately though and he hadn’t contacted me at all that day, despite my attempts to figure out the nightly plans, so I was content with our drunken discussion of literature and Game of Thrones drinking game.
CPA finally called, drunkenly, inviting us to a house party in a section of my suburb known as Billionaire’s Row. I am sure anyone can guess how it got its name, it is the elitist portion of an already spoiled and over-privileged suburban population.
I didn’t want to go because the issues with CPA. He was well past drunk and the only time he ever wants to discuss our problems is when drunk and in front of people. However, Boho Chic wanted to go out and she was curious what of the famous McMansions in my suburb looks like.
Well… It definitely did not disappoint.
Boho Chic was more stunned, I was disgusted. We started out in the garage because that was where most of the people were, the garage was easily 10x the size of my mum’s house. It was full of pieces of antique cars that rich people brag about even though they have no idea how to change a flat tire.
I never ventured the entire house because the Stafford wife wanted to confine the drunks to the garage and “basement” that had a bar, weight room, game room, and movie theatre. The thing about rich people that buy expensive and big houses, they have to fill it with expensive things as well. I felt like I was at a museum, afraid to touch anything, while the suburb children were dancing around with the $5k war chief bonnet and throwing beer cans at the movie screen.
I just don’t know how people live like that. Even if I ever had that type of money, I could never spend it like that. I just feel disgusted by these gaudy displays of excess and the people who choose to live like this.
Just currently residing in bufuland A.K.A. I am at my mum’s taking care of her while she is on the mend from surgery. My mum does not believe in modern technology, more so than myself because she also detests computers and the internet as well.
Be in touch when I can, should have access to the inter-world again in a few weeks!
I get to spend time with good company and over indulge myself. The Black Friday flyers won’t even be out yet so that won’t even be a distraction like at a “normal” Thanksgiving!
I am spending tomorrow solo, which I am perfectly content with this.
I always love when the Belgian family is around. They are family by marriage and we get on better than my blood family, but they’ve been in my life since primary school so they basically have become a surrogate family.
The issue with this most recent visit is the communication, which is always the case. I am my mother’s daughter, whom is a woman that needs to be medicated for her OCD, and my monochromic German background is always conflicting with my Belgian family’s laissez faire attitude towards schedules. Any time I try to talk to them about flights, the only respond with chit-chat.
This case was just different because it is my very last terms of undergrad and their arrival was going to potentially be during my final exams [Which it is, go figure]. They didn’t tell me until they already landed.
I don’t think the Belgian family realizes how segmented my family in the U.S. truly is. We don’t get along well and since we do not live near each other, we don’t make an effort to see one another. We don’t even bother getting together for any holiday anymore, which is sometimes the only time families do come together. So the brother that I am really close with, Philippe, was having a hard time understanding why I wasn’t coming to Thanksgiving…
*European Immigrant Lesson 82: The U.S. is HUGE. Yes, Philippe, you know it is big, but you have no idea how large it truly is unless you live or try to travel within the U.S. Your country is about the size on Maryland, that is just a speck on the U.S. map.
Most of my family is within Illinois, which is also where the Belgians are staying. Illinois is a large state though. The Belgians are staying with family so far south in Illinois that their portion shouldn’t even be considered part of the northern states. I live about 7 to 8 hours north of them since I am just outside Chicago.
I feel guilty since the Belgian family flew so far and I don’t think I am going to have the chance to see them this trip. The southern Illinois family lives in bumfuck middle of nowhere, there aren’t even stop signs let alone motels, and there won’t be room at their house for us [My mum & I] even if I could spend the night without plots hatched to murder me in my sleep.
Perhaps it is for the best, the Belgians should be back in a few months and it gives me a chance re-cooperate after finals. Then I don’t have to awkwardly avoid Philippe’s subtle advances. I think he’s awesome and I know we aren’t blood family, but we are still related too close for comfort.
