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talkingitout-blog2 · 4 years

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Irish Cream

I’m sitting in my living room, listening to music I don’t really care for (but my boyfriend loves). I’m within in arms reach of two precious dogs that I love with all of my heart. I’ve smoked a few joints this evening and I’m on my third glass of Irish cream on the rocks. And I’m happy.

This is my fourth day off from work in a row. Tomorrow is the fifth, and we’re going to the Natural History Museum! Then on the sixth and final day, we’re hosting a small gathering to watch the Royal Rumble (because we’re big dumb nerds). It’s definitely shown me how much taking time off benefits the mind. Just a few days ago, I was prepared to post up in a bathroom cubicle and off myself. Now, I’m relaxed and happy.

My job has straight up murdered my soul. If anyone ever reads this, please be kind to the folks who work at theme parks. We’re emotional faberge eggs and need to be spoken to with great care. I’ve spent the last seven years of my life slaving away for a company that probably hasn’t even noticed that I’ve been gone for four days. I wish I worked for people who appreciated me, but then I wouldn’t get those sweet ass corporate benefits (oh, hello there health, dental, paid sick/vacation, and 401k). One day, I’ll work for myself.

Or maybe I’ll just work for a small group. Working for myself seems daunting, as I’ve never been a self-starter. But I lie about that on my resume. I file it after “great interpersonal relationships” but before “Microsoft Suite.”

I’d give it all away to be this happy all the time. But giving it all away would unfortunately mean giving this away. And I wouldn’t give this away for the world.

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talkingitout-blog2 · 4 years

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Birthday Blues

So, tomorrow is my birthday. Birthdays are always super fun for me because I love celebrating the people that I love. MY birthday, on the other hand, is almost never fun. I feel awkward and nervous. I have to talk to a bunch of people on the phone. I have to turn off Facebook notifications because I don’t really care to see the 45 people from high school cropping up to wish a sterile happy birthday on social media. I feel like everybody who is nice to me that day is being disingenuous.

But I get a date night! We’re going for sushi and a movie and (hopefully) I can talk him into grabbing ice cream or hot cocoa afterward. I like date nights. I don’t get them very often, so I savor them as much as I can. Especially the ones that happen for my birthday.

My boyfriend is not a birthday guy. He doesn’t really care about celebrating them or anything. But he’s also not that affectionate of a human, so I wouldn’t really expect a huge, celebratory reaction from him. But he does what he can for me on my special day.

The day before, however, does not come with the same stipulations. We had a conversation today that I wouldn’t even classify as an argument but, somehow, ended the same way an argument would.

When my boyfriend is right, he is right and will accept no substitutes. And, if you agree with him, he will continue to tell you why he’s right and why you’re wrong (even though you’re in agreement). Then he explains his point about four to seven more times, in different styles. You can agree with him each time, but he won’t stop until he’s really made you understand that he is, in fact, right. He also does this when he is wrong, but that’s neither here nor there.

Today, he was right about me not doing enough household chores. I agreed with him. Yeah, but, I’m really not doing enough around here. I again agreed with him and even gave examples as to how he was right. But, he just couldn’t let it go. He hammered his point home until the only message I could hear was “you’re just not good enough.” Now, I understand that this clearly wasn’t what he was saying. But when someone is repeating the same information to you over and over, despite fully understanding the point and vocalizing said understanding, and they won’t stop, it seems like they’re trying to get you to understand something else. Like they’re speaking in code. Kinda like...

Him: Don’t look behind you. Me: Ok. Him: Don’t look behind you. Me: I said I wouldn’t. Him: Don’t. Look. Behind. You. Me: Okay, fine. Clearly you’re asking me to look behind me.

That’s how it feels when I’m talking to him. He says it’s because he has to verbalize his thought process or his head starts to race, but my head starts to race, too. Let me clarify my thought process on how this went for me...

Him: You’re not doing enough around the house. Me: Couldn’t agree more. Him: Yes, but you really aren’t doing enough. Me: I know. I skipped the dishes and let the laundry get away from me. Him: ...You have to do more around here.

Me: ...Maybe nothing I do will ever be good enough...

I know it’s not his fault. I know it’s not my fault. It’s my dumb brain’s fault. I just wish he could learn how to shut the fuck up after he’s made his point.

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talkingitout-blog2 · 4 years

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Paranoia might destroy ya.

I am not the picture of mental health. I’ve gone through a lot and have my traumas, several of which have imprinted on me in a difficult way. I’ve been diagnosed as a lot of different things. The main ones that stick out are OCD and anxiety.

