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I'm not that entirely sure of what I should type in this vast, white space that Blogger provides me with to rant, rave and ramble about my personal thoughts and happenings, my mind is quite blank itself, just like the canvas that I now imprint my words on to, empty like the plate I fed myself from an hour or so ago that's now in the dishwasher, cleared and cleaned, leaving the bare china for use once again. But I feel obliged to say something because it is New Year's Eve, and because 2010 arrives at my chronological doorstep in less than three hours.
So, I guess the standard action to take would be to talk about what I've done and learned in 2009. Honestly, I've done and learned a lot, but I don't wish to bore you with the details right now. So perhaps I will just give you a list, because I like lists:
- I turned 18.
- All of my friends turned 18.
- I went through my high school exams.
- I got paid for the first time, working a bartending job.
- I said goodbye to everybody I knew.
- I moved to England, and met a lot of people at university.
- For the first time in a long time, I didn't spend my winter holidays in Hong Kong.
- I found ways to deal with sadness, loneliness and confusing friendships.
- My bond with my parents and my best friend grew even stronger.
- I continued to blog and now have plans to publish a book next May.
2009 could've been a really emotional year. A lot more emotional than it actually turned out to be. But I think I fulfilled the resolution I made last year, which was to learn how to control my emotions, and be more positive in my everyday life. Becoming an official adult meant that I had to stop reacting so childishly and impulsively to bad things happening to me, moving to England and meeting new people tested my inner strength and forced me to find happiness and comfort from within, and working as a bartender in the summer meant that I had to practice customer service and be more tolerant of annoying people.
While going through all of this, I've now found a new set of challenges too. I've found that time management is something I'm really lacking. I don't know how to sort out myself to fit my sleeping time, my working time, my studying time, my socializing time and my relaxing time into the same schedule. With my current prospects to publish a Do you hate it too? book, and manage six or seven blogs by the end of next year, while juggling my second year of university, finding a house to live in next September, and starting to get serious about my trip around the world in seven years, I have to work hard at trying to comprehend the exact essence of which time is.
With the management of time comes the management of my money, my learning capabilities, my priorities, and my sense of responsibility. Basically, my New Year resolution, I think, will be to strive for orderliness and organization in my life.
All the while, making sure I continue to keep my emotions in check, of course. We don't want the past coming back to haunt me.
So, I've already prepared a fairly detailed schedule that gives me space to work, read, sleep, eat, blog, watch TV, and do other useless crap (e.g., Facebook, Sporcle, Twitter, sleep some more...). I'm confident that the schedule will be effective and that the idea of it being a new year, being a new chance, will keep me motivated enough to actually fulfill this resolution like I did with the last one I made.
If you've come over here from Do you hate it too?, once again, I say Happy New Year, my readers.
If you didn't, then I give you a virtual hug and wish you all the best in 2010.
Remember guys, if all is looking glum, there's always a way to work things out. E-mail me if you ever need to. Just keep in mind the message passed down to us by Winston Churchill: If you're going through Hell, keep going.
One thing that has never come up in my everyday ponderings is the prospect of my dad dying. I know it sounds terrible to think about my father's death, but let me just explain how my emotional system works.
I don't like watching people or hearing about people being stricken by tragedy. I don't like knowing people can feel devastated, or torn apart. Most of the time this happens, is when people get too used to taking life for granted. They take the people around them, they take the things they've got for granted, and it's only a matter of time before some unknown force takes it away, because the reality in this universe is nothing lasts forever.
Something as tragic as my father's death is undoubtedly going to affect me. I shouldn't even be allowed to blog if I thought his death wouldn't affect me, due to how disturbingly stoic and inhumane that kind of reaction would be. However, the one thing that I can reduce is the shock factor. The one thing I can control is whether I feel something has been taken away from me, or has merely been lost. I don't want to feel that God will have taken away my dad. Especially with the information I have, I shouldn't feel that way.
