On the last entry, my Uncle Joe posted this comment:

You’ve changed a lot. More mature, more stable, more tolerant. 5 years back, you paid more attention to your appearance, now you care more about what you do, what you observe. Now you’re a bit sloppy …and I like that. Your spending habit is so much different.

I don’t know what caused all that…work experience? Parents’ divorce? Love life? Tai Chi and Taoism?

The causes of my changes were too big to cover in the small box, so I said I’d cover them in their own entry. Here goes.

Therapy

One of the significant things my therapist helped me with was the ability to not sweat the small stuff. It took a few thought records for me to realize that there are things out of my control. I used to be really moody, where if a small detail didn’t go right, I’d get really grumpy. Now that doesn’t anymore, although I do occasionally have to remind myself of this idea, as it’s not a completely natural reaction (yet). This is probably what Uncle Joe noticed as me being “sloppy”, as I’ve stopped worrying about things going wrong, so a bit more carefree when it comes to details. Even Bronwen said she’s noticed the change.

I also had intimacy issues, where I’d push my girlfriends away if they got too close. I’ve since learned to let someone in, even if it means it may hurt me in the end, and there’s a great comfort to be had in knowing this. In figuring out what went wrong, and being given the hope that my future relationships won’t end due to my old intimacy issues, which I’m sure was buried in my subconscious before.

Taoism

Taoism has given me the same rough mindset as therapy, in terms of letting go of the little things that don’t go my way. But it wasn’t just due to the fact that things are out of my control, but also the idea that things don’t really matter. I’m still working on other tenets, like spontaneity and wu wei, but what I’ve been able to understand and apply so far has helped a lot.

When I’m having a bad day, I can go to the Tao Te Ching, find a verse that’s appropriate to my situation, and for some reason my heart finds such contentment in the words. Perhaps it’s even more than the individual tenets, and the fact that I now have something to believe in that brings comfort, stability, and happiness. A non-religious opiate, if you will.

Relationships

Having been through two good relationships with two good people, especially with the memories I have now, has given me a lot of satisfaction. Sure, they may have ended, but I never thought I’d be in a good relationship, probably because of my childhood with my parents, along with confidence issues. I think some people go their whole lives without ever having the sort of love that I did, or being able to experience the same wonderfully intimate moments. This has given me a contentment I wouldn’t be able to find anywhere else.

A reader recently sent me an e-mail. This was the last paragraph:

Lastly and please don’t take this as being bold, I want to keep reading and one day read that you are nothing but happy and fulfilled. I would never post a comment because I am too shy and also pretty prone to being embarrassed by people who are cooler than me (and I consider people who blog as people who are cooler then me), but many times when I read your entries I feel like I am watching a protagonist in a favourite movie or re-reading Siddhartha. Does that make any sense to you? I’m cheering you on and I’m in your corner.

It made me wonder: if she wants to read that I’m happy one day, does that mean that I’m not happy now? It forced the realization in me that the answer is no. Obviously no. Life isn’t great. But do I only write about the bad stuff? I’ve always believed that you have to suffer to create. I’m one of those, so maybe this is the case. I imagine it’s the opposite with my Tai Chi or table tennis partners, who must think my life is perfect, because of how happy I am when I’m doing those activities.

It also made me wonder how much of myself is revealed here. Someone once told me that she sees two different sides of me: one who is serious and intimidating from the things I write, and another who is easy-going and relaxed over the phone.

So what comes through in my words? Certainly not everything. But it’s the same as anything else, because it’s hard to get a total picture of someone, unless, perhaps, you spend an appropriately uncomfortable amount of time with them.

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.

I’ve been reading Andrea’s blog lately. Normally, I don’t read blogs of people I’ve never met¹, and even though I’ve met Andrea, I’ve never had a penetrating conversation with her, let alone gotten to know her. Andrea’s blog is a little different though. To the uninitiated, it’s a regular journal, but there are bits of insight and emotion scattered throughout that leave you feeling like you’re looking at someone stoned, naked, and through their kitchen window. The ordinary mixed with a dash of extraordinary is what truly gives one a sense of empathy, and it was this that drew me in.

