Underneath my yellow skin

Category Archives: Personal Life

My actual goals for my re-birthday, part four

In yesterday’s post, I mostly focused on martial arts. I want to set that aside for this post and contradict what I had said in yesterday’s post about not having any more goals for this upcoming year. This is going to be family-focused, and it probably isn’t going to be pretty. Because family isn’t pretty. At least not mine, especially not now.

My father has dementia, and it’s getting worse. He’s almost eighty-six years old, and his decline in the last six months has been rapid and alarming. I talk to him maybe once every other week or so, and we Zoom (with my mother) once in a long while. We did that a few days ago, and my father was clearly not having a good day. Usually, he can hold it together enough to talk to me–and he almost always remembers who I am–but this time, it was clear that his mind was wandering.

Dementia is a cruel and ugly disease. It strips the person of everything–especially if the person is…look. My father was self-centered and self-absorbed before he got dementia. It’s only gotten worse because that’s what dementia does to you. It makes you a toddler who can only think of themselves, and it seems to be worse in my father because of his proclivities prior to getting it.

In addition, it emphasizes the dysfunction that already exists in my family. My mother has devoted her life to my father, and now, she has a valid reason for doing it. But she also resents it at the same time, and she has some pretty rigid ideas as to what he should and shouldn’t be doing.

The problem is that she’s hoping against hope that he’ll return to ‘normal’, and she cannot accept that dementia only goes one way. She told me about a promising new medical study for early-onset dementia, and I could hear it in her vocie. She knew that my father was beyond that, and yet.

I don’t blame her for hoping, honestly. Most people hope for miracles when something really bad happens. It’s the fact that she pushes my father to do things because she wants him to get better, and the things she pushes him to do border on cruel. Like when we were talking on Zoom, he suddenly decided he had enough. He abruptly stood up and started to leave. My mother protested and tried to stop him from leaving. He was pretty insistent on going, and she was equally insistent on him staying.

I broke in and told her to let him go because it was distressing to watch. And, there was no need for him to stay if he didn’t want to. That’s my mother, though. Once she gets an idea in her head, nothing is stopping her from executing it.


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My actual goals for my re-birthday, part three

I’m still thinking about the goals for this year. In yesterday’s post, I talked a lot about Taiji and Bagua and the weapons I want to learn/how hard it is to find a Double Sword Form. I did add one more actual goal, and I’ll add a few more in today’s post (probably).

I’m still dealing with the lingering aftermath of getting double-vaxxed and my bloodwork done on the same day. That second shingles shot was no joke. Even though I knew that going in, I was not ready for how much it was going to lay me out. K and I were talking about it, and she said she had never felt as shitty as she did with her first shingles shot. My first one was pretty bad as well (I always react badly to shotslvaxxes), but nothing like the sceond one. My right arm (pneumonia shot) is fine. My left arm (shingles shot. I got the bloodwork done in the back of my hand.

Side note: Whoever invented the butterfly needle is a genius. Seriously. Changed my life)

is still slightly puffy and sore. The real issue is that I’m still exhausted, like I had the flu. I was doing the Swimming Dragon Form today, and by the end, I was fatigued–and sweating. My teacher has always said that if you start sweating lightly, you’re fine. If you start sweating profusely, you should immediately stop.

No, wait. It was when I was doing the Double Fan Form that I started sweating and felt really fatigued. Fortunately, I was able to retain all the movements with minimal problem, but by the end, I just wanted a nap. I had hoped I’d be able to do a full routine by now, but that isn’t the case.

It’s been almost two full weeks since I got the shots (will be two full weeks in eight hours), and I’m really glad I work from home. I can’t imagine dragging my body anywhere feeling like this.

Back to my weapons.

I think I’ll polish up my Double Saber Form next. It’s gotten a bit sloppy, which makes me sad. I love this form, and I love the double sabers. So, yes, I think that I need a refresher on the form. I’ve done it once, I think, since getting my shots. Hopefully, I will be able to do it all the way through when I’m up to practicing it again.

I am not worried about the Sword Form or the Saber Form because they are the first two weapon forms I learned. Same with the Solo Form–I’m pretty comfartable with that (well, not with the changes my teacher’s teacher has recently made, but I’m getting there).


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My actual goals for my re-birthday, part two

I’m back with more actual goals. Here is my last post, and, yes, I’m still talking about my re-birthday. Hm. It’s really late (early in the morning), and I am exhausted. I t hink I’ll skip it and come back to it tomorrow.

