“When are you actually going to get a REAL job???” My mother bit at me. “Something that has value? When are you going to actually be an adult and stop acting like a kid?”
Dark Pablo could not stand it any longer. The bitch is back, carrying more ammunition than Rambo.
“Fuck you mom.” I hissed while flipping her off. My mother’s face dropped in absolute shock. I tried to be nice. I thought to myself. Now it’s time to show you why you shouldn’t piss me off.
“You know damn well why I can’t get a job. Or are you too ignorant to see that too? I am doing everything humanly possible to get a job.”
“Sleeping in until ten in the morning, writing your stupid stories and blogs until late into the night, and spending time with your friends down in San Diego is not what you call job hunting.”
I think my mother forgot the whole fact that I am moving by the end of summer.
“You know, I can’t wait for you to leave, because hopefully you will grow up and stop acting like a kid.”
“I am counting down the days myself. I can’t wait to leave your stupid house, where there has never been an encouraging word uttered from your mouth since I graduated. You have been nothing but a grievance on me since I was a kid. You treat me like a kid and you don’t treat me like an adult.”
“Because you are immature.”
“Why do you insist on always degrading me. You do it in front of my friends as if it’s the next great American past time. That’s why I beg people to not come up to visit me, because all you do is treat me like shit.”
Want to know why my mom is bitter? She hates the fact that I am gay. So she will treat me like shit because that is what her church teaches her to do when faced with someone that has differing beliefs: treat them like shit until they change. Just watch “Saved.” My mom is an adult version of Hillary Faye.
“Oh we have to make it all about you? Because that’s how you win people over to you? You pity them with your pain until they sympathize?”
The conversation then segues to a very sensitive subject. I am just going to cut to the chase.
“You are going to do nothing but fail, because that is all you have done ever since you went online to meet that complete stranger and do that stuff with him?” (My mother is talking about the time I made out with a thirty-one year old guy when I was a senior in high school and had a freak-out. That happened, but there was something else that happened before that.)
Tears were coming down my face, I could not believe my mother had the nerve to bring back. So I had to tell her what really happened, because she wasn’t going to shut up. “Mom.” I declared very sternly. “Do you REALLY want to know what happened that night?”
“No I do not.”
“well too bad mom. I am not going to give you grace, because you choose to not give me grace. I was raped.”
“That’s what you get for not being where you were supposed to be.”
“This happened outside church after a seminar for the Billy Graham Crusade. A man followed me to my car, pulled a knife on me and told me to drive.”
My mom was silent. The only time she was silent. I was hurt. But I wasn’t going to give up, my mom is not going to win this fight.
“Where does this stupid mechanic of yours work?” She asked.
“I am not going to see him until I am calm. You really hurt me.”
“Well you brought it upon yourself. If you were responsible enough to save your money, act like a normal adult, and take care of your vehicles, you wouldn’t be in this mess. You either tell me where this guy works, or we are not going to get your car.”
The reason why my mom is being so persistent is because she needs to write another check. My parents filed my taxes so I can get a tax refund, and my mom has the tax refund in her bag and was not going to give it up until she visits my mechanic. The price tag to get my freedom back: holding my check ransom while using the liberty to attack me.
“You are just like dad when he beat the shit out of me when I was in junior high school and he dropped me off at church for youth group and told me to go make an ass of myself.” I fired back. “Don’t give me an ultimatum.”
My dad snapped one time while I was in junior-high school. He lurched at me and punched me several times in the stomach while hitting me in the face with a paddle that he would use to discipline me growing up. I had a black eye and several bruises on my body. When he did drop me off at church for the junior-high event. Everyone began to make fun of me, I only told one person of what really happened. Since that day, my dad was warned by the authorities that he was no longer allowed to touch me in his anger.
My mother was finally silent. Thankfully, the tears were starting to dry up by the time we arrived at my mechanic. I put on a fake smile and refused to look at my mother for the entire rest of the day. Once I got my car, I drove off without saying goodbye and made my way to the gym.
I called up one of my older gay friends, someone that a better insight in life. He gave me the most encouraging advice and allowed me to open myself to the idea that although what I endured was painful—and in some morbid way—this pain was actually a blessing.
“It will give you the ability to know, what are you really gonna do about it?” He counseled as I was listening attentively. “Are you gonna lick your wounds? Or are you going to stand up and make a plan of what you are going to do to make the best out of this?