It’s been making me feel so fucking nostalgic.

I remember being in that stage of life. Back in school. Getting drunk. Chasing girls. Unsure of anything but the way I was feeling in that exact moment.

It’s made me realize that I don’t write like I used to. My entries used to be so experimental. Aside from a single sentence as a last, concluding line², and a penchant for being a little too personal, I hadn’t developed a particular writing style. Back when I posted something almost three times a day because I had to. When my posts had no titles (the same way Andrea has nothing but an incrementing number and location stamp) because they were about everything and nothing in particular.

Now, there’s too much purpose to my writing. Carefully planned out posts, trying to express something specific, without the stream-of-consciousness I used to enjoy. Lost is the old whimsical nature, the ordinary mixed with the extraordinary. I never used to care whether something was significant enough to post, and would just write it and hit that publish button.

I miss it.

But I can’t tell if it’s the way I used to write, or my life back then, that I miss.

1. Blogs rarely interest me when I don’t have a bit of personal insight from a first meeting. [↑]
2. Almost every single pots in this blog ends this way. [↑]

I generally loathe such arbitrary measures of time, but the fact of the matter remains that there were some fairly important things that happened in my life within the last 365.

I had my first art gallery exhibition. So far, I’ve sold 12 pieces, which I’m ecstatic about. I’ve also since become good friends with the gallery owners, Frédéric and Misun.

I started — and finished — pyschoanalytic therapy. After my crippling panic attack exactly one year ago, I was encouraged to seek some help, and this therapy ended up going much, much deeper. I wasn’t scared in my relationships because I didn’t realize how much baggage I had. But now I know.

I got my second tattoo. This significant thing about this is that it’s probably my last tattoo. After the first one, I finally feel complete (and symmetrical).

I got a car. And I’m loving the freedom. After buying my house and being gainfully employed, a car was the only thing left. This means I can buy large items, I don’t have to depend on friends to get me places inaccessible by bus, I can go home from parties when I want, and awesome road trips out of town.

I kissed her and she kissed me back. Sometimes, there’s nothing more important than having the right girl kiss you the right way.

I released version 10.0. This was by far the most popular design of my site, being featured at places like Perishable Press’s Web Design Showcase and at the top of Crestock’s 13 Minimalist Blog Designs You Really Should See. Unfortunately, this also meant I higher profile, and more attempts by people to copy it.

I went through a course of Isotretinoin. This effectively ended my acne, which became a pretty big problem in the last year. It’s a wonderful feeling to wake up and not have to worry about what my face was going to look like.

I got this letter from a reader. I receive many letters and comments, which I greatly appreciate, but this one really stuck out because something that I created had affected someone in an intensely positive way. I hope to be able to do this again some day.

I’m the au pair with the jazz tapes, telling him to use Davis and Coltrane on the first date. The hero’s childhood buddy, who dies in mortar fire during their service in the Second World War. The awkward friend who isn’t attractive enough to play the lead. The sibling confidante, who contradicts the protagonist with cynicism, only to be proven wrong in a satisfying fit of glory.

All my life, I dreamed of greatness, of being the main character in some quixotic story.

But I’m slowly realizing that I’m only a deuteragonist.

I wrote this entry about four or five months ago, but never published it. I held off because I wasn’t sure if it would be true a week after I wrote it. Weeks turned into months, until the sudden realization that I don’t feel this way now.

I regret not publishing it at the time. Even though it holds no relevance anymore, at the very least, it would have been a time stamp of how I felt in the moment. There are so many fleeting memories and emotions that change here, part of my ephemeral nature. But part of me thinks that it took this realization to give me the strength to say it.

Maybe I’m starting to believe in myself.