My dad takes drugs. My dad drinks. My dad smokes. One would normally take these facts, and say they worry about their father's health, and that would be the end of that train of thought. It would be a dark piece of information lodged in the back of their mind, and they wouldn't think of it any further because they would be afraid to think of that dreadful day. Everyone wants their parents to grow old, to watch our growth, and to live a long and prosperous life.
But being afraid to think of death is what causes that sense of surprise. Having faith in life lasting forever is what makes us overwhelmed by grief. Which brings me back to why I imagine how his death is going to go beforehand.
I picture myself in my bedroom, at my computer, in the five-person house I will rent with the English friends I've met at university. Or perhaps I will be walking out of a lecture, and as I do so, checking my phone for any missed calls. Any way it happens, it'll probably be my mother who tells me how, where and when my father happened to die in Hong Kong. I would be surprised by the news then, but I will not feel dismayed, shaken up, or awe-stricken.
I would tell my mother when I would fly back to Hong Kong as soon as possible. I would notify my housemates of what happened, and what will happen in the next few months, and will probably shed a bucketful of tears as I do so. I would fly back on the plane, quiet the whole time. On my arrival back in Hong Kong, many days will be spent organizing and discussing with my family what will be done with my father's body, and how we will commiserate him. Nobody will really care to ask me if I want to talk about what just happened. They will just assume I do, when really I don't. It'll be annoying, but I can't and won't blame them.
A couple weeks later, his funeral will happen, and I will be there in the front row, directly in front of a portrait picture of him, with his ashes or coffin situated behind it. The suit I will wear will be the most expensive outfit I will have ever purchased. Outside, it will not be sunny that day. It won't be cloudy either. It will just be normal weather conditions, semi-sunny, semi-overcast. I won't wear a tie. My face will be blank. Maybe I'll wear sunglasses, like how my father wore sunglasses at his dad's funeral. The church would be silent, just the way I like it, besides the words of the reverend that will perform the ceremony.
Standing behind and beside me will my three half-sisters of which my father also beared, my paternal grandmother, my aunts, my uncles, and my cousins on my father's side, as well as my father's co-workers, my father's friends, and three of my best friends and my mother who I invited for my own moral support.
I might speak about my father to the people who attend that day. After all, I am his son and I am a writer. I don't know what I will say, but I don't need to start writing that any time soon.
But that's already past the important part.
The important part will have been when I stand in front of his picture and say goodbye in my heart.
And as the days go by from now until that day, whatever may change externally will be countered by some change in this image that I have constructed, promptly and appropriately. Like if it turns out that I get an apartment by myself next school year, then I suppose I don't have to tell those housemates I originally planned to live with. That's how the grief reduction program works.
This system works every time. The system prevented anxiety attacks when it came to my final high school examinations, because I prepared myself mentally for glorious success and dismal failure. The system helped me face my summer job, knowing how to balancing inner confidence and the idea that I might get fired at any point I was working. The system saved me months of depression in the last few weeks I was in Hong Kong, on the plane ride to England, and for the past four months in university when I had perfectly good reason to feel weak and lonely.
Before I came to England, I imagined myself crying every night, missing home. And I now imagine crying every night after my father dies. In doing so, I live the experience once already in my head. There will be no heartbreak anymore because I've already had it broken. It's not to say I don't care about my father anymore. I'm not saying he's dead to me. I still care about him, my mother, and all of my family and friends. But I feel that I need to be strong, and I need to take care of myself. As people sometimes say, you can't look after others until you learn to look after yourself.
That's what I'm doing. That's what I just did, today. I went through the day my father dies. I will be fine on that day. They will say, "Wow, Michael. You're handling this incredibly well. I can't even begin to figure out how you do it."
And what you have just read is my explanation in full.
Eighteen years and seven months ago, I was born in Hong Kong. My aunt accompanied my mother back to my grandparent's apartment, the 4th flat on the 7th floor. Our family has had 704 for over forty years. That place is not just home to them, but is home to all eight of their daughters too. After my parents got divorced, it became my home.
Somewhere along the way, I had the opportunity, or experience, of living with my father, which turned out to be rather awesome. While he was at work, I spent time with his personable wife and his three fun-loving, laid-back daughters. Dad's house (or Dad's houses as he always moved a lot) was home to me too.