“Family, as much as we may agree/disagree with them, they are stuck with us for the rest of our life. They may get in our hair, we may want to disown them, but no matter what you do, they are still family. However, friends are the family that we choose to be with for the rest of our life; because you are not going to want to associate yourself with someone that is going to say that to you right?”
The pain and the shit that I deal with on a regular basis is like plastic surgery. It is a bitch to deal with, it makes your body sore and swollen to the point where you barely recognize who you once were. However, it is when you begin to heal do you finally notice the results in yourself and see just how the clichéd phrase is truly dead-on: pain does equal beauty.
Plastic surgery is not permanent; if I go in and ask for it, you can bet your ass I am going to get another dose of the scapel, because pain is beauty. When living in such a vain society, sometimes beauty is all a girl needs to feel accepted in this world.
I may not like what is done to my body at times. My parents and the attacks that I receive from people in my life, they are the incisions that are made to my body. They create and inflict the pain in me. But what am I gonna do? Am I going to wail, bitch, and moan about how the scapel is hurting and beg for more morphine/anaestesia/vicodin? No.
The swelling that I receive post-op, that is the physical results of the pain as I spend time trying to recover…or figure out a plan to fight back and get better than what I was pre-op. I may look as ugly as hell, but I know that once the bandages come off, I am going to be looking delicious with my new boob job.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Plastic Surgery (Part One)
Friends are the family that we choose to be with for the rest of our life.
You can’t choose your family. They are with you for life, whether you like it or not.
To people who enjoy pain, they are considered to be “masochists.” But of course finding joy in self-inflicted physical pain is not only weird, but it is considered to be nearing the verge of losing touch with reality. Then again, masochists can also be associated with sexual bondage, which can be erotic if with the right person. I am getting sidetracked, allow me to refocus the topic.
After spending two months in solitude in the city of Escondido, today was the day that I finally had my car returned to me. When I finally inserted the key in the ignition and brought it to life, I felt a sense of accomplishment, knowing that I had successfully saved the money that I needed to achieving a goal. For me, that is an accomplishment worth celebrating, because I am normally not very frugal with my money. But I knew that the longer I was going to take in saving my money, the longer it was going to be before I was going to move up to Long Beach and begin to start my new life. However, like all rewards and pleasures in life, there is always a price tag that is attached. How badly do you want this reward? It said to me as I pushed forward in obtaining something that belonged to me.
I woke up this morning with the idea that, by the end of the day, my car was going to be back in my possession. Just the fact of knowing that my freedom was hours away was so near I could almost smell the interior of my Honda Civic welcoming back into the driver’s seat.
I had the entire day planned: it was going to be a Mommy&Me day. We were going to begin our time together by visiting the library’s book store. I was going to be in search of yet another series of hardcover novels written by my new favorite author: Stephen King while my mother was going to be in search for the next classic first-edition to add to her dust-infested collection. When we did go to the library, I found two hardcovers and purchased them for 1.50. My mother received a call and was kicked out of the library for being on her phone in a place that was designated for being a place of concentration and almost-absolute silence. Once I made my purchases and thanked the cashier, I made my way towards the exit to reunite with my ever-rebellious mother so we could go to our next destination: to our car insurance office.
The main objective of our stop at the insurance office was so I could renew my membership as well as ask for a temporary renewal on my registration. On the way there, my mom informed me that my dad had called her while I was busy buying my books to notify me that since I had recently turned twenty-four, I was no longer able to stay under parents’ insurance plan and that I must get my own insurance. I groaned under my breath, knowing that this news was just more dollar bills that would leave my pocket upon payday. So I requested that we get a quote while we were there.
The insurance agent reached out and shook my hand as I followed him into his cubicle, my mother trailing behind me. We went through the routine amount of questions that was required of me to get a successful quote. My mom was playing with the cap of her pen, indicating that she was somehow nervous. I just ruled it out that she was insistent on annoying the hell out of me—which was successful. When he finally gives me a quote, I was going to take into consideration; but my mother, instead of wanting to leave, pulls out the checkbook to pay for it. I flashed her a quizzical look as I had now understood why she was nervous before the agent revealed the quote, my mother knew that she was going to pay for this. Then this is when I started to realize that before I was to get my car, I was to know the real payment that needed to be paid in order to receive my freedom.