I’ve always enjoyed reading about people who are in love, but most of all when that love is unrequited. Vivid pictures painted in details about a saucy diastema, the observed ritual of walking by a certain table every day to get a cup of water for paint, an unsolicited brush against a hip. Stories about awkwardness, weakness, burning desire.

Perhaps it’s because I can relate to these experiences, or because they make me feel like I’m less alone in my own clumsy dealings with the opposite sex. Even though there are countless stories written about unrequited love, there aren’t enough. For the few of us who are “oppressed by the figures of beauty”, as Leonard Cohen calls it, nothing makes us feel better. All we can do is silently commiserate with the words of those who share themselves in this way.

When I look through my old entries, it seems like most of them are about love or a torch I carry in one way or another, and how this affects me.

And sometimes I wonder if this is the reason why people come here to read my words.

When you get to my age and most of your best years are behind you instead of ahead of you… it is a little easier to both appreciate what you have and to regret what you will never have again.

—Michael on Randomness and Disconnection

In this culture, we’re bred to believe that every step of our lives will affect the next one with dire consequences. If you don’t choose the right classes in grade 10, you’ll be stuck in something you don’t like in grade 11, and end up scoring poorly. If you score poorly in grade 11, you’ll limit your options for grade 12. If you don’t have the right classes in grade 12, you’ll have fewer universities from which to choose. So on and so on, until the C+ you got in history class means you’ll be mowing lawns for the rest of your life.

I wish I never stopped learning piano, so I could have another medium to express myself. I wish I grew up learning Tai Chi, so it’d be more natural to me. I wish I bought a house sooner, so I could have capitalized on amortization in the rising housing market. I wish I had started contributing to my RRSPs at a younger age, so I could retire at the age I want. I wish I paid more attention in French class, so I could still use it as a language. I wish I had gone to therapy earlier, so I wouldn’t have messed up the relationships that mattered.

All these situations where I feel like I’m too old and passed the point where I can achieve something efficiently, or maximize my gains.

But then I see how happy some people are, who are twice my age, and haven’t planned for retirement yet. Or some who still live in an apartment, without a house or car for equity. Some are newly single at fifty, and dating, and happier than they’ve ever been (and here I am, thinking that I’ll be single for the rest of my life because everyone my age is already married). Even Lloyd, who just obtained his doctorate last year at 36, told me that one’s skills can take them anywhere, and that age is never a matter. I’m not sure if I believe that yet, but I’d sure like to.

It all makes me wonder: is it really too late? Are my best years really behind me?

Perhaps they’re not.

I have 106 unpublished drafts in my database.

Things I don’t feel like saying. Parts of myself I’m not ready to reveal.

The written word has always been my medium of choice. Photography is only an extension of that, when I need to express myself better than words can let me, and video goes one step further.

Aside from picking up a useful word here and there, I’ve never made a conscious effort to improve my writing. The things I say are taken from my memories, experiences, and thoughts. How I say it is inspired by snippets of Nabokov (when I’m feeling lyrical or verbose), Cohen (when I’m feeling sad or romantic), Herbert (when I’m feeling dry), or Irving (when I’m feeling quirky or honest). The only way I’ve been able to gain any semblance of a writer is by mimicking to the best of my ability the lyrical styles I enjoy the most.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever stop. Writing is often a need, not a want. I do it when I’m feeling restless, when I have something to say, when things are unsettled, when I have things to figure out. And the case most often is that life is filled with these moments. Perhaps if I ever find some sort of permanent serenity, I’ll be able to stop.

But I probably wouldn’t want to.

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.

 

I left when the sun was setting. Along the way, the road stretched out infinitely before me, as if to say that I can always get away, and there is always more to go. The tree line danced and waved across the horizon, eventually disappearing with the sun. Then the lines of red and white in each direction guided me all the way to Darren’s house.

In it are little things from the house I grew up in — some candles here, some cabinets there — that my parents didn’t want after the divorce. So strange to see innocuous objects from my childhood in a different setting.

It was the first time we’ve been completely sober together since we were kids. No alcohol, no weed.

