There’s two things that have been top of mind the past week that I wanted to share on here. The first is the subject of a larger post that I wanted to make but was knocked off my groove recently because I’ve started going to therapy again. The second is not just the fact that I’ve started to go to therapy again but the discomfort and perhaps even depression that it has provoked, to hear the sadness echoed back from my therapist and to confront what happened to me when I was a young person. I had gone so far as to outline my next post regarding queer representation in the media and would have been great timing given that Disney’s Loki is their chance to flesh out a queer character, whose queerness is not some modern invention but mythological storytelling. I owe myself to do whichever ends up dominating the conversation, but I don’t want to wallow in the sadness either.

I had known for some time that I needed to go back to therapy, to talk to a professional about what I had been feeling. I already mentioned it although perhaps more specific to dating. Generally though, I could tell that I had not been coping well with the grief I felt from losing my cousin earlier in the year, the grief from my breakup, and have generally been struggling to transition from a time in my life when I had nothing and needed to constantly be hustling, to now when I’ve become somewhat established in my career. I often mention to people that if I wanted to, I could work at this same agency through retirement. I haven’t quite made up my mind on that point, don’t think I need to actually. When I’m in a good mood and working, I do put effort into it. I believe in the mission of our agency and understand its importance to public health, that does more than enough to motivate me to work. But it is far from what I love, which is why I never say I’ll surely retire from it. If tomorrow I won the lottery, I would likely quit.

Part of the reason I’ve been so down post therapy sessions lately is because in these first sessions the focus has been heavy on childhood trauma. I’m not a psychologist, so I’ll trust that we really need to talk this much about what happened. However, there was a distinctly disheartening moment when my therapist confirmed that my parents would have faced consequences had I spoken to the child therapist when I was young. My mom wasn’t completely blind to the things I was going through as a kid, how I always seemed depressed or troubled. I haven’t been able to ask her about this though, because she asked how I had been feeling and I told her I had restarted therapy and that I was feeling something from just the first session, going over the rules surrounding mandated reporting. They included child abuse, I told her, and I asked her if she had considered what would have happened had I told that therapist about the ways she and her mom were whooping my ass. Because of Covid, we had been seated separately from the family and I didn’t feel the need to hold back, although I was polite still, wanting her to hear what I was saying without defaulting to the excuse that she didn’t want to hear the message because the delivery was rude.

She listened to me explain that the excuse that it’s part of our culture, that Mexicans believe using physical punishment as a form of discipline, was not valid in her case. I pointed out that she wasn’t trying to discipline me in any of these situations, stating a consequence to my actions and following through when I broke those rules. Rather, what happened was she would come home sad, angry, frustrated, or stressed out and if I so much as looked at her funny she would hit me. Then I reminded her what I have always maintained, that if my own mother beat one of my kids the way my grandmother beat me, she would not still be alive, much less being defended when her own family pointed out that they did not like her either. I pointed out that she herself was a victim of abuse and while I acknowledged it, I didn’t want to continue having to butt heads with her because she was so preoccupied with defending her abuser from criticism. She didn’t have much to say except to cry and say she tried her best, which I unfortunately believe she has. I had mentioned some of this in the last post about my family and therapy. 

I don’t recall when my mom started talking about her own abuse, besides the clear emotional abuse my grandmother put her through while we were growing up. Perhaps it was after my last prolonged bout with therapy. In grad school, around 2016, I finally caved, I had been listening a lot to Loveline with Mike Catherwood and Dr. Drew Pinski. So many of the answers to their calls involved some sort of therapy. I won’t deny it was helpful to hear a straight, Mexican man, one who presented as masculine, also be advocating for therapy. I walked into a school counselor’s office with a list of issues I wanted to cover and explained that I needed their help finding a therapist since I didn’t have insurance. The school counselor was very sweet, I let her finish explaining to me that she was equipped to help students with a range of issues involving anxiety around the education process. I remember the way her cheeks blushed when I explained that I appreciated everything she had just said but once I read the list of issues, she quickly came to agree with me that we needed to contact a therapist and, somewhat surprisingly to me, she wanted us to contact Child Protective Services as well. We did call, they noted what was said, but as I was no longer a minor they agreed that they would not be opening a case. I suspect now that it had to do with the same rules regarding mandated reporting… after all, she was just a counselor, she was there to offer general services. I haven’t talked about him on here, but I believe I was with my college boyfriend at the time.