What the Netflix Original series and YA novels don’t tell people about these disorders is that, when coupled, they can result in paranoia. Paranoia is when your Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is walking down the street and runs into Anxiety. The conversation usually goes something like this:

OCD: How’s it going, friend? Anxiety: I think our co-worker is hiding something from us. OCD: What gives you that idea? Anxiety: I don’t know, but I can feel it. OCD: Oh, no. I feel it, too. Guess I won’t be able to focus on shit all until I figure out what they’re hiding from us. Anxiety: Great plan! I can supply plenty of nervous energy to keep us up tonight! OCD: I can keep us safe. We just gotta touch everything eight times, or sixteen times if we touch it wrong in the first cycle of eight. Anxiety: Just two buddies, solving mysteries and ruining working relationships!

Okay, so I haven’t ruined a relationship. But I am heavily paranoid that my co-worker is hiding something from me. She has a tendency to be secretive about trivial shit. Whenever she applies for a job within the company, she doesn’t speak a word of it. She hides the e-mails and comes up with excuses for her business casual attire (we work in uniform).

Her success doesn’t change anything for me. But, for some odd reason, I must be more successful than her. I have to win. If I don’t, I become a failure. I know that isn’t true, but it nags at the back of my skull day in and day out.

I’m so afraid of people being successful before me. And I think it has something to do with being a “gifted student.” I can’t be behind the curve. That’s not who I am. I feel like an asshole when all of my friends talk about their progress in the Pokemon games on Nintendo Switch. My knowledge of Pokemon does not really expand past the original 150. For some reason, I feel like an idiot in front of my friends whenever they talk about it. It’s like being in a room where everyone speaks Russian and you only took one Russian class at the local community college when you were 18 and probably stoned at every class.

I don’t really have people around me who share my interests. I know I need to find new interests and hobbies, but I find it difficult when I’m working all of the time. I work so much and do so little because money is such a burden. If I had the money to just...take time off? I’d love to have fun! Day trips and vacations and nights out, oh my! But my idea of fun is reading a true crime novel and drinking coffee alone. I’m not into too many “group activities,” but that’s probably because I don’t fit into a group.

One day, I will find a group of people that I feel undeniably at home with. Until then, I’m reading this great book about Ted Bundy.

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talkingitout-blog2 · 4 years

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This must be it...

Welcome to the new year.

Every single year, I’m surprised by how the same I feel. It’s just another day. It’s like celebrating every time it hits midnight. But for some reason, it feels special in the moment.

I’ve chosen the path of aggressive positivity this year. 2019 sucked because I let it suck. I was negative all the time and didn’t look forward to shit. I downplayed every success and never celebrated. I was cautious and the threat of a new day loomed over my bed every night.

This year, I want to see the good in things. Find reasons to celebrate and be happy. I want to be able to look at everything around me and see the beautiful in it. I don’t want to continue to look at everything in my life through a weird garbage-toned lens. I’m about to be 28 and that’s way too close to 30 for me to be whining about everything.

This is going to be a trying year, financially. I have massive debts to pay off, including my student loans. I can’t default on those because wage garnishments would ACTUALLY kill me. I have to save for a trip across the country for a wedding that I have been waiting for for years (I love my friends so much). Life is getting more expensive and my job is only giving me a $0.58 raise. Don’t get me wrong, it’ll help. But I wish I was going to be making $28 an hour instead of my base rate of $17.25.

I’m thinking of getting a second job. I can’t possibly sustain my lifestyle with what I currently have and, unfortunately, I’m too selfish to give up certain aspects of my lifestyle.

My biggest budgetary hemorrhage is marijuana. I smoke a LOT of weed. I do it mostly for depression management. I also use it for anxiety and pain. My boyfriend smokes probably double what I do. We spend about $320-450 on week a month. This would easily pay off my electric bill and help me save for my trip if I could just cut it out of my life for a little bit. But it isn’t that easy.

I could easily stop. I would probably be a little less emotionally stable (think mood swings, not massive panic attacks). I might be a little more irritable at first. But I could absolutely manage. My boyfriend could manage, too. He’d be very irritable and, in turn, very angry. He would lash out over little things and, eventually, even himself out. But I’m too selfish to let him stop. I don’t want to have to put up with that. I love him so much and I want him to have everything that he wants/needs. I cater to him because I cannot think of another human being I want to spend my whole life with. But I can’t emotionally handle his irritability and anger. Our baggage is just a very incompatible set. But we put our baggage aside for one another.

We help each other through a lot of shit. He’s helped me stand up for myself and speak up when I need to. He’s taught me how to keep my composure during emotional moments and how to express myself without giving in to anxiety. I’ve taught him patience and how to react calmly. We work well because we don’t work well. It’s strange.

