When I was young and it was summer, my maternal grandparents would come from Hong Kong to babysit me. It was a strange time in my life, what I consider my fetal years when I don’t remember learning anything, or having any awareness of my own consciousness.

My grandfather was a strong, intelligent, loving, gentle man, and my biggest hero. He showed me his war wounds, and taught me about states of matter. I even learned the term “civil war” from him when he used it (in English!) one time when some old black-and-white footage of Chinese battles came on the TV, but his English wasn’t great so I thought he was saying, “zero war”.

He was my favourite person in the world because he gave me the attention and stimulation I never got from my parents.

In one of those summers, I stole his cigarettes, two at a time so he wouldn’t notice, and hid them in the compartment of a red and white childrens drafting table. It was my way of getting him to stop smoking.

One time, I heard my grandparents shouting in the kitchen. They were fighting. My grandmother accused him of peeing on the toilet seat. It was the first time I heard them raise their voices at all, let alone at each other. I thought it was strange because at that age I was probably peeing all over the toilet seat, and no one ever yelled at me for it, so I didn’t understand why it was such a big deal.

My aunt and uncle were over because they wanted to spend time with them, and they came to see what the commotion was about. But they just stood there, listening, not wanting to take sides.

Eventually, my grandfather slowly bent at the knees, his entire body sagging, buried the heels of his hands in his eyes to rub out the tears, and said to my aunt and uncle with languishing pauses, “Sometimes, she makes me want to kill myself”.

And I knew he meant it.

I was too young to even be shocked, but for my grandfather to say something like that was completely out of character. He was invincible to me. I never understood it.

Until now.

Eventually, he went to live with my aunt and uncle for a while. They slowly became warmer when they saw each other a few weeks later. I don’t know if they ever talked about it.

I have to write this so I can admit it to myself.

I have to write this because I can’t think of anything else nowadays, except for how hard it is to get out of bed in the morning.

I’ve been reading a book my therapist recommended to me a long time ago, the one that deals with lifetraps. In one of the first chapters, it goes through each lifetrap by first explaining a “core need”, which is something a child should have in order to thrive. It goes through examples on how we should have been raised, and how a healthy mind will grow from that. Then it explains how the lifetrap may develop if that core need isn’t met, by giving examples of destructive childhood environments.

And for almost every lifetrap in the book, I saw my own childhood in those examples of destructive environments, such as the one about “Self-esteem”:

Self-esteem is the feeling that we are worthwhile in our personal, social, and work lives. It comes from feeling loved and respected as a child in our family, by friends, and at school.

Ideally we would all have had childhoods that support our self-esteem. We would have felt loved and appreciated by our family, accepted by peers, and successful at school. We would have received praise and encouragement without excessive criticism or rejection.

But this may not have happened to you. Perhaps you had a parent or sibling who constantly criticized you, so that nothing you did was acceptable. You felt unlovable.

As an adult, you may feel insecure about certain aspects of your life.

When I was reading that, all I could think of was one specific incident from my childhood. I was young enough that my mom would bathe me, and she would do it in the en suite bathroom of the master bedroom. One day, she came to dry me off with a towel, and both the bathroom door and the bedroom curtains were open. I told her to close the door, because I was self-conscious about being seen naked by the neighbours across the street. I was really upset about it, and instead of walking two feet to close the door, she laughed and said, “You’re no Tom Cruise”, and left it open. From that point, I’ve had this irrepressible feeling that I’m never attractive enough for someone to even be interested in seeing me naked.

And that was just one example. My childhood was filled with so many such memories, each one branching into other lifetraps.

I’ve never wondered why I have self-esteem issues. I fucking hate how self-conscious I am, because I know the extent of that self-consciousness isn’t normal. I’ve struggled with issues like that my entire life, and I can trace everything back to my parents. It fills me with rage to know that they damaged me to the point where I feel so overwhelmed by my flaws that sometimes I’d rather be dead.

If I were ever to commit suicide — and at this point I feel like I can’t rule out the possibility of this anymore — I’d say that my parents would be 55% responsible¹, with my mom sharing more of that blame than my dad.

I hope she reads this one day. I hope my entire family reads this. I hope all my cousin’s moms read this, because they usually try to defend her. I want everyone to know that if I die by my own hand one day, I blame my mom more than anything else in the world. I want parents to know that they have a responsibility to their kids because they’re people too, that they have to treat them properly, and that I was an example of what happens when you don’t.

