Posted in !General Musings, !Krista the Muse, !Memories

Why I’ll Always Love to Write

I love writing. I mostly write because if I didn’t, I’m pretty sure I’d go insane. Not “The Shining” insane, but generally insane. It’s the one method of communication that I can use and actually speak properly. One of my college friends used to call my emails “Emails of Doom” because I would write entire paragraphs to people and yet, when it came down to a table of people, I’d use short sentences.

I’ve tried to explain it before and I’ve noticed that the people who actually get it are mostly people who also write. Others tend to just smile at you and call you silly or weird (I’ve come to just befriend these words as pet names, at this point).

It’s almost like, when I’m writing, I’m able to hear myself a lot clearer and my hands just type the words, I’m thinking of what I’m writing as I’m writing it. When I talk, though, I’m trying to think of where my sentence is going while I’m trying to form the sentence and I mess up a syllable or skip a word. If I try to write by hand, same thing, one moment I’ll be writing a sentence, then I notice I’ve skipped a word or a letter.

It also helps that I write around 80WPM (on a good day).

I also write for enjoyment, because the ideas that crawl inside my head are interesting. Characters become real people, and in time, they get a voice and some of them get louder the more they take shape in my mind. I am also a mood writer. This can make writing complicated when there are so many things that affect my mood. I may be in a mood to travel the stars with my characters, the next night (depending on the mood) I might want them to get hit by a meteor.

It doesn’t stop me from writing, though. I doesn’t stop me from daydreaming, from planning, from thinking and just letting the words assemble in my head. Then there are times, my favorite time, when the words will just click – the sound of a lock finally giving in – and I just grab the nearest keyboard and type away.

I think the first thing I ever wrote was a silly little drabble, a dialogue-based story, and it was really as a joke during a chat conversation with a friend. It wasn’t meant to be a masterpiece, or anything important, really, but it was so much fun to type out and it gave me this giddy feeling that stuck with me. I get that feeling when I write. And let me tell you, once you find your thing – be it writing, singing, painting, drawing, riding a motorcycle, whatever the case may be, those butterflies, that electric feeling on your skin, that laugh that just happens, it’s worth pursuing.

I’ve been told my English is not fancy enough – well, fancy probably wasn’t the word they used (which may only prove their point further ~.~) but I know my vocabulary isn’t extremely extensive, I don’t take offense to something I know is a fact. It just means I have something to improve on. I read and I learn. Some words I don’t retain as well, some I retain based on use (topsy-turvy; one of the weirdest vocabulary words I was ever introduced to, in High School, rarely used, but my brain won’t forget it. Go figure) and some I learn from people who use words and prompt me to Google them.

I often get asked why I don’t write in my own language. Look, it’s not that simple. Just because Spanish is my native tongue does not mean writing it is easy. Grammar is difficult no matter the language, native or not. That’s why the universe gave us editors and proofreaders and such. People make mistakes, and when you’re writing with the idea of delivering a message, you don’t start to reread every word as you write it to check for errors (…that would take forever).

And English is the language I’ve always gravitated towards, writing-wise. The simplest (and silliest) way to explain it: my muse speaks English, I write English. Simple.

Whatever my writing challenges may be, I don’t think I’ll ever stop, regardless of where it takes or doesn’t take me. I’m stubborn that way. I don’t see a point in quitting something that makes me experience this kind of joy. There isn’t an opinion in the universe that can be worth giving up the simplest joys of writing, and my opinion is too busy being giddy.

And on a rare note, here’s the little silly drabble. Mind you, I think I wrote this in my early college years (2009. Possibly. Or earlier. Not really sure. No later than, though). Though to be fair, once I recovered from the giddiness of that chat conversation, I did take the story I typed into the chat so I could fix it so that it could flow like a story, but that was still a loooong time ago.

One-Shot: Little girl vs. Evil Toilet Paper [G]

An innocent little girl sits on a toilet seat, peacefully doing her business. On the wall in front of her, there is the evil toilet paper with a piece loose.

She looks at it intensely.