I love him. And I love myself. I love my dogs. I love my apartment. I love having a job. I love my co-workers. And I love that, even in times of struggle, we can trick ourselves into looking for the positives.

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talkingitout-blog2 · 4 years

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In Limbo

We’ve officially entered the time of year where there is no real purpose and, therefore, no real rules as to how to go about your daily life. The time between Christmas and New Years where nobody really has any motivation and we all just kinda stumble around until January strikes.

I love January. I love it for a lot of different reasons. It’s my birthday month (the 22nd), it’s the beginning of a new year. It’s the dead center of winter. Everyone is in a good mood and full of hope and ambition. It’s Aquarius season! There’s a lot to love about January.

There’s no real rule stating that January 1st is the time for new beginnings. I hate to buy into the “time is a social construct” ruckus, but it is. But I think it’s kind of cool that, all over the globe, people celebrate one day where their slates are wiped clean and they have the potential to be whomever or whatever they strive to be.

This year, I want to be a writer. I don’t really know what that means, but I have a real penchant for nebulous statements. I want to have a writing job by the end of the year. Or at least that’s what I think I mean. I know I have to send in my SNL packet this year. I put money on it. I don’t want to let my friends down. Especially if they’re willing to place bets on whether or not I’ll get my dream job (FYI, they all think I’ll get it).

I hope to write on SNL one day. I have the sleep schedule for it. I think I’d do well in NYC. I’d certainly learn to spoil myself in terms of eating out. There are so many exotic and new foods in NYC that I don’t really have a ton of access to here in LA. We have great Latin American foods. Don’t get me started on the pupusas at Grand Central Market!! We have awesome Korean food and really amazing Armenian restaurants. But NYC has the great Mediterranean, Asian, Eastern European, and African foods. I visited for a week and I didn’t even get to make a dent. The delis, my god, they have my heart forever. Don’t get me wrong, Canter’s will always be my beloved, but I’m a real slut for a good Kosher Dill.

Another thing I want to do this year is become a better cook. I got an Instant Pot for Christmas. The first thing I made was Macaroni and Cheese. It was...alright. But I think the cheese I used probably didn’t have the best flavor for what I was going for. Tonight, I am making pot roast with carrots, onions, and baby red potatoes. Hopefully I’ll make magic this time. Instant Magic!

While I’m waiting for the roast to cook, I figured I’d at least try to write something, I haven’t had the motivation the last couple of days. But if I want to be a writer, I have to write, motivation or no. The holidays have been depressing and I’ve been doing my best to stay on top of things. I finally got all of the dishes done. Now I have more counter space (to put my laptop while I cook) and my kitchen just looks cleaner.

My Christmas gift from my boyfriend was a 1.5 hour full-body massage. It was great. He really helped work some stuff out and, honestly, it felt nice to be touched. I don’t get touched very often. I have a strict no-touch rule with my co-workers. I don’t really have any friends. My boyfriend is the only one. And he isn’t an affectionate person. He very openly states that cuddling and hugging and compliments aren’t his things. Kinda the opposite of me. But I guess that’s why we work.

We had a quickie right after the massage. He said that rubbing my body for that long made him “kinda horny.” Admittedly, I was, too. It was, as previously stated, quick. It felt great. He didn’t cum. He rarely does anymore. I know it has to do with his pain threshold and stamina, but I can’t help but feel it has something to do with me. Either way, it’s selfish of me to take it personally.

I guess what I can say at the end of this post is that times are strange but we need to use this time to set ourselves on the right track, love the people around us, eat good food, drink good wine, and fuck when you wanna fuck. Here’s to 2020. May she be kinder than the previous decade.

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talkingitout-blog2 · 4 years

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Blue Christmas

I love the holidays. My favorite holiday is New Year’s Eve, with Thanksgiving coming in a very close second. I never cared much for Christmas until I got older.

The last few years have shown me the side of Christmas I never really knew. It showed me how happy it makes other people and how many people I love hold it dear. I’ve now experienced that cool feeling of giving a kid a gift and them immediately tearing it open to play with it. Shopping for Christmas trees, lighting the lights, baking cookies, etc. It all felt stupid and sentimental to me as a kid. As a grown-up, it feels kinda nice.

I really wanted this Christmas to be perfect. I wanted to be in the holiday spirit and to decorate the shit out of my house. I wanted to buy a small tree and have romantic nights under a cozy blanket. But it’s hard to really give it your all when not everyone involved is as committed to the bit.