I’m back. A quick side note (yes, this early): My sleep has been so fucked in the past two weeks. It’s the vaxxes and my bloodwork, and I really should not have done all of them on the same day. Yes, it made sense to do them all at one time just to get them done, but given my outsized reaction to shots, I should have known better.

It’s been a week-and-a-half, and my arms are almost 100% better. I’m still tired, though. Very much so. I was able to do the whole Swimming Dragon Form (hands-only, Bagua) after completely forgetting the beginning of it yesterday. I was also able to do the whole Double Sword Form, though I did have to peek at the videos now and again.

Here is the post from day before yesterday in which I listed four goals for this year. I struggle to make them realistic because I swing from making very small goals that I easily do and goals that are so big, there’s no way I can reach them.

In addition, I don’t know what is realistic, really. Like before my medical crisis, I could confidently say I could write a rough first draft of a novel (100,000 words or more) in a year. hell, I did that during NaNoWriMo several years in a row without breaking a sweat. Now, however, I don’t know if that’s true. I think I can still write 2,000 words a day? But I haven’t been able to do that in ages, either.

I want to set goals that I can conceivably achieve, but I just don’t know what that means any longer. I think it’s better to set ongoing goals when I’m unsure about the results. I think I can say that I will finish teaching myself the Double Fan Form. I have 11 movements left, so I could even possibly get it done by the end of this calendar year.

If that’s the case, then I need to start thinking about what I want to learn next. I do want to teach myself a Double Sword Form at some point, but there are several problems with that. One, there is not an official Double Sword Form–at least not one I could find. My teacher’s teacher hasn’t done one, either. She did ask him about it, and he said that you can do the Sword Form with two swords, doing the guiding hand mmotions with the off hand with a sword in that hand, too.


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My actual goals for my re-birthday

Ok. No more fucking around. I’m going to lay out my goals for this year. Starting with the more important ones and then meandering down to the ones that are just rattling around in my brain. Here is my post from yesterday, which is vaguely related.

1. Write the first draft of my novel/book. This has been in the forefront of my mind for the last few years. I have tried and tried to write it, but I’ve always stopped short because it just would not gel. Now, I don’t care about how terrible the first draft is as long as it gets written. I’m not sure which of the two ideas I want to focus on or if I can somehow combine the two.

I have been putting it off for a few years because I just can’t get the words to come out right. I don’t know if it’s permanent or temporary–but I fear it’s the former. I still have the ideas in my head, but they aren’t alive as they were before. In the past, they were moving as if in a film. Now, they are static.

I don’t know if it’s because of the medical crisis or not, but I have a hunch it is. I also realized that I had a much harder time visualizing things in my head. Before my medical crisis, if someone said, “Picture an apple in your mind.” I could do that easily, put it on any background, and make it move around. Now, I can still picture it, but it’s very pale and shadowy.

Again, I’m not mad about it because I’m alive. That’s all that really matters. But writing was a big part of my identity, and I’m lost without it. I could easily write 2,000 words a day as I did before my medical crisis–and I have. But it’s shit, and what’s more, I don’t know how to make it not-shit.

On the one hand, there’s no reason not to write the whole novel/memoir/book because why not? I have  all the time in the world, so if it ends up not working, it’s nothing more than a few wasted months. It’s not like I don’t have those, anyway.

My goal is to write a very rough draft, 2,000 words at a time. If that’s too intimidating, I’ll start with a thousand words a day. The goal will be just to write. If even that is too much, then I’ll start with a character study of each main character. I never do that, but it’s a good way just to get me writing.


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Life goals for my re-birthday, part three

I am back to write more about, well, my lack of writing. I mentioned in yesterday’s post that I had said to myself a few weeks after I got home that if I never wrote again, that was a fair trade-off for being alive.

I stand by that, but…

It’s hard. Before my medical crisis, I had stories in my head all the time, and I had no problem writing furiously for hours on end. I had a goal of two thousands words a day, and I had no problem fulfilling that goal. This is not a humblebrag or a brag, but 2,000 words was no problem for me. It took maybe two hours if I was really on a roll, and it was usual decent writing. Not end game writing, of course, but it was at least usable.

Now, I have tried to write the first two or three chapters of one, ah, yes, we can call it a novel I guess over and over again. The first ten pages or so? Great! Then, it just goes flat, and I cannot inject life into the words no matter how hard I try.

I gave up after writing the first few chapters four or five times. I have another idea in my head that is pretty far from the first one, but I would love to find a way to bring them together.

