If you beat a dog, don’t be surprised if he runs away.

—letter to my uncle, March 2008

When I was a child my mom would always ask me if I’d let her live in a nursing home. She would do this as a form of reassurance, a way of addressing her insecurity about dying alone. To Chinese people, this is a fate worse than death. I understand that there may be medical conditions or other circumstances that make it impractical for a family member to live in your house, but that doesn’t change the fact that being put in a nursing home is like waiting to die.

At the time, I was too young to understand the gravity of such a question, so I would always reassure her, no. Maybe I even loved her at that point, and meant it. But I’ve since cut off all ties with her, and after the divorce, she has no one left. Her relatives lead their own lives, and she’s never had enough of a personality to make any friends. I’ve lived with her long enough to understand what a hollow, empty existence she has.

Now I’m old enough to know that she’ll die alone.

And that it’ll be exactly what she deserves.

In the dark, our bodies fit like puzzle pieces — face in neck, crest in valley, curve in curve. I’m completely vulnerable when she lets me love her like this. She brings my guard down.

It’s the way she makes me happy without trying. The way I’m filled with tenderness every time I feel the warmth of her skin against mine. The way her existence gives me hope for the rest of the world.

If I chose to fall back on old habits and kept my distance to protect myself, I wouldn’t know this ineffable feeling. I may get hurt, but it’s worth every moment I can be next to her.

Maybe she’s right, and I’ll feel differently by the time it’s necessary. Until then, there’s no use in fighting it.

My heart never gave me a choice.

I should really be in bed, but whatever.

Tonight I dug up a letter John sent me a few months ago after he hurt me like never before:

I’ve been reading your blog and calling you all weekend…I know you need attention and I’m sorry I’ve been so neglectful of you that it’s reminded you of the way your parents treated you. Please stop contemplating suicide as a realistic course of action in order to remedy the problem. I love you and would really miss you and at the end of the day in a selfish way I’m scared that I’d hate you if you left me here by myself feeling as guilty as I’d feel if you did it. I think you have fundamentally misordered the priorities we all come hardwired with. To rank the absence of sadness or the presence of happiness or whatever suicide would gain you as goals higher than survival is the first error and then to seek those first goals using the methodology of suicide is the second. You’re a little Chinese man who drinks fruit shakes and is definitely intended to live longer than the genetically predisposed to die in his early 50’s Caucasoid over here. Lets keep it that way shall we, I haven’t got your eulogy polished to nearly the degree you’d want it to be.

At the time, I couldn’t get past the first few sentences because the pain was too fresh. And his words too poignant. Whereas I’m very vocal with my feelings, John is the opposite, and for him to say these things made me feel like my heart would burst. I read it tonight because I wanted to be reminded that I’m important to someone, the way I need to be.

It made me realize that a little part of me still defines myself through others. But I don’t care anymore. I have someone who loves and needs me the way I love and need him. That’s what matters. That’s what makes me feel important, like my life means something.

Knowing this brings me a great deal of comfort.

And that will be enough to get me through.

(I wonder what he’ll say at my eulogy.)

Sometimes, life moves too fast for words.

I recently started a course of Isotretinoin, a strong medication used to cure severe acne by altering DNA transcription. For some reason, my acne has really flared up in my late twenties. I would get huge cysts on my face that would last for weeks, not to mention the hyper-pigmentation that would last even longer after the cyst went away. Needless to say, it was making me very anti-social when I was talking to people and felt like there was a huge distraction on my face.

I was referred to a dermatologist, who gave me a prescription for “full strength” (according to my body weight) to see if I could handle the side effects. The pharmacist asked me if she made a mistake because they don’t offer a dosage that strong, so now I take a combination of two dosages.

Due to the potency of the medication, there’s a huge list of side effects. The scariest is the mood changes. I’m supposed to stop the dose if I start experiencing:

• changes in my mood such as becoming depressed, feeling sad, or having crying spells
• losing interest in my usual activities
• changes in my normal sleep patterns
• becoming more irritable or aggressive than usual
• losing my appetite
• becoming unusually tired
• having trouble concentrating
• withdrawing from family and friends
• having thoughts about taking my own life

As a person who’s suffered from suicidal thoughts in the past, this was quite a frightening proposition. I asked my friends to be aware, just in case I don’t notice any changes in myself.

So far though, the only side effect has been extremely dry skin, especially on the face. The lips have been the worst; I can’t eat or drink anything without applying a thick layer of moisturizer on them, otherwise they peel like mad.

Prior to this, the only time I used Vaseline was as a sexual lubricant.

Now I get aroused every time I breathe in.