That bout lasted two years and it helped immensely. I spent two years with the same therapist, a gentleman who had switched from computer science to psychotherapy. I really enjoyed that we shared a similar enough background, science and engineering, that I could talk about optimizing feelings, strengthening foundations and reactive forces. If it hasn’t been obvious, I did not grow up in a household that had detailed conversations about feelings, my parents had rather encouraged me to repress mine. So having a common ground from which I could initiate conversations was immensely helpful. During that time, I spoke out about the abuse I had experienced to my parents, how actually, if my violent outbursts were not proof enough, I hadn’t forgotten anything. I suspect that my speaking out about what my father did contributed to his early retirement and decision to return to his hometown in Mexico. It is not correct to say that my relationship with my parents improved through therapy, I actually think it has gotten worse, but they are not so draining anymore as I’m less inclined to prioritize their feelings over my own safety. And, with our relationship less draining, I’m able to stand up for myself without using swear words. It’s not that I don’t enjoy swearing, it’s just that it gives my parents a false sense of the moral high ground and they try to avoid the conversation by saying I shouldn’t swear.  

It’s worth noting that I have felt less angry and less tense. Perhaps the therapist is right and it was all childhood trauma that I still need to process. I don’t know what the end result will look like at this point. I don’t think I want to end the relationship with my parents entirely, not so much for their own sake but because I want to continue seeing my sisters, some who live with them and generally have a better relationship with them. I know my therapist would disagree with this part, but I also intend to help take care of my mom in her older age, when she is ready to stop working. I am aware enough that at this point, it shouldn’t be me taking care of her alone, but perhaps I’ll get to a point where it doesn’t eat away at my soul like it would now. At this point, I firmly believe the path to forgiveness depends on her also going to therapy, but time will tell.

Yesterday I had plans to hang out with a new friend, go out to do some yoga on the bluffs of Long Beach and then walk around. We walked around for dinner, some very spicy Thai food. I ended up needing to use the restroom so we headed back to his place. Over dinner though, he had opened up about wanting to go back to therapy and trying to get ahold of a therapist. There was something inside me that just tingled, instantly finding him more attractive. Then I saw his place and instantly judged how messy it was. I didn’t know him well enough yet to tease him about it, but I wanted to. Instead I found myself helping him clean up.

I stayed for a while and I noticed that he had a Nintendo Switch system so I asked him about that. He suggested we play Smash Brothers and he ended up posing quiet the challenge. I was winning at first but eventually he took the lead. I could tell I was getting tired and told him so, it was way past my bedtime. But also, the night was just going so great that I didn’t want to really go to sleep. As we played we did that thing where you inch closer to the other person and I mentioned twice how I thought it was hot that he was winning. I also tried to check in with myself and notice if I was letting him win or was actually struggling, but I pushed the thought away and tried to focus on the game. Eventually, we stopped, he had picked up on the obvious and we ended up making out. We were quiet gross from the gym, yoga and walking around, so we didn’t do much, but we did end up in his bed and naked.

Prior to that evening, I had been unsure whether or not he found me attractive, as he is very fit and also seemed a bit reserved. Now I suspect that his reservations are for the same reason as mine, it’s a defense mechanism to keep people away. See, he didn’t give specifics but it was clear there was some trauma there for him, perhaps his recent breakup had also left him a little dazzled.