Somewhere along the way, I attained, as lame as it sounds, what you could only describe as a 'best friend'. His parents know me, and trust me, his younger brother knows he can call me in times of trouble. I call their humble Filipino family my home as well.
Somewhere along the line, my mother moved out of my grandparents' apartment, in an act of great motherly sacrifice, to give me my own room - her room - as I was finally becoming a very demanding teenage boy. I've stayed at the place she now owns, and I also call it one of my homes.
Although I had all of these places for my choosing, the one place I always went back to at the end of the night, the home I yearned for when I had other obligations throughout the night, was always my grandparents' apartment. The sense of familiarity and familial attachment, I feel, was mutual. My grandparents wanted me at their place every night as well.
In the weeks leading up to my departure from Hong Kong, I could feel a general sense of internal struggle and hardship every time I was around them. I was working a bartending job too, that often meant I had to leave before lunch time and not return until late in the night. I barely even spoke to them for eighty percent of the summer holiday.
In the final two weeks I was in Hong Kong, I was often waiting for the moment when I would start crying like a baby, missing everything, wanting to stay, suddenly hating the idea of coming to England. I guess I built it up too much in my head that I had tired the emotions out. I remember I cried about leaving my mother's side, and as I sit here typing this, I actually cry. All the emotions that I had when I was alone in my room as I was still going to high school all come back to me the minute I think about it. I cried about my dad. I cried about leaving my 4-year-old cousin. I cried about leaving my job. I cried about leaving my best friend.
But when it finally came to the moment I had to take one last look at my room in 704, I didn't cry at all. I had already shared my final conversations with all of classmates, all of my friends, all of my coworkers, and pretty much all of my family.
And then as I was heading out the door, my grandparents were standing there in the corridor, waiting to send me off. And I could see the bittersweetness that rested in their eyes. I'm crying at the moment, because the love I get from them is so surreal to me, it's so incredible, it's so unbelievable. You would typically think there was a generation gap, and quite frankly there is, and we did not share anything much in terms of conversation or material gifts, but the one thing we did share was that apartment, and our time living together.
In the thirteen weeks I was having my summer break, I had not wept at all. But it was in that moment when my grandmother looked at me with teary eyes, telling me to study hard, make sure to eat healthy, and most important of all, be good, I finally found what what would strike my heart. My grandfather, at the door, told me to put in my best effort at university, and also, to be good.
The simplest lessons you learn in life are the least eloquently expressed, but are said by the wisest people. The words they share are like dying words to me, and it's so sad to think of it like that, but that's the truth. Both are over seventy years old, both have medical issues of their own.
And to hear them say things like that really touches my heart in a uniquely confusing way.
I took the elevator down from the 7th floor.
I put my luggage in the boot of the car and then got in.
I opened the window, and stuck my head out the window to get my last look at them. I waved goodbye until the car went round the bend and a building blocked them from view.
Today, I just received a box with Christmas presents from my 1st aunt, 4th aunt, 8th aunt, and my mother. I was grateful for the gifts, and I loved seeing my mother's handwriting on the cards explaining what everything was and who it was from.
At the bottom of the box, I found a jumper and a card next to it, and it turns out it was from my grandmother. She wrote 'Merry Christmas' in Chinese, and her traditional style of calligraphy was always so distinctive, and it made me picture her writing the card. That's what triggered the idea to talk about this here... I miss my home, so much. I miss my grandparents so much. I can talk to my parents and my friends whenever I want, but I can't talk to them because they don't know how, and it drives me crazy...
Ohh... let me get myself together...
Ahem. Well, my aunts are going to set up a webcam chat thing with them on Christmas Day, so I'll see my beloved grandparents then. It's just been a very hectic final week of university, and I reckon I'm a little stressed out. Good thing I get to sleep tonight without worrying about handing in any assignments.
Crying's good for the soul, it really is. When was the last time you cried?