CPA’s train wouldn’t be getting in until nearly 2a.m. and sleep was pulling on my eyelids & my consciousness like lead. Even though I only lived across the street from the train station, the amount of words that CPA was slurring made me doubtful of him being able to find his way. I took a hot shower and drank a cup of coffee soberly as I tried to bribe my body into staying awake.
These wee hours of the morning were bitterly cold and I still jump at the shadows when I am standing alone outside after darkness falls from an attack that occurred a while ago and still doesn’t necessarily seem real. I didn’t have to wait long at least, but CPA was so abrasive against the cold [And obviously drunk] as he stumbled down the platform’s stairs that he nearly walked by me even as I called out to him.
As soon as I grabbed his shoulder to get his attention, he pushed me into the station’s wall as nuzzled into my neck and began to cry. Though I am only across the street from the train, less than a two minute walk, it took us nearly 45 minutes to make it back to my apartment as I tried to guide him through the mountainous terrain of ant hills and tree roots without the glow of street lights and his halts as he proclaimed to me all of his feelings. I could tell the whiskey was making him immune to the cold, but I was completely sober by this point in time.
Once I was able to coax him inside, we spent another hour by my front door and another two in the kitchen as I forced water into his body so he wouldn’t be quite as regretful for the amount of whiskey Cokes he put into it.
The thing I was grateful for was the opportunity to talk. As I mentioned with one of my “last straws” with CPA was his lack of honesty because he wants to maintain his perfect exterior. When he drinks, he loses his inhibition and censorship.
We were able to talk about my distance, which he had been feeling and fearing. He doesn’t quite understand how I feel because he still views himself as not actively trying to hide things from me. It was good to talk and address the issues though.
He also finally self-disclosed to me, which is all I’ve really been looking for. For hours, even in exhaustion, I comforted his crying and tried to talk to him about the realities of his lay-off. He had a nice, office job. However, there were only two other employees and the company shared a single office space with two other companies so these are obvious signs that the company wasn’t financially spectacular.
He still can’t differentiate between fired and laid off. He thinks this is a reflection of his self-worth and work skills. I know what it is like to feel like you are worthless, I wish there was something I could do to take that feeling away from him. I like to think I at least instilled an alternative perspective in his mind and that takes away some of the blows of feeling worthless.
He began crying for a different reason [If you haven’t noticed a pattern to his drunken behavior, it is crying], but this one took me by surprise. He felt like he was disappointing me by getting laid off. He doesn’t feel like he is there for me if he isn’t financially supporting me and he wants to prove that he is a good provider.
As much as I feel like he tries to shut me out from the less pretty aspect of his life, he is always there for me and he is very supportive. I tried telling him that he is always physically and mentally there for me [On the rare occasions when we do self-disclose]. I never expect a guy to pay for me, he has always insisted on covering the tab for everything, including my friend’s drinks, since the first date.
This was the first time I was able to see him smile. He laughed as he told there would never be a time where he wouldn’t stop trying to buy me things or my affection.
My roommate, a mutual friend of both of us, stumbled in from the bars around 4 and she was able to help me coax CPA in to bed. This was the point where he brought up us being in an actual relationship, complete with titles, and I tried to lighten the mood by teasing him he didn’t realize how drunk he was as his arguments against that fact were slurred.
Luckily in the morning, he admitted how drunk he was and the taboo “relationship” topic was not brought up again.
As my laptop is currently fried so I will be spending final exam week camping in the campus library, I am taking a break from studying for a new laptop.
Or should I say notebook.
While a cruddy time for my laptop poop out, at least Black Friday is close. I don’t celebrate Thanksgiving so I feel guilt-free about geeking out about this [Pros of being an immigrant in the U.S.]
Since I am not longer going to be in uni and slaving over research, writing papers, and the link; I want something smaller.
I want something smaller that is easier for travelling.
I had been considering the Google Chromebook, but I don’t like that I’d basically have to be online to do anything and it has not been getting the best reviews.
My main concerns are just price and longevity. I really only need the thing for blogging and other such personal things, let’s be honest.