This is starting to sound like a suicide note, and it’s scaring me. Good thing I’ve always been a rational person, and I still recognize that suicide is an irrational decision for me at this moment. Sometimes, I watch suicide videos just to shock myself into realizing how final, irreversible, and horrible that decision is.

I’m at a lot better than where I was two years ago, before I went to therapy, but I’m still far from being fixed. I can admit that to myself now.

1. The other 45% being my own inability to deal with these things, but I attribute that to temperament, which is inborn and hence not their fault. [↑]

Hi, how’s it going.

When talking about haircuts, I always say, “My stylist”. As soon as this comes out of my mouth, I wonder if this makes me sound snooty and pretentious. Most people seem to say, “hairdresser”, which I imagine is the same thing, with the former being a way to charge an extra $15–30 for a haircut. But the only reason why I say “stylist” is because that’s what the receptionists say (“…and what stylist would you like?”) when booking appointments. But stylists are so different from barbers, in my experience. And my stylist has gone for courses in the US, so I’m thinking this actually gives him the title.

I also say “chacun à son goût” when the phrase is appropriate. I wonder if this makes me sound pretentious too. The only reason why I say that instead of “each to his own taste” is because I learned the expression first in grade 8 French class. There was a picture of King Henry saying, “chacun a MON gout!”, as if he was famous for being in demanding king. Ever since, I relate the phrase to the French. Sometimes, I imagine I’m in late Imperial Russia, when French was considered the hallmark of a civilized society, so people threw in French phrases to impress people or fit in. I imagine myself saying, “Ho ho, mon cher, je méprise les femmes pour ne pas les aimer car autrement la vie serait un mélodrame trop ridicule”, while throwing my head back with dainty laugh.

Sometimes my nights are spent like this:

My favourite pastime at the moment is playing Flight Control while listening to music. I have a sort of running competition going with Pat (high score 99) and John (high score 67). So far I’ve been able to best their scores at 292, but now I’m trying to pad the victory even more, because Pat and John have as much of a healthy competitive streak as I do, and actually spend some extra effort trying to beat each other. So sometimes I’ll just sit down and put some music on and play. I’ve also tried cooking while playing, but my foods ends up getting burnt. There has also been some stand-up comedy listening while I play, but laughter always gets in the way of fine motor controls.

When I was younger, my parents owned a convenience store. It got held up a couple of times, late at night when my dad was working. He never talked about it, not because it was shocking, but because he didn’t care. Sometimes, I wonder how my dad felt with a gun pointed at him. One time they caught the three or four guys involved in one hold-up, and my dad had to go to court to testify. Somehow my dad handled it, but going through all of this would probably freak me out.

(I thought it only appropriate that I name this entry after another Shane Watt song, as the last one was as well. Amazingly enough, they both go together.)

I’ve been feeling better. A lot better actually. One of the reasons why I was feeling so depressed on Friday was because I was so unmotivated, not so much in terms of not wanting to do anything, but not wanting to do anything productive.

Part of this puritan attitude (as John’s professor dad calls it) is due to my upbringing. The months of summer between school semesters were never a time to relax, according to my parents, it was a time to study ahead for the upcoming year. I was made to feel guilty if I was having fun.

Then, at one point on Friday, I realized how wrong that was.

So this weekend I embraced my lack of motivation. I decided that I didn’t care about being productive. That I’ve been working hard the last few weeks and I’m ahead on my projects, so I needed a break.

I watched a few movies I’d been saving. I hung out with Bronwen. I played some GTA IV (which offers it’s own particular satisfaction in terms of being able to beat up executives and hipsters who are walking around with cups of gourmet coffee). When I needed a break, I decided to do some maintenance on my music library, something I never seem to find the time for otherwise. And what do you know, I ended up being productive without meaning to.

Amazing how a change in mindset can instantly flip one’s mood. It’s normally not so easy for me, because in the back of my mind I feel like I’m fooling myself, but for some reason, it worked really well this time. Probably because it makes a lot of sense.

Next week, I’m going to stick to a schedule to get things back on track. I’m going to exercise some self-control and abstain from any brain activity and start reading one of the books that Tatiana gave me, to help me fall asleep before bed.

I used to think that I should always be looking forward to tomorrow. Instead, I’m looking forward to right now.

I found this picture at my uncle’s house. It is:

1. Hilarious
2. Hilarious
3. Hilarious
4. All of the above

How weird is it that I didn’t even recognize myself. And look at those glasses! They were my first pair, which probably means I was around 14 or 15. Apparently, I was still wearing my calculator watch at that age.