Certainly mine has. When I woke up this morning I was anxious about having ruined our friendship. It’s possible that I have, after all, ruined our friendship but nothing so far has indicated that and as well, if it has been ruined, we did that together. But… That thought didn’t stop the worry this morning, even as I was dealing with the consequences of that spicy Thai dish last night. I imagine my own wound from the breakup is still too fresh. After all, the circumstances around that breakup managed to dig into deep seated trauma, all of which I’ve brought up in therapy, but none of which ever really went away. And that’s maybe what has me dazzled, spiraling, anxious, terrified to do anything that might approach those deep wounds and tear at them, drawing blood from scar tissue.

At root of some of this anxiety is the lack of certainty from other people. They come in and out of our lives and some stay but most leave. I want to just relax and lean on people, but I can’t yet knowing they can leave. I know that’s something I need to work on though, on learning how to relax, learning how not to panic after a nice evening with a cool guy…

 

I had been wanting to finish a different piece of writing recently, but I have gotten a bit disheartened by writing since I started therapy. That isn’t the truth, it’s more like I’ve been blocked by what is going on surrounding therapy. Plus, I shouldn’t say started therapy, I’ve restarted it, going back since my old therapist moved on. My mom asked me this weekend why I stopped in the first place and I explained that actually, it wasn’t my choice, my therapist at the time had finished his training and needed to move on.

I restarted therapy because I’ve felt for a while that I needed to be back. Just the other evening, I binge watched the show Feel Good (2020-2021) and had way too many moments where I felt not just empathy, but like my own trauma was on display. When I hear people say they’ve been triggered, that’s what I imagine the serious part of it to be like, because I had to walk away from the television to remind myself to breathe through the pain. I don’t want to recall exactly what scenes were most upsetting, only in part to avoid spoilers. The other reason I wanted to restart therapy is because I can feel, when I go on dates that I really enjoy, I get really into that person and just want them in my life forever, longing for certainty so I can finally drop my guard.

I have to elaborate on that feeling and just be honest, as painful as it will be for me to admit. I met a guy recently and really felt a small connection (both of our parents are Mexican, English is our second language, educated and professional) as well as that physical attraction which is hard to deny. From our conversation, it felt like he was more tuned out though, less interested than I was. I didn’t worry too much about it, acknowledging that I felt an intense attraction but that it was possible he didn’t. After all, I figured it was just coffee, not an actual date. I had even shown up in gym clothes as I wanted to go work out after. So I tried not to make too much of it, tried to remind myself that everyone’s going on about how this is the summer of reopening, we’re supposed to all be out here enjoying ourselves.

I pushed it out of my mind and tried to keep busy, which I find I’ve been doing a lot of lately. We kept chatting via text and maybe two or three weeks later he commented that he liked the shirtless pictures I had been putting on my Grindr profile. So yes, this is the point where I admit that I’m vain enough to use shirtless pics on those apps. I wasn’t trying to get his attention, but I’ll admit I was glad he said that. I told him that I liked hairy chests as well and had noticed his chest hair peaking out of his shirt. We decided to grab dinner and drinks and a couple in and over at his place, he told me he was sorry for not following up sooner but that he had actually been busy and then I wasn’t available, at which point I let slip that I felt that I liked him more than he liked me. I wasn’t too sure what he said after that, having sobered up a bit but not enough but I also felt incredibly dorky for having admitted that. We changed the topic, shared a joint and then his bed, I stayed the night and we got brunch the next day even.

Throughout the next week, I tried to ignore him so as to not overwhelm him, again, this entire time I could feel all my feelings threatening to burst forth in word vomit. Closer to the weekend though, I sent him a text asking if he was free Friday to hang out. I didn’t specify, perhaps I should have, that I was planning on being gone all weekend. Well, I didn’t get a response and truthfully, I can’t put into words the anxiety and panic that I was being ghosted. I checked social media for his presence, checked the apps. I considered driving by his place, running by even, but I knew better. Still, even though I don’t really know this guy, I’ve already imagined a life in which he is the perfect partner, the perfect person to stay by my side, because maybe he wouldn’t abandon me or walk out of my life.