This is my strength and my weakness. I like to bring together disaparet ideas and make it work as best as I can. I don’t like to hear that something can’t be done because why the hell not? When I took a murder mystery writing class from a local mystery writer I really enjoyed (her work), I was pretty disappointed when she said I couldn’t do what I wanted to do. I usually write from the first-person perspective, and for that class, I decided to have scenes in which the “I” character did not appear.

My teacher was adamant that this could not be done. She said if the book was in the first person, that character had to be in every scene. When I asked her why, she had no real answer for it. She just reiterated that it wasn’t possible/acceptable.

Here’s something you need to know about me. If someone can’t give me a solid reason for whatever they’re saying, I won’t accept it at face value. Let me rephrase that. I can’t accept it at face value; my brain just won’t allow it.

So when teacher was saying it wasn’t possible/correct to have the “I” chaaracter missing from scenes in a novel, I pushed back. I could not see why it wasn’t possible/proper/correct, and she kept saying it wasn’t done. Yeah, I know. But that’s not telling me why it can’t be done in the future.

You want to know the ironic bit? A few years after that, it became the rage to have murder/mystery novels with different perspectives. An “I” character could be missing from several scenes, and no one would bat an eyelash.

In other words, I was fucking ahead of my time. I often am. My brain doesn’t work the way other people’s brains work, and at some point, I resigned myself to just being a freak. Until that point (late twenties/early thirties), I just thought my brain was broken. I knew about neurodiversity, but I didn’t fit the stereotypical symptoms, so I thought it couldn’t be me.

In addition, many of the things that are empathized with auutism (lack of empathy, the inability to read social cues/situations, not being able to do extended eye contact) were not things I had an issue with. In fact, I excel at the first two and can (kinda) do the third. It wasn’t until an autistic friend told me to take the online test as unmasked as possible that I realized how much I was performing for the gen pop.

I’m excellent at social cues unless I’m really tired or sick because I have had to do it since I was a small child. Same with empathy. I am exceptionally good at it, but it’s something I developed and honed over the years. I do think I have some natural ability for it, but I can’t say for sure because I have been my mother’s emotional support person since I was eleven.

I think I will have to add to my goals something about finding a therapist/psychologist to help me sort out my shit. I have a lot of shit to figure out, and I tried to find a local therapist. The problem is that I need someone who understands straddling American and East Asian culture, the difficulties of living in a dysfunctional Asian family, queer and gender identity issues, AND autism issues.

If I had to choose, I would put the first two as the most important right now, but I would like at least a glancing knowledge of the other two.

I live in Minnesota which is predominately white. You can see my difficulty in finding someone who would have an in-depth knowledge of diaspora issues, especially for an Asian person. Especially during the current troubled times.

Another thing I really want to do in the next two months is finish teaching myself the Double Fan Form. I have taught myself 39 out of 48 postures, which means I’m more than three-fourths done.  I can’t tell you how agonizing it’s been and how I’ve doubted that I’d be able to do it. It’s the hardest weapon form I’ve learned/taught myself by far, and I was stuck halfway through for a very long time. I have never taken this long to learn a form, and I was oddly grateful when my teacher validated my feelings out of the blue. I sent her videos of the form, and she emailed me back saying, “Wow, this is really difficult.” That was unprompted, so it made me feel so much better.

I’ll be interested to see how many movements I’ve lost when I start practicing it again (have not done it in over a week before of my mulitple shots/vaxes I had on one day). I think with a little watching of the videos (three!), I can get back to where I was pretty quickly. That still leaves me with 9 or 10 movements left to go.

I do not doubt that I will learn it this year. But I’m curious to see how long it will take me. I have no idea. It could take me anywhere from another month to half a year. I hope it’s not the latter, but I would not be surprised if it did. After that, I’m not sure which weapon I want to learn next. Before I started teaching myself the Double Fan Form, I was thinking that I would want to teach myself a Double Sword Form. The problem is that there doesn’t seem to be an official one, and I’m not sure I want another really hard form after learning this one.

I may focus on refining my Double Saber Form. I think I’m getting a bit sloppy in my execution, and it’s not a bad idea to tweak a form every now and again. That’s all for today. One more post tomorrow.

 

 

Life goals for my re-birthday, part two

Yesterday, I said I wanted to talk about my goals, but ended up talking about other things. I never got to my goals for my fifth year of life, so that is what I want to tackle in this post.

I spent the first year of my re-birth adjusting to the fact that I was still alive. It was simultaneously difficult to believe that I was still on this earth and easy to feel like nothing changed.