“Mooooooooooooooooom, the toilet paper is sticking its tongue at me!” She yells in a tiny whiny voice.

Her mother is busy talking on the phone, so she doesn’t respond.

The little girl frowns innocently and she decides to be brave. She reaches towards the evil toilet paper and rips off the loose piece, but the toilet paper persists as a piece remains sticking its tongue out at the little girl.

The little girl is angry now, and frustrated, she yells again, “MOOOOOOOOOOOOOM, IT WONT STOP STICKING ITS TONGUE AT ME!”

Again, she receives no response.

The little girl uses the piece she ripped out and stares at the toilet paper as she pulls up her small, pink pants. In her vivid imagination, the toilet paper actually blows its tongue at her.

She’s had it.

She launches herself towards the toilet paper and starts pulling it out. She wrestles with it, wraps it around her body unconsciously, all the while growling and struggling forcefully as she fights the evil toilet paper until there’s nothing left.

It is defeated.

Finally, her mom arrives with the phone on her ear. “What in the world? Jenny, what is wrong with you?” She asks, quickly blaming the poor child.

She frowns. “The toilet paper started it! It stuck its tongue out at me!” She exclaims, standing her ground as she breaks the toilet papers’ grip on her.

“Oh geez, you better clean that up,” the mother says as she leaves without a second glance.

Our little heroine smiles; she has won the battle.

She steps on the toilet paper, even does a little dance as she does this, and piles up the toilet paper into one big bundle.

She pushes it into the toilet and blows her own tongue at it before flushing.

A problem arises.

The paper won’t go down making the toilet water rise. The little girl imagines the toilet paper laughing as the water rises — its evil gurgling laughter echoing in her ears.

Our heroine tries to flush it again, but it only makes the water rise faster.

She decides there’s only one thing she can do.

She runs with her arms flailing in the air, “MOOOOOOOOM, IT’S GOING TO GET ME! IT’S GOING TO GET ME!”

Posted in !Family Shindigs, !General Musings, !Lessons, !Memories

 The Things We Don’t Talk About

As I grew up, I learned of a concept that’s probably not at all foreign, or new. In life, there’s a lot of things we see, live through and experience that while, yeah, that happened, we just don’t talk about it. Sometimes we have a good reason, other times we make up a reason and label it “good” but is it really? Who can say? Who should say? The thing is, most times, not talking about it only reinforces the design of the cage. Staying silent doesn’t break it, it doesn’t open it, and one day, someone else will have to live it long after we’re gone.

I think the best example I can use for this would be my father.

I don’t really have a relationship with him anymore. I drew the line, set that cage on fire and buried it the day he decided to shove me against the kitchen counter, but before that day? Oh, I would try to cover his behavior with a multitude of reasons and excuses, some of which had validity, or I thought they did at that point in time until a very good friend told me the following: 

Blood is thicker than water, so is motor oil, and if you wouldn’t let a truck run you over, why would you let your bloodkin?

The sad thing is, what made my father the way he was, and maybe still is, is the fact that he never talked about how toxic his father was. No one did. It was the thing very few talked about (and I would only find out way later in life).

You see, my grandfather was a misogynistic asshat. The one story that will always stay with me is the story of my grandfather’s day at the beach with his mistress, and how my grandmother had decided to take her kids to the beach (without knowing that’s where my grandfather was – with his mistress). The moment all of it clicked into place (well, kind of hard to deny what’s right in front of you), my grandmother ran home because she knew my grandfather was about to unleash both emotional and physical abuse on her due to her having interrupted his day at the beach – with his fucking mistress.

That’s the kind of thing my father would have to witness and, in his opinion, that’s what should happen.

I realize some people may be able to see the behavior of their parents and go, “Nope, nooope, I’ll be the one to travel a different path, thank you,” but, raised in the small town that he was raised in, in an overall patriarchal society, well, I wonder if he ever realized a different path was possible. Maybe he didn’t want to. Maybe he didn’t talk about it or deemed it a regular occurrence because no one told him differently.

That’s often what can happen with things you don’t talk about.