It ended up that he hadn’t ghosted, but simply thought he’d hit sent and never responded. I spent the weekend in San Diego to hide from everyone, the anxiety climbing until he texted me on Saturday although I tried to play up my dismissiveness. Which was unfortunate because Sunday while I was out hiking El Cajon Mountain, my phone reset and I lost his and many other contacts. I had to stop by his place and leave a note asking him to text me, although he didn’t see it and just checked in on me anyway and we got dinner. Again, more anxiety on the hike and the entire weekend, a worrying inability to relax and just enjoy the getaway. The irony at this point is that I’m not even sure if I like him or not, but I felt a need to know him and to be assured in his presence.

The intensity of my feelings lately has not been proportional with the situations around me and that’s something that I have been struggling with. I told my therapist in my last session that I felt a sense of gender dysphoria, legitimately wishing I had been born and raised female, so that as a young child, when grown people around me were yelling in my face, someone could have stepped in to stop that. Perhaps, had I been a girl instead, my mother would not have felt as safe leaving me with the male relative that molested me. Perhaps, had I been born a girl… I don’t want to go down that particular spiral again, because it’s still there. Not so much the desire to have been born a girl, no, but rather a desire to avoid conflict, to avoid stress, to avoid life. To only live within a perfect bubble that doesn’t challenge me, doesn’t let me grow, forever resting for life’s big challenges.

I feel like this is the most unstable I have been in a long time and it directly conflicts with the stability of my work life and personal life. It’s true that I’m avoiding relationships for a bit. Sorry, again, the lies I tell people. My mom asked me if I was seeing anyone and I said no, I’m focusing on myself in therapy. But that is without a doubt, not true. I am absolutely open to a relationship, open to finding someone who doesn’t make me feel lonely, open to ending and cutting off the guys who are mostly friends with benefits, even though the ones with which I have some attachment. It’s uncertainty that I am trying to avoid and yet I allow certain men to hang around, us using each other’s bodies but trying to avoid emotional conversations. I can’t relax enough for that, always on the lookout for something. Again, the most unstable I’ve been, teetering every way back and forth internally, afraid it will all collapse.

When I went out on that hike in San Diego, I had the opportunity to just give up and die from exposure. It was a very hot day and though I was prepared to hike for a long time, I didn’t expect to hike for seven hours nor did I expect the heat to be that harsh. I had checked local weather conditions and it wasn’t supposed to be that hot. But it was and there were times I could have given up. I didn’t. I stopped and took a rest three or so times, finding shade where I could and trying my best to keep going. Why is it that I can trust my body sometimes to pull through, to survive, but I can’t trust that I’ll be able to handle life on my own. I am very aware that I am lonely, but the reason approaching relationships feels so charged right now is because I feel like I need to have someone else in my life so I can improve for them, because I can’t do it for myself.

I studied hard and pushed myself because I wanted to be a role model for my younger siblings, because I wanted to be able to help them out. And yes, I do enjoy math and science, but that doesn’t mean I did engineering for myself. I did it for my family and now I’m having an emotional crisis, deriving little joy out of my workplace, constantly trying to avoid people and thus doing my job poorly. My mind isn’t the only thing awash, although it is, but my heart as well.

Maybe that’s what I need to focus on in therapy, learning how to take care of my emotions too. My mom asked me how my life was and I let her know I had restarted therapy. I told her what was on my mind, that I didn’t feel great about the fact that, had I told the child therapist everything, she would have been deported and myself and my sisters placed in foster homes. This was not a threat, it was a deeply uncomfortable fact, both of us being forced to recognize that the system here in the US considers what was happening enough of an issue to investigate and prevent; coupled with US’s immigration policy, I don’t think my mom would have been allowed to stay here. My mom asked if I really thought the way she hit me warranted that and I responded by letting her know that the problem is she was trying to hide behind the cultural practice of using force as a disciplinary tool but that she wasn’t recognizing that she didn’t hit me to punish me, she didn’t hit me in response to clearly established rules. She hit me because she was frustrated, or tired, or angry, or any other sort of emotion that wasn’t mine to manage. She began to cry and said something like she recognized that my sister sometimes seems that way too, that she tries to help out as much as possible because she’s worried of what she’s passed on. Although that was nice to hear, although I understand that my relationship with my mother, after a lot of work, after therapy on her part, could one day be something a little more positive, it’s hard not to have that stable relationship in my life already…