He then gives me the bad news, my car was not registered for this year. I had already known that. Before my car broke down two months ago, I took my car into get smogged because I wanted to register my car. When my car failed smog, the mechanic told me that he could fix it, but I had already known what the problem was in order to pass the test: it needed a new engine. The very next day, my car breaks down while on my way to work. When I had explained my situation to him, he left to go to the DMV department on the opposite side of the agency.
Ten minutes later, he returns with a DMV agent, she begins to inform me of what I needed to do. I had already registered my car, but I needed to get smogged and registered. Since my car was late in getting registered, I was starting to rank up penalty charges. My mother then turns to me, in front of both the insurance and DMV agent, and says: “Why didn’t you get this car smogged before like a responsible person?”
Being twenty-four years old, I have grown to tolerate some rather unpleasant things in life, but being yelled at in front of complete strangers as well as being talked to in a condescending tone is something that I WILL NOT tolerate. Once my mother said thtat to me, the good side of the Gemini fled in terror and the Dark Side had checked herself in.
I looked at my mother in absolute disbelief that she had made that declaration in front of two people I don’t even know. I began to defend myself, but held myself back, because I knew I was not going to stoop down to her level. From that point, everything the two agents had told me had been a complete blur, because I was so angry at my mother. I was concentrating on holding in my Rage.
I know why I had neglected to get smogged: my car has given me nothing but hell since I had first purchased it in September. Once I had received the news that I was going to have to get my car smogged, my car began to break down. From November all the way until today, I have been from one mechanic to another. I could list all the drama that car has given me, but I will remain on topic.
The insurance agent concludes our time by telling me that he cannot give me the insurance unless I pay my debts to the DMV. My mom glares at me as she reaches for her pen and bites at me. “You owe us so much Pablo.” The only thought that is going on in my head was how much my mom is trying to make herself, as well as my dad, into being the victims when I have become the prey of their ridicule.
The agent directs us over to the DMV. As we are en route, My mom begins to write another check for the DMV while continuing on her roaring rampage of bitterness. At this point, I was starting to become fed up with my mom at this point. I tried to remain calm and requested that we table this conversation when we are in a more private environment and when I calm down. But she continues to go on, barrading me with reminding me of how irresponsible I am to neglect these responsibilities and instead buying stuff that won’t last. I interrupted her rambling by noticing a woman coming to help us out. “Oh, look, someone that is going to help us. Let’s act normal shall we?”
After my mother hands the check to the lady that had the patience to deal with my fake-smile as my mother’s rude manners, she hands me back the receipt to give to the agent so I can receive my insurance. Once having done both tasks, my mother and I made our way to our final destination: to retrieve my car.
As we were making our way to the car, my mother continued to bitch and remind me how stupid I am. How I am irresponsible and that I am due for a rude awakening when I am finally out on my own. Then she began to attack on a harsher level. And my Dark Rage could remain hidden anymore. It had to come out to play. When it did, all Hell broke loose.
Chris Ramey
You can’t choose your family. They are with you for life, whether you like it or not.
Malcolm (Fox “Malcolm in the Middle”)
To people who enjoy pain, they are considered to be “masochists.” But of course finding joy in self-inflicted physical pain is not only weird, but it is considered to be nearing the verge of losing touch with reality. Then again, masochists can also be associated with sexual bondage, which can be erotic if with the right person. I am getting sidetracked, allow me to refocus the topic.
After spending two months in solitude in the city of Escondido, today was the day that I finally had my car returned to me. When I finally inserted the key in the ignition and brought it to life, I felt a sense of accomplishment, knowing that I had successfully saved the money that I needed to achieving a goal. For me, that is an accomplishment worth celebrating, because I am normally not very frugal with my money. But I knew that the longer I was going to take in saving my money, the longer it was going to be before I was going to move up to Long Beach and begin to start my new life. However, like all rewards and pleasures in life, there is always a price tag that is attached. How badly do you want this reward? It said to me as I pushed forward in obtaining something that belonged to me.
I woke up this morning with the idea that, by the end of the day, my car was going to be back in my possession. Just the fact of knowing that my freedom was hours away was so near I could almost smell the interior of my Honda Civic welcoming back into the driver’s seat.