My boyfriend very clear has Seasonal Depression. It strikes every year in late October and lingers until around my birthday (late January). It manifests in very obvious ways. He doesn’t leave the house. His showers become less frequent. He neglects household chores. He gets frustrated and asks me to do more around the house because I don’t make it enough of a “WE” effort. Which is fair, I guess. I work 40+ hours a week and I try to do at least three chores a week (mostly on my days off). I know I’m not doing nearly enough. But it’s always a little disheartening to hear.

This year has been nothing new. He’s been depressed since around Halloween. It’s just started getting bad. He doesn’t want to talk to me. He’s bored and easily agitated. Anytime I log onto this website he gets in his head about it. He thinks I’m writing about him. I am now, but I don’t normally. I worry about him whenever I’m at work. I know he’s fine and he’s a grown ass man who can take care of himself, but I’m afraid he can’t reach me if he needs me. Him not having a cell phone doesn’t help. But it’s not like I’m allowed to have my phone on me at work, anyway.

My problem is always wanting to make things better. Where things are is never good enough for me. I have to take it just a step further. When my boyfriend gets depressed, it feels like everything is worse for him and I can’t do anything to make it better. I become incapable of helping. Being incapable is not a good look on me. I get very frustrated and emotional and I can’t really control any of my emotions. I become an adult-sized toddler throwing a tantrum about something that she can’t verbalize. I get moody and, when I get called out for it, I legitimately do not know why I’m in such a bad mood. Hindsight is always 20/20. If only foresight was one of my talents.

I dote when I can’t make things better. I’d be a terrible mom. I become an enabler, thinking that giving them whatever they want will change the way they feel the world around them. It might be my most narcissistic quality. They are feeling bad and only I can be their hero in this moment. Only my actions will make things right. Nobody else exists in the moment but them and me. I drown out the world, and with it, my perspective.

I don’t want to enable. I don’t want to dote. I don’t want to be a school nurse. I want to have the “suck it up” mentality. I wish it were easy to just tell people how I really feel without concerning their emotions. People are exhausting. I’m exhausting.

One day, I will be able to speak clearly and with distinction in order to properly express my feelings in the moment. Today is not that day. Today, words fail me. And that’s a totally okay place to be. I recognize the problem. Now, I need take action.

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talkingitout-blog2 · 4 years

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Cleaning House

Today, I gathered an entire trash bag full of clothes for donation. I know that that’s something people do all the time. It’s the first time I’ve ever done it. Not only is it the first time where I am in a place to just give away clothes, it’s the first time I’ve been able to remove sentimentality from an object long enough to part with it.

I have a real hard time getting rid of things. I wouldn’t call myself a hoarder, though. My house is cluttered, but there aren’t piles of things lying around. My clutter is in cabinets and drawers. Saving things for when I need them, but I rarely ever need them. Junk drawer stuff is really easy to get rid of. Dishware and cutlery is equally easy. I can get rid of magazines and mail, no problem. The real things I struggle with are furniture, clothing, towels, shoes, and cards. Things with sentimentality. Things that are constant characters in your life. I hate looking at photos of myself and thinking, “Man, I wish I still had that shirt.”

But I put my feelings aside today and I gathered up enough to fill a garbage bag. I sealed it up tight and will take it to Goodwill on my next day off. Someone somewhere is going to benefit from all of my old t-shirts, hoodies, pants, and bras (never worn!!).

I was always the person who needed the charity. I was never in a place to give. Not only in my adult life, but in my childhood, too. We were always poor. I thought, growing up, I was going to become and adult and know how to manage my finances. I was going to get a good job and become rich. I was going to take care of my family and have a nice house with plenty of rooms and a library. Instead, I grew up to work a barely-above-minimum wage job. I went to theatre school (and got kicked out for not having enough money) and learned how to make ends meet. I discovered the wonders of medicinal marijuana and, as far as I’m concerned, kids aren’t going to be in the picture. I have a one-bedroom apartment in The Valley and a super cute dog with dental issues. The Universe had different plans for me. I’m never graceful when I’m wrong.

I don’t really know where life is taking me. I thought I was going to be a big, famous TV writer, but that fell through. I see the production company announcing shit like “big news coming,” and “marketing meetings went well!” I see nothing come from any of it. I doubt the show will ever get picked up. If it does, I will be both surprised and elated. But the writing staff has been kept in the dark about everything, so we can’t see any light at the end of the tunnel.

I know where I want to go in life. I don’t really want to say it out loud, or write it down. The Universe has a tendency to listen to my wishes and consider them open for interpretation. There’s no room for interpretation anymore. There’s only room for calculated moves. No room for clutter. Only room for what I want and need.