On the note of parents, yesterday was Father’s Day. My stepdad finally did what I had told them he should have done from day one, he asked that I be included. I cancelled the plans I had scheduled and agreed to spend the day with everyone. I had several times in the recent years told my parents that if my stepdad had just decided, and if my mom had let him as they’re honestly both to blame, if my stepdad had decided to just tell me he was my dad and tried to include me more from day one, he and I would have had a healthier relationship. After all, he’s been with my mom since I was three. We spent the day together, had breakfast, took his niece shopping, grabbed ice cream with all the family and enjoyed a nice day.

My aunt called me while I was driving from restaurant to home, my mom and one of my sister’s had tagged along in my car so they heard the call. My aunt sounded distressed, acknowledging that my mom had said hi but not really connecting. She asked if I could call her back and I said no worries auntie, you’re not interrupting anything right now. She mentioned that my bio-dad was feeling sad and was asking if I could call him. I gave a non-committal answer, noting internally that I didn’t even have his number. Once she hung up, I told my mom not to try to run interference. She said no, she was going to let me handle it as I’m an adult. But I reflected that I had just told her in the restaurant, one of the other rules, that my prior therapist had told me I couldn’t possibly care for my biodad, there was too much resentment, too much abuse from him for me to safely care for him. In the time since my last serious stint of therapy and now, California appears to have passed a law to try and limit dependent and senior abuse as there was a fourth scenario under which the therapist would break confidentiality and report to the proper authorities.

I didn’t end up calling him and I don’t think I will. In fact, I was going in the opposite direction, thinking of asking my aunts to stop keeping me updated on his life. He didn’t want to be around me as a child or a young adult, now that I am a responsible person of a certain age, now that I am someone he can lean on, he feels comfortable being around. I already feel that pressure from my grandmother and mom, both who at least can say they were involved in raising me and want to reap the grain while denying the chaff of what they have sown. I can’t think about the way my biological father impacted my life and development without wanting to tear that trauma out of me, unlive that past, forget that memory. If I was a drunkard this is when I’d sign off to go for a drink. Instead, having unloaded some of this, I think I can finally go back to focusing, to exercise a bit and get a good night’s rest.

 

I wasn’t sure whether I would continue talking about it or not, but I figure that it’s better than keeping it bottled up. I have had a rough couple days since the funeral. Part of my problem is that I was trying my hardest to puh away my cousin’s death. It doesn’t seem accurate to say that I was acting as if it hadn’t happened, because in truth I hardly saw this cousin. But I had also tried not to think about it too much since that first week after we learned the news and the nightly prayers had stopped.

I let my dad enter the mortuary first, not so much out of deference as to give myself the ability to react and avoid him by keeping him in sight. Besides, a cousin had texted asking if I could confirm the stream details for the family in Mexico. My aunt was greeting people at the beginning of the room, asking those who felt comfortable to sign in. She talked with my dad a bit, although I couldn’t hear what they said. We talked too, which left me more dazed and confused. She said something about a hat, how they had asked her to bring his favorite hat, she said something about how it didn’t even look like him, how it was a mannequin except his lips matched. I tried my best to be consoling, but I couldn’t make sense in the moment of what she was saying. Someone had convinced her it would be better to let the entire family see his body. I didn’t know how to say that if she truly had faith then shouldn’t she believe that his soul had already left his body, I hoped that it would be comforting, but I figured that if I didn’t know how to say it, it was better to not say anything. Besides, I didn’t believe it myself.