I had the entire day planned: it was going to be a Mommy&Me day. We were going to begin our time together by visiting the library’s book store. I was going to be in search of yet another series of hardcover novels written by my new favorite author: Stephen King while my mother was going to be in search for the next classic first-edition to add to her dust-infested collection. When we did go to the library, I found two hardcovers and purchased them for 1.50. My mother received a call and was kicked out of the library for being on her phone in a place that was designated for being a place of concentration and almost-absolute silence. Once I made my purchases and thanked the cashier, I made my way towards the exit to reunite with my ever-rebellious mother so we could go to our next destination: to our car insurance office.
The main objective of our stop at the insurance office was so I could renew my membership as well as ask for a temporary renewal on my registration. On the way there, my mom informed me that my dad had called her while I was busy buying my books to notify me that since I had recently turned twenty-four, I was no longer able to stay under parents’ insurance plan and that I must get my own insurance. I groaned under my breath, knowing that this news was just more dollar bills that would leave my pocket upon payday. So I requested that we get a quote while we were there.
The insurance agent reached out and shook my hand as I followed him into his cubicle, my mother trailing behind me. We went through the routine amount of questions that was required of me to get a successful quote. My mom was playing with the cap of her pen, indicating that she was somehow nervous. I just ruled it out that she was insistent on annoying the hell out of me—which was successful. When he finally gives me a quote, I was going to take into consideration; but my mother, instead of wanting to leave, pulls out the checkbook to pay for it. I flashed her a quizzical look as I had now understood why she was nervous before the agent revealed the quote, my mother knew that she was going to pay for this. Then this is when I started to realize that before I was to get my car, I was to know the real payment that needed to be paid in order to receive my freedom.
He then gives me the bad news, my car was not registered for this year. I had already known that. Before my car broke down two months ago, I took my car into get smogged because I wanted to register my car. When my car failed smog, the mechanic told me that he could fix it, but I had already known what the problem was in order to pass the test: it needed a new engine. The very next day, my car breaks down while on my way to work. When I had explained my situation to him, he left to go to the DMV department on the opposite side of the agency.
Ten minutes later, he returns with a DMV agent, she begins to inform me of what I needed to do. I had already registered my car, but I needed to get smogged and registered. Since my car was late in getting registered, I was starting to rank up penalty charges. My mother then turns to me, in front of both the insurance and DMV agent, and says: “Why didn’t you get this car smogged before like a responsible person?”
Being twenty-four years old, I have grown to tolerate some rather unpleasant things in life, but being yelled at in front of complete strangers as well as being talked to in a condescending tone is something that I WILL NOT tolerate. Once my mother said thtat to me, the good side of the Gemini fled in terror and the Dark Side had checked herself in.
I looked at my mother in absolute disbelief that she had made that declaration in front of two people I don’t even know. I began to defend myself, but held myself back, because I knew I was not going to stoop down to her level. From that point, everything the two agents had told me had been a complete blur, because I was so angry at my mother. I was concentrating on holding in my Rage.
I know why I had neglected to get smogged: my car has given me nothing but hell since I had first purchased it in September. Once I had received the news that I was going to have to get my car smogged, my car began to break down. From November all the way until today, I have been from one mechanic to another. I could list all the drama that car has given me, but I will remain on topic.
The insurance agent concludes our time by telling me that he cannot give me the insurance unless I pay my debts to the DMV. My mom glares at me as she reaches for her pen and bites at me. “You owe us so much Pablo.” The only thought that is going on in my head was how much my mom is trying to make herself, as well as my dad, into being the victims when I have become the prey of their ridicule.
The agent directs us over to the DMV. As we are en route, My mom begins to write another check for the DMV while continuing on her roaring rampage of bitterness. At this point, I was starting to become fed up with my mom at this point. I tried to remain calm and requested that we table this conversation when we are in a more private environment and when I calm down. But she continues to go on, barrading me with reminding me of how irresponsible I am to neglect these responsibilities and instead buying stuff that won’t last. I interrupted her rambling by noticing a woman coming to help us out. “Oh, look, someone that is going to help us. Let’s act normal shall we?”
After my mother hands the check to the lady that had the patience to deal with my fake-smile as my mother’s rude manners, she hands me back the receipt to give to the agent so I can receive my insurance. Once having done both tasks, my mother and I made our way to our final destination: to retrieve my car.
As we were making our way to the car, my mother continued to bitch and remind me how stupid I am. How I am irresponsible and that I am due for a rude awakening when I am finally out on my own. Then she began to attack on a harsher level. And my Dark Rage could remain hidden anymore. It had to come out to play. When it did, all Hell broke loose.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