Sometimes, I wonder what my life would be like if I didn’t have so much baggage. How my relationships would be different. Which ones would have worked, and which ones wouldn’t have changed at all.

Love, in all it’s multi-faceted wonder, levels, and types, is never a sure thing for me. I may feel it, but feel that it’s fleeting and conditional at the same time. Other people have the luxury of taking love for granted. They assume they’re loved. How comforting it must be. For me, it’s always been a struggle for stability. “We won’t love you if you don’t do well on this test. We won’t love you if you don’t practice piano. We won’t love you if you don’t finish your dinner. No one’s going to love you if you always stay this skinny.”

It feels like I haven’t survived my childhood yet. And I arrive at this fact so many times when trying to figure out the source of my issues that it’s starting to sound like an excuse. Therapy has helped identify my issues, but it’s still taking work on my part to resolve them, along with patience on the parts of others. I’m beginning to question why people would accept and love me. I guess it’s worth it to some, but things would be so much easier if they didn’t have to deal with my insecurities.

When I was young, the only affection my parents ever showed for each other was occasionally (maybe five times ever) holding hands in the car. They never kissed, never hugged, never said “I love you”. Aside from sitting down to eat dinner, their lives were completely separate. They wouldn’t even sleep in the same room.

Now that I have a car, holding hands while driving has come to define a relationship for me. I leave my right hand on the shifter, tapping it to the beat of my music, but I always have this urge to hold someone’s hand, as if it’s some strange ideal I’ve never been able to experience.

People wonder how it got so far. They ask me if something happened and I tell them, “Yeah…my childhood”.

It hurts, doesn’t it? Are you in a lot of pain? Cause I was in a lot of pain.

I’m still trying to fix your damage. Still trying to cover up the scars.

You deserve this. You did this to yourself.

And I fucking hope it hurts.

I often explain to people that Karaoke to the Chinese is like drinking to the British. We don’t pour pints at our parties, we sing. It’s part of the culture. The Chinese-Canadian dream is a Toyota in every driveway and a Karaoke machine in every house.

My dad was no exception. Like all his hobbies, he took Karaoke seriously. He had singing lessons from a famous teacher. Sometimes, he would record himself and listen to the tapes to analyze his singing when driving me to school. We would never talk on those hour-long rides, I would only hear him singing, sometimes along with his recorded voice, sometimes practicing the parts that he didn’t have quite right.

When I was young, about seven, I would sing one of the English songs from his collection. I couldn’t tell you why. Karaoke didn’t particularly interest me. Maybe it was a way for me to be a part of his life. He had nothing to do with me otherwise.

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This used to be my favourite season.

I don’t even know why. Christmas was always about tedious gatherings. Each parental group of friends and family — consisting only of Chinese people — would take turns hosting parties. As one of the “kids”, I was thrust in a room with the other sons and daughters. People I only saw once a year, with whom I had nothing in common. Some years, I’d go to six different houses in two weeks.

My parents would always host New Year’s. Some time ago, with the money I earned from my first job, I bought them a classy fondue set and fondue book for them to use as hosts. They never opened the box, or even cracked the spine of the book. It broke my heart.

Monetary certificates. Sweaters. Cheap stationary. Nothing personalized. Nothing from the heart. Nothing I ever needed or wanted. It was merely a display of how little people knew or cared about me. It would have meant more if they gave the money to charity.

The one reprieve during the holidays was being able to see Darren, sneaking out in the middle of a party to get stoned with him, or hanging out with John.

Then why did the holidays mean so much to me?

Maybe it was the atmosphere. The snow. The memories of Christmas in Hong Kong. The fact that people who had nothing in common would put up Christmas lights. Something that everyone believed in.

Even though I’ve received some beautiful, thoughtful gifts for once, even though I don’t really celebrate Christmas, I’m down. It’s too warm for the snow to stay. I didn’t buy presents for anyone. I’m working the short week between Christmas weekend and New Year’s weekend because I can’t afford any time off.

I suppose the holidays are what you make of them.

There have been many generous people — Louise, John, Aaron, Joel, Bronwen, Pat — who opened their houses to me today, but it’s not the same.

To feel like I was part of something, part of a family, as dysfunctional as it was. Because of the divorce, there’s no home to go to for the first time in my life.

Christmas is dead this year, but it’s only a reflection of how dead I feel inside.

Over ten years ago, I lived at my aunt’s house for about four months in the summer. Much of my maternal family was visiting from Hong Kong, so everyone stayed there as a central location.