I was extremely lucky to not be raised under his roof (and my mother was extremely lucky that he decided to let her go before I was even born), but I would visit every other weekend. My mom tried to do the right thing by never saying a single bad thing about him – she wanted me to form my own opinion – and in a way, I’m grateful, because as a kid, if you told me something was bad, I would see it as a reason to try and find out if it was bad, why it was bad, and why you think it’s bad (…kind of one of those “don’t jump” followed by me going, “WEEEEEEE” scenarios).

And I did form my own opinions. The more I saw, heard and experienced his small-minded mentality, the more I could see (and recognize) the path I didn’t want to walk on.

When he’d ask, “Am I right or am I right?” I’d have the balls to do what no one in his family had the balls to do, “Neither, ’cause you’re not giving me the option I want.” I paved my own path. To which he’d often respond, “You’re just like your mother.” (Which, duh, I took as a compliment.)

And I did talk about it, to close friends and my mom, mostly.  Mom would help me think for myself or guide me as best she could. Whenever I encountered a situation, she’d tell me a story, as a way to explain why that was done and let me shape my own opinion. My mom is often good at not telling you what to do but instead telling you what things look like (she’s also the champion of doing things that people tell her not to do – who do you think I get it from?) 

Fun fact: mom hated one of my then boyfriends because he reminded her of my father. She didn’t tell me this until I made the assessment on my own and closed that door. She didn’t tell me because she knew I would only see it as the opposite.

And yes, I was a typical teenager. I commend my mother for not throwing me out of a moving vehicle when she had the chance. You only think I’m kidding. That actually happened.

The car we had was pretty beat up. It was not fancy, nor did it have auto lock, and I would sometimes forget to lock it. I lean on the car door a lot when I’m in the passenger seat. I leaned strongly and the door opened and the seatbelt held me somewhat in but not all the way. Mom’s arm reached out for my shirt and grabbed me. And there’s more than one incident like that because I am, no joke, accident prone. And I’m invisible so even someone backing out of a parking spot has the tendency to hit (nudge? At that speed, it’s kind of like a nudge) me.

But back on topic, talking about the unpleasantness, not just about my father, but life overall, it helped me realize when enough was enough, that it wasn’t right, that emotional abuse was just as bad as physical abuse. I bore the emotional abuse from my father for as long as I could in the hope that, one day, he would change.

Sadly, that never happened, and as I said, the day the abuse got physical, I made a choice. It’s a choice that brought me a lot of pain, probably brought him pain, too, because I don’t think he realized he could lose someone so completely, someone who had overlooked so much and borne previous pains and always came back.

That day, I didn’t come back, and still haven’t, and if I had…I’m not going to sugarcoat it, it would’ve gotten worse.

Talking about things, however painful or personal, helps you realize one of two things: is this something I can survive and overcome, or is this something that needs to be dealt with, in whatever manner is appropriate at the time? It’s a choice only you can make, but the best part about it…you don’t have to do it alone.

I know I didn’t. My mom was there every step of the way and the times I would tell her that certain things happened, you bet your ass she turned that car around and gave him what for. Amusingly enough, the only women I think my father is scared of is my grandmother and my mother. My mother almost hit him with a baseball bat after he threatened to attack her and my grandmother actually slapped him after she witnessed him mistreating my mom (fun fact: grandma is not tall. Grandma went to go get something to stand on JUST so she could slap him). I come from a long line of “wait, you think you’re going to do WHAT to me? HA” women.

You don’t fuck with my mum (or my grandma). And I like to think I’m better for it. I sure as heck don’t get pushed around or treated like I’m an idiot because of my gender so, yeah, good riddance for that. (I’m pretty sure I have dumb blonde moments but this has nooothing to do with my gender, or my hair for that matter.)

And let it be known, my father? He believed I’d grow up to become a prostitute because my mom opted to raise me on her own because, in his mind, a woman that isn’t dependent on a man can be only that.

That’s the man I made excuses for, empathized with, tried to see the good in – all because of how much I ignored the things I saw and heard, how I tried to cover it all up, but talking about it…sometimes just writing it down instead of saying it out loud…every little bit helps.