It bears mentioning that I’m going to describe what I saw. I won’t past this paragraph, although I’ll stretch it to say everything I want to say, about the body… I walked up to the open casket and looked in, but having heard my aunt refer to a mannequin and processing what was before my eyes, I had trouble recognizing my cousin. I sat in the front row, but could not stare in from where I sat. At some point an aunt and I slipped away to get dinner, tuning into the same livestream as our relatives in Mexico to follow along with the program. I asked her to clarify and she confirmed that he was indeed in the casket. I got a chance later on in the evening to stare in though and, in looking back and forth between a photograph and his body, I finally recognized his lips. There was little else there however, as his hair had fallen out in the two months his body had rested in the morgue. He was young and his dad fairly smooth, so he had no facial hair yet, but I wondered what my own jawline would have looked like if it was me instead and my beard had fallen out, my head covered by a baseball cap instead. That’s when I noticed that his jawline had been reconstructed. It was like the flesh from his chin to his neck had been peeled up, stretched, and then pulled down past his neck. It wasn’t obvious at first as it followed the contours of his neck, but once I saw the first ridge I noticed more. I wasn’t sure if it was related to the embalming process or the accident itself, but it snapped into reality that before me was in fact a dead body, pale flesh and hairless.

Having to sit still for the viewing confirmed that I wouldn’t be able to sit through mass the next day. It reminded me of how much trouble I had having to sit still in class, hour after hour in grade school. By the time I had gotten to college, I had learned I needed to burn off a lot of the nerves to rest easy, focus, and pay attention. The morning of the wake I couldn’t get up and had not gone out for a run. I stayed in bed till just past noon, not sleeping, scrolling through social media trying to think about anything but the funeral. I had enough time for a short walk but had to leave before traffic really picked up toward the Inland Empire. By the time I had sat down in the front row with the aunts and on time cousins, my leg had started to twitch. Without a doubt it was nerves, but if the stillness of a viewing was getting to me, what hope did I have to make it through the mass.

There were moments of tenderness during the wake. I held my cousin in my arms as he cried for his lost brother. My uncle’s sisters rushed to his side as he wept over the closed casket. The next day, these moments continued during and after the funeral, the family coming together to grieve. We even got together after the funeral at my aunt’s house and at some point, all the 20-year old cousins were gathered out front, drinking beers and laughing over our now buried cousin’s twitter. Our lives didn’t end there though and the days that followed, away from that familial cocoon have been rough.

Since I couldn’t be with them, with those specific family members, I withdrew. I still went to work the day after the funeral. Or maybe it was the Thursday after, because I distinctly remember talking to my supervisor and he is only in the office on Tuesdays and Thursdays. We talked about the randomness of life and how unexpected this is. He cried a bit and I just wasn’t able to get there myself. That’s what it was. See, I had gone to work on Wednesday and around lunch had to excuse myself, went to my favorite coffee shop near work, Patria, and cried in my car. So, the next day, I had been crying and well before my supervisor getting teary-eyed, I had seen how bloodshot my eyes looked.

The emotional space my supervisor created for me at work contrasted perfectly with the space someone I had recently been talking to had refused to create for me. In casual conversation on the Wednesday after the funeral, this young man had let me know that if I say a certain day is a possibility to meet, it would be helpful to follow up. I told him I understood and let him know that I had had the funeral and needed to take care of myself. I clarified that if I had said that Saturday was certainty, I would certainly have reached out to cancel, but was too distracted to remember a possibility. He said he understood but felt that the maybe still warranted me reaching out. At that point I had looked at the prior messages to see if I had possibly been unclear, but the prior messages still read as me asking to confirm later in the week if we were set for Saturday. He pressed on and said communication is important, that he is not just some guy I am having sex with and that for him friendship was more important than anything else. I apologized to him for feeling stood up but let him know I truly did not even remember well enough to reach out. As this back and forth seemed likely to continue, I stopped apologizing and let him know that he was prioritizing his assertion that communication needed to happen over the context of my situation and that this continued insistence was quickly becoming rude, despite it initially being a valid concern. His next message was still about the Saturday, he hit me with the classic “I’m sorry if you feel that way, but…” So my next message back was to let him know I didn’t have the emotional bandwidth for the level of engagement he wanted and wished him a good day.