One day my parents had a blow-out. It was trivial, as always. As a result, from my mom’s side of the story, he went out with another woman that night. From his side, my mom tried to kill him with a steak knife. It cut his finger to the bone when he was defending himself. The next day, with swollen eyes and a weak voice, my mom showed me the yellow bruises down her arm. They had to be photographed by the police as evidence before they healed. Two subpoena’s later and they were better than new, for the next few months at least until the next fight.

This is the last memory I have of my aunt’s house. I haven’t been back since. Not until this weekend.

Now everyone from my maternal side is here, all my mom’s siblings and their respective families. It started out as an act of commiseration, to help her out during the divorce. Aunt, uncle, and son, aunt, uncle, and son, aunt and uncle. And then there’s me, with my mom. Without father. The only broken family.

At first I think it’s just a coincidence. My aunt and uncle have the same vacuum cleaner that we had, the same piano, the same brown cowhide corner sofa. And then it clicks. Since the divorce, my mom sold the house after buying out my father of the contents. Everything is stored here until she moves into her new house, from the basement to the family room, from the kitchen to the bathroom.

I need to get out of here.

I need to get the fuck out of here.

A bowl of egg-noodles, with barbecue pork, shiitake mushrooms, shrimp, carrots, bok choi, and green onions in a chicken broth, is considered comfort food for most Chinese people. They say that comfort food soothes the mind by acting like an opiate, hitting the receptors in our central nervous system. We go to it in times of stress, and in addition to keeping us full, it keeps us pacified.

As Pat and Jen cut, and wash, and cook, they never nibble. Everything that’s prepared goes into the pot. Not too long, or the vegetables will lose their firmness. With chopsticks and a spoon, they serve the noodle soup in large bowls. One eats from the spoon, which is used to scoop the broth, while the chopsticks are simply used to put the desired ingredients on the former utensil.

I don’t have meals like this anymore. Chinese food is a complicated affair. It takes a motley set of ingredients, most of which is only available on a single street in this city, so I’m grateful for a real home-cooked meal.

Everything about it brings me back to a time when I was a child, living with my parents, living off Chinese food every day. The contrasting colours of the pork against the noodles. The full aroma. The savoury taste of broth. Even the dulcet slurp of noodles.

If only my childhood was worth remembering.

With presents that come folded to perfection, boxed in white wrapping paper, and special washing instructions. This is the safest gift for someone my age, unlike the guessing game that music, toys, or games has become.

This specially processed, pure cotton fabric is designed for easy care and a crisp, confident look that lasts. The softness, absorbency and breathability of cotton, enhanced with innovative care features, ensure optimum wearability. Engineered for no-fuss, express handling. Requires almost no ironing. Today’s quintessential business shirt: time-saving, energy-saving, travel friendly.

We recommend using a mild detergent. Spin briefly, then hang to dry. Gently pull collar, cuffs and seams into shape. Touch up with a medium iron.

Not that I’m complaining. If it’s one thing my parents have been able to give me, it’s financial freedom. Never having to worry about how I’m going to pay for rent, or board, or education. It’s not easy for Chinese parents to show affection, an influence of the culture they grew up in, so they buy me things instead.

The dog they can love and take care of and want around, but not have to actually talk to or spend time with.

These are my treats.

This was my elementary school. The Catholic institution I attended during the first few years of moving here. Where I used to offer best-friend status for a mouthful of Big League Chew. Old, familiar four-square courts are still painted on, unmoved. The T-ball poles are rusted out and missing their tethers. Countless feet jumping, running, skipping during recess have caused the pavement to warp and crack. Even the old portables are anything but, their familiar beige tones still inhabiting the back of the school, built out of concrete and plastic foam when the town was budding, and the classrooms couldn’t handle all the students. Walking up the wooden stairs, I bet they even have the same groaning creaks.

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I was listening to Manson’s second album, Antichrist Superstar, for the first time after a several year hiatus on the bus to work this morning. I was reminded of how much I went through with this album, for most of high-school and nearly two entire relationships. How comforting this music was for me, on the journey home from my exhausting classes and elitist classmates. It’s the only good album Manson ever put out, and also happens to be the only album that Trent Reznor produced for him. I’m willing to bet that it isn’t simple coincidence.

I never really get a chance to listen to these songs; even though I consider the music to be metal, the songs are too dark and moody to fit into my metal playlist. It’s the same thing with Tool. Aside from Opiate, which was just an EP anyway,Tool’s music has never fit into any specific genre to me. They have a metal feel and progressive rock elements, but are never enough of one or the either to fit into any of my playlists.