This is not a complaint, though it will sound like one. After three months or so, it was really fucking with my brain that I was pretty much back to where I had been before, minus a few things. I wasn’t nearly as depressed as I was before (roughly 90% of my depression was gone. Not coincidentally, it happened at the same time my parents went back to Taiwan), nor was I as anxious (about 40% of my previous anxiety). I had a few things wrong with my brain (could not do simple math in my head, and I no longer could remember names as well as I used to. In addition, I would suddenly forget a word now and again). I also had worse depth perception than before; almost no peripheral vision; and my already-terrible reflexes were worse.

All of these are more than acceptable trade-offs for being alive. I can walk with no problem. I can do my Taiji (and now Bagua) with almost no problem*. I can type as well as I used to, and I’m physically fine. My depression has crept back to roughly 70% of what it used to be, and my anxiety is back up to about the same. Still a net positive, but going in the wrong direction.

One thing that I’ve struggled with and that is a big goal for this year: my fiction writing. I have tried to write a novel (which I could do easily before my medical crisis. I have written dozens of murder mysteries over the years), but to no avail. I have had an idea for one ever since I got out of the hospital, but I have not managed to make it work.

I got another idea from a friend of mine a few months ago, but I just cannot make myself write. With the second idea, I have the characters fleshed out in my head, and a vague idea of a plot. This is unlike me. In the past, I would map out the plot in my head and by the time I started writing, I knew who the victim was, who the perp was, and the general path to get from A to B.

I usually ‘write’ the first ten to twenty pages in my head, and I know the general shape of the whole novel before I even touch my keyboard. Well, since this is in the past, I should put things in the past tense. I rarely had writer’s block, and when I did, it was for a day or two. The worst time, I had it for maybe a month.


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Life goals for my re-birthday

I’m thinking about the next step in my life. This is the fifth year of my re-birth, and it’s time for me to start thinking about what I want to do with my life. In yesterday’s post, I talked about how I had been given the miracle of life, and I was so grateful for it. I will say, I was high as a kite while I was in the hospital, so everything was absoluutely amazing.

My brother ribbed me because I was fixated on ice water. Any nurse who came into my room, I asked them to bring me a glass of ice water. I’m talking several times a day so that by the end of the day, I had five to ten glasses lined up on my lap tray (not on my lap, though. Like an airplane tray that is raised and goes ever your lap) with varying levels of melting ice.

My brother laughed and told me that I did not have to thank each nurse for bringing me water because it was just their job. I retorted that it wasn’t their job to bring me ice water every two minutes. I didn’t think to say it, but als, even if it was their job, there’s nothing wrong with thanking them for doing it.

Side note: That water was fucking incredible. I raved about it to anyone who would listen. When I got back home, I raved about it on Twitter. I had people agreeing with me, and one woman who’s a nurse said it was because of the specific ice chips offered in hospitals. She said that she had colleagues who went in on their days off, specifically to fill a cooler with ice. K told me that their adult child had commented how great the ice was when they stayed in the hospital, too. So it’s not just me!

Best thing in the hospital by a country mile. The second-best thing was the oxygen tube I had to wear in my nose. About a decade ago, oxygen bars became a popular thing. I would see them around town and laugh because the idea of paying for oxygen to breathe was just ridiculous. Once I had pure ox (as I called it) coursing through my veins, I got it. I felt like I could do anything with the pure ox I was getting. It was sooooo good that I joked I was going to smuggle it out with me.


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Happy re-birthday to me!

Four years ago (September 3rd, 2021), I died. I was brought back to life and after being kept in a coma for a week, I suddenly came back to myself. I was high as a kite because I wsa stuffed full of drugs, weak as a kitten from my ordeal, but I was alive, damn it. That was a marvel and a wonder, and it’s something I still shake my head at because there was no way I should have survived.

Every medical person I talked to told me repeatedly that it was a miracle I was alive. My favorite story is from when I was back home and had a nurse visiting me once a week to check in on me. One week, the nurse could not get into her tech system (on her phone). We commiserated over how tech is great–until it’s not. Since she couldn’t check on what she was there for, she just quickly ran through a bunch of things that I could have had in the past. I said yes to ‘heart attack/sudden cardiac arrest’ and then had to explain my whole medical ordeal (walking (non-COVID-related) pneumonia, two sudden cardiac arrests, and a stroke) to her.

She went on rattling off more things, and I was only half-listening until my attention was caught by her saying, “heart surgery, yes.” My brain did a mental screech, and I told her that I had not had heart surgery. She lowered her phone and gave me a blank stare. “What?” said she, in a bewildered tone.