Between these two contrasts, I am happy to say that most people have been on the end closer to my supervisor. As I doubted my judgement and have a history of putting my walls up too quickly, I showed the texts to a friend and to a cousin, both who seemed annoyed at how quickly the young man had moved on from me letting him know about a funeral in my family. It is in coping with these small annoyances that I’m pleased to see how I have grown, even if my responses are not always perfect. That’s something to focus on as I try to move on beyond this death in the family.  

Last night, I brought up the idea of hanging out with my close friends after we had all been vaccinated. The most reactive person of the bunch seemed disturbed and slightly offended that I would even ask. However, in a bonus for him, he somewhat managed to explain his feeling about the situation without being directly offensive. By the end of the conversation, it wasn’t clear if he was judging me for having gotten Covid-19 or for continuing to have casual sex since breaking up with my ex.

It frustrated me throughout my run this morning, but upon reflecting on it, this is part of the many reasons why I decided to start a blog. I have thus far led a very homonormative life, not so much out of a desire to fit in but a desire to achieve financial stability. At seventeen, choosing an engineering major seemed the surest way to that goal. I even had a number in mind for what salary I would reach. I let that be the goal that decided so much of my late teens and early to mid-twenties; there were so many options along the way that I just closed myself off to in order to continue along my path toward financial success. And I do want to make it clear, this was not a decision borne out of material desires, but a real necessity.

At the time that I was making these decisions, I had already lived let’s say fifteen or so years with the fear that my parents would be deported and that, being the oldest, I would be left to find a way to take care of my siblings without any sort of money or education of my own. This fear drove me to the shortest and most reliable path to stability. Although my love was writing, I had also read enough of my then favorite authors that, absent some rich patrons and friends, I worried it would take a long time before I could come to rely upon any writing to produce a stable income. So, I, along with many other rather normative peers, picked engineering. I do want to point out that I did have strong math and science scores in grade school, did not want to deal with blood, thus no medical school, and saw law as a path more reliable than writing perhaps but very lengthy.  

I am happy to report that eleven years later I have gotten to a point where I could help take care of my siblings. I have a cute two-bedroom condo in a rather nice city. Although a smaller space than the house they rent now, it would not be the smallest place my parents, three younger siblings and I have lived in. But it is also true that my parents would no longer be deported, as, anchor baby that I am, they already have their citizenship. They’re still horrible with money and I’m told still argue about it, but, with my salary and everyone else pitching in, we’d get by.  Together, the fear that so guided my earlier life has receded, although in this country I’m not sure it’ll ever completely disappear.

To get back to my point, I’m at a point in life where I need to find something else that pushes me forward. My love of writing never left in this time, my countless journals and the short stories therein can attest to that fact. That’s one reason. Second, I also want to create a space to more fully explore my sexuality and identity, without having to make room for the baggage that people close to me bring. Similarly, I want a space where I can recount my experiences growing up, without the discomfort that my family members feel when I recall painful childhood experiences. Finally, before the pandemic, my favorite thing was to sit around a table discussing topics at length, movies, music, politics and family drama. The pandemic has taken away the ability to do so safely with a large group of people but I’m making my own space to do that. Whether anyone reads it or not is less of a concern at this point.

I still haven’t figured out the basics of blogging, SEO, tags, categories, things like that. So, if you somehow stumbled upon this specific post, please drop a line. For posts on specific topics, I am going to make sure I have that correctly set up, but well, this is all a work in progress.