At some point in time a number of years ago, I had a friend who had a falling out with me over my arrogance and immaturity. I confess to this, it was all my fault, and I see it now. I was obsessed with popularity. I was a bully. I was unreflective, inconsiderate, racist, sexist, stuck up, and spoiled, not just in terms of money, but also when it came to the friends and family I, at the time, didn't realize I had to treasure.
This ex-friend of mine also writes a blog, and I check in on it every other day to get an update on his life. Whether he reads mine, or whether he knows I read his, I don't know. And I don't think I'll find out any time soon.
Unsurprisingly, we still share the same mutual friends. We were a tight group back in the day. Four guys, four girls, not necessarily a spider web of eight mutual bonds, but altogether, fairly harmonious, chill, fun company.
I find it kind of weird when my closest friends tell me about him, how he said this in a conversation the other day, or how they're going to meet up with him tomorrow. I feel a bit weird reading about his life without talking to him otherwise. I think it's weird just thinking about him.
For a long time, I've been thinking about meeting a blogger in real-life. I have a feeling that day's not far.
But here I am in a different situation. I knew this guy in real-life. And now I know him only through his blog.
Have you ever done anything, or wanted to do anything, that you know will not be look at lightly by others, because you know it's ethically controversial area you're treading on? I'm thinking of things that stir up a whirlwind of emotion inside you, as the thrill of trying not to get caught compels you to do it, to continue to do it, things that are immoral and wrong, yet you deem to be necessary for your well-being, or maybe perhaps even your survival? There's also the tinge of fear that comes with being judged by the people who know you, from maybe having to face disappointed loved ones if they ever found out, from having to face the isolation people may subject you to, if you were ever going to get caught.
Four years ago, I was expelled from my first secondary school for stealing money. I'm not going to get into the details of such pilferage, but let's just say that I deserved to get kicked out.
At the time, I thought I had to steal, and I truly believed that there was no other way for me to enjoy life if I did not steal. Of course I bloody Hell knew it was wrong to do so, but I did it anyway because I felt I needed to. I'm not going to sugarcoat it - I was greedy, I was selfish, and I didn't care what my close ones thought of me - I did it. And if I could go back and make that decision again, I would, with a hundred-percent certainty, steal again.
I tend not to judge people who are caught for committing crimes, in terms of these actions that are often so clear-cut immoral in the eyes of society. I don't like looking at things that way, I dislike looking at things from the majority's perspective. I guess I have an irrational fear of being normal. (I tried to look up the technical phobic term for fear of conformity, but sadly couldn't find one. They should invent a term for it.)
Anyway, if everybody thinks someone is acting crazy, I try to help said maniac and listen to what their problems are. If everyone hates this guy for being a total idiot, I will go and talk to him, and tell him that he needs to change his ways. And if I found out somebody got expelled - I wouldn't blame him. Everybody has their reasons to do things, and every situation can be looked at differently. Why judge him? How does that help? What if you were put in that situation? Would you want to be abandoned? Would you want to be judged?
By the way, I've decided to change all the titles of my blog posts here to begin with "On ________". Oftentimes, I'm not quite sure what to call my entries, and I feel that with this new style of appellation, this new idiosyncrasy, it will help me in the art of naming my blog posts.
Today, I want to talk about couples, and not being in a couple, but being around them. Recently, I've become friends with a couple, and I really like how I can just mosey into the girl's room and watch a movie with the two of them. I like having breakfast with them every morning, and just hanging out with them if I don't want to stay in my room by myself.
I like being friends with both individuals of a couple, and over the years, this has often happened. It's nice to hang out with them as friends, to see their sweetness that they probably wouldn't display in front of others, to see how they feed off of each other's humor, their compatibility that you wouldn't have known had you not seen it working in front of your eyes, their synchronicity, their unity, is admirable, and pleasant to observe.
Obviously, I'm not allowed to hang around when they're gettin' busy, or when they're sharing intimate, personal information with one another. But to their command, I walk out of that room without feeling expelled, without feeling banished - it's okay, because I know it's between them. Just like I would expect them to feel if I was with someone.
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