I found out a couple things I wouldn’t have known otherwise:

• My dad started dating someone. He is currently single again.
• He has a dance floor at his house and a nice car. This is typical of my dad, who loves his toys.
• My mother is still insecure.
• My parents still see each other, but not alone. The current social rule among the group of parents, is that you can’t invite one to a party without inviting the other.

A weekend of sweet indulgence, late nights, and intimate conversation. No one understands my relationships the way Darren does, because we both share these quixotic ideas about love. It was so comforting to be able to express myself on these things without having to explain my underlying feelings, as if someone could truly understand me, especially important in this current phase of my life.

It made me realize that home isn’t where the parents are, something I used to believe¹. It’s an idea.

A comforting place you can go to get away, where you’re completely accepted for who you are.

1. I’m not sure exactly when I stopped believing this, but it was probably somewhere between the time my parents got divorced and I stopped talking to my mom. [↑]

It’s a world where every song is a journey, every chord is more dulcet than the last, and I don’t want to, I need to dance.

It’s not a simple feeling. There’s so much to consider — new realizations, unfamiliar territory, questions of fate, unresolved proprieties, inevitable change — that it’s all a mix of emotions unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. But who says that life has to be simple? All I know for sure is that I love her, even if she doesn’t love me the same way.

And for now, I’ll wear this smile like my heart on my sleeve.

Sometimes I come out of a session feeling great. Sometimes I come out feeling like a monster, like some horrible, fucked-up person.

During my first session, my therapist noted that this was a mutual process. It wasn’t as if he was going to surgically remove an issue with me, it would take the both of us working together, with a progressive effort from me.

That’s what I’m doing now. I’m determined to fix myself.

Dependence

• I have a general feeling of incompetence, which leads to a lack of trust in my own judgments. As a result, I have a very difficult time making decisions because I’m paralyzed by the fact that I may make the wrong one.
  • I can trace this back from my childhood to my early twenties when my parents were overbearing and would never let me make any of my own decisions. In fact, they would make most of my decisions for me, including significant ones, like my program of study in university.
• The result is that I tend to ask people for advice on everything, although I’m dependent on Pat the most. This is because Pat is so smart and experienced, and has never, ever let me down. What I’ve come to realize, however, is that Pat is so smart because he’s already made his mistakes.
• This was linked to my anxiety, where I felt like I couldn’t handle anything on my own.
• I’ve been trying to fix this is to keep in mind that it’s not the end of the world if I make a mistake, and that sometimes, making mistakes is the only way to learn.

Unrelenting Standards revisited

• I realized that I tend to have unrelenting standards when it comes to life in general, but especially in my writing, photography, or art because I feel like this is the only way I will ever distinguish myself and be worth something. I feel like if I’m not the best, then I’m worthless. As a result, it’s difficult for me to enjoy my life, even something as simple as sitting down and watching a movie.
  • The roots of this are more difficult to trace than I initially thought. While my parents were a tremendous influence in terms of making me feel like their love was conditional, I believe a large part of this lifetrap has to do with me making up for my emotional deprivation by filling my deeper emptiness with success.
• Even when I do something that I know I should be proud of and satisfied, I feel like there’s always another thing to do, another level to reach. While this fuels my self-improvement and has gotten me to where I am now, I’ve come to realize that there’s an imbalance between the effort and the payoff. I work too hard for too little enjoyment.
• I may realize this, but it’s a hard habit to break. I have a feeling that I’ll need to fix my emotional deprivation at the same time to do so.

While my mother always made it a point to stay involved in my life (to a fault), it was never because she loved me. She’s not someone who’s emotionally intelligent enough to understand what love is.

Which is why she tries to cling to me so desperately, even when I try so vehemently to avoid her. It’s the same way that some men or women only love the idea of marriage, instead of their spouses. They’re relationships based on all the wrong reasons.

Realizing this has made me wonder; did I ever actually love my girlfriends, or did I just love the idea of love?