“She didn’t have heart surgery,” said my brother. (Remember, gender was very low on my list of things to care about at that point.) “She had an angiogram a few days after she woke up, but that was it.”

The nurse put her phone done, placed her hand on my arm, and said in a tone of awe, “You are a walking miracle. You are very lucky to be alive.”

It was really weird to be treated like some kind of rock star in the hospital. Everyone who talked to me gushed about what a miracle I was. One of the nurses who sat with me while I was unconscious came to talk to me when I was awake. She had tears in her eyes as we talked, and when I thanked her for sitting with me, she cried even harder. This is a nurse from the heart ICU. I imagine that she saw so much pain and grief. I was happy that I could bring some joy to her, even if it had nothing to do with me–not really.


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The lies I tell myself (part six)

I have one more post in me about lying, telling the truth, and how the twain shall never meet. This was my last post on the subject, in which I just meandered all over the place.

In this post, I want to talk about how I don’t knowingly lie to myself, but how my anxiety tells me things that aren’t true. For example, when I’m feeling particularly anxious, my brain will tell me that nobody loves me; I might as well be dead; and that no one will care if I’m gone.

Back when I was a kid/teen/in my twenties, I believed this with all my heart. I believed that I was toxic to the world, and that I made it an actively worse place every day I was alive. I believed that I started each day in the hole as far as my impact on it, and I had to dig my way out.

Why? Because I was told every day by my parents (implicitly) that I was a piece of shit who did not deserve to be alive. I’m sure they did not intend for that to be their message, but that was what their message was, indeed.

Or to be even more precise about it, my father’s message was that my brother and I were irritants to him and should not exist. It took me way too long to figure out that my father didn’t really want children; he just assumed he was supposed to have them.

He was big on saving/losing face and he was always worried about looking bad in the community. Ironically, that did not stop him from having flagrant affairs in said community, but I’m sure he managed to rationalize that in his mind somehow.

He was rarely home as he ‘worked’ from early morning to midnight. In truth, he was carrying out his extramarital affairs after work. Everybody knew it, but nobody talked about it. Even when my mother complained to me for hours about her issues with my father, she never explicitly said he was having affairs. At least until MUCH later (like decades later).

She would talk around it, and it was clear that we both knew what she was talking about, but she would not acutally say it. Which was very frustrating, but there was nothing I could really do about it.

My mother, on the other hand, always wanted children, but it was because as she once actually said out loud to me, she wanted someone to love her. And she expected me to be a clone of her. Well, not of her, but of what she thought the ideal woman should be (even though she was not like that herself). It’s the bitter irony of my family’s dysfunction that the matriarchs preached femininity, taking care of your man, and having children, while not actually liking/wanting to do any of those.


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Why I don’t like lying to myself (part four)

I don’t have a problem lying to other people, but I really don’t like lying to myself. This is another post about truth and lies. Here is my post from yesterday, in which I explored what lying meant to me and why I did not have a problem doing it in certain situations.

There was a post on Ask A Manager from a person who saw their manager having sex in his car with another director of the company (the two were peers and not in each other’s chain of reports). The letter writer (LW) mentioned that they were taking a picture in the parking lot and only later realized they got the tryst in the background. To make matters worse, they knew and adored their boss’s wife, and knew the couple had children.

They didn’t want to do anything about it; they just wanted to know how to forget what they saw. There were a lot of suggestions, and many of them centered on basically gaslighting oneself.

“Tell yourself that you don’t know the state of your manager’s marriage.” “He might be in an open marriage.” “There are more people in open relationships than you know!”

That’s all true. There are more people in open relationships than most people know. However, it’s still not a good idea to shag with your partner at work, even if it’s all out in the open (as it were).

The people in my immediate family are terrible at remembering anything. My brother truly doesn’t remember discussions we had weeks ago. My father, even before his dementia, was tight-lipped about talking about anything in the past. As for my mother, well, let’s just say that she had rose-colored glasses about herself lasered into her eyes. Yes, it’s a mixed metaphor. Deal with it.

She could not bear to think about anything negative around herself, so if a memory showed her in a bad light or made her remember something unpleasant, she deep-sixed it(well, mostly). I realized when I was in my late twenties that I could not count on anything she said. She would outright deny saying hurtful things to me, and it took me another decade to realize that she was telling the truth as she saw it.

She was not lying about not remembering what she had said to me, but it didn’t make it any better for me. I became the unofficial keeper of the family stories, which was not the position I wanted. I had to do it, though, because her denial of reality was wreaking havoc on my sanity.


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