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talkingitout-blog2 · 4 years

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Prettiest

Growing up, my mother would sing a song.

“Prettiest girl in the whole wide world, Prettiest girl in the whole wide world, Prettiest girl in the whole wide world, That’s my [name redacted]”

The name redacted wasn’t mine. It was my younger sister’s.

I was six the first time I heard it. Old enough to know that having “-est” as a modifier at the end of an adjective meant that there was nothing and nobody in the world that was more [insert adjective here] than that person. There was nobody prettier than my sister. Not even me.

I remember telling my mom that I wanted to be the prettiest girl in the world. She turned red. She was embarrassed. I somehow embarrassed her by letting her know that her uglier daughter wanted to feel pretty, too. So she modified her lyrics.

“Prettiest girls in the whole wide world, That’s my [names redacted]”

As though adding me in as a footnote was what I was asking for.

Last night, I recounted the story to my father. Twenty one years later and I still remember what mom was wearing (a red nightgown). He laughed.

Of course I’m ugly, look at who my father is! It’s a joke I’ve heard my whole life. My long nose and buck teeth were all thanks to my dad. My frizzy hair, my glasses, my sloped shoulders were all proof that I was my father’s daughter. The only things my sister inherited from my dad were his height and extremely slender build. Genetics have a sense of humor.

But, but, but. But you’re smart! You’re independent! You have so much going for you. Your sense of humor is awesome. You’re dependable, trustworthy, blah blah blah. Why is it so hard for people to tell you that you’re not pretty? Anytime I bring up that I’m no fucking Cindy Crawford, people have a meltdown. Like not being beautiful is too hard for someone like me to handle. I have to all of a sudden think about all of the positives.

I realized a few months back that, no matter what, I will never be told I have a nice smile. It hasn’t happened in almost thirty years. It’s not going to start happening out of nowhere. But, somehow, it’s something I’ve always been dying to hear.

I would love to say that the compliments I’m given are pretty run of the mill for an uggo, but that would be a lie. For a compliment to be standard, it must first exist. I don’t get compliments. From loved ones, coworkers, strangers. Not even from my boyfriend (he hates compliments and thinks they’re weird).

I feel like a selfish prick anytime I get emotional over not receiving any compliments. But sometimes you need validation that you are a good person.

The way I see it, I can hear a voice in my head every single day for my entire life. It isn’t real until someone else tells me thy hear it, too. I look at myself every day. I brush my hair, I get dressed, and I live with myself. I tell myself all the wonderful things about me. I’m smart, I’m kind, I’m unique, blah blah blah. How does any of that matter if nobody else sees it? What good is it having a billion dollars if you hide it away from the world and never spend it on anything? I want my worth to be appreciated.

I spend almost every night wishing I was beautiful. Maybe people would like me more. Maybe I would have more friends or a better job. I don’t know what it feels like to be desired. I don’t know what “sexy” feels like. I tried it in the past. I tried being sexy and wearing makeup and lingerie. I mostly looked like a fool. This clunky, overweight body shoved into a lace teddy. The cups overflowed with my breasts. Nothing fit properly because I was too scared to admit I didn’t fit in a size that wasn’t plus sized. I was afraid to admit to myself that I was fat.

Being fat doesn’t bother me. I’ve always been fat. And not the kind of fat that makes you waddle or gives you a double chin. My arms are thick. My thighs touch when I walk. My breasts sag from their weight. I have a belly that sticks out but doesn’t hang over my waistline. My chin is soft and my cheeks are full. I’m what I would call overweight. But according to the marvels of modern medicine, I’m seen as “morbidly obese.” I’m categorized as such by the archaic BMI chart.

I weigh 233 lbs and stand 5′6″ on a good day. But I swear, my bones are just dense. I’ve always been heavy. I was even born heavy! I was 22 1/2 inches long and 10 lbs 11 oz. But I wasn’t fat. I was actually pretty lean. But the second people heard my weight, I was a “fat baby.” Just like now. I’m not that fat, but once people find out my weight, I’m massive.

So, by all accounts, I’m a heavy and unpretty baby with a weird complex about all of it. Maybe one day, someone will see past all of that. Maybe someday, someone will tell me that I have a nice smile. I think so.

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talkingitout-blog2 · 4 years

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Ends Not Meeting

I can never seem to manage my money correctly. I’m either way short for rent, so I have to drain my savings, or I’m way short for bills, so I ignore it until it becomes so big that its shadow clouds my subconscious, leaving me with a looming anxiety in the pit of my stomach, just waiting for the electricity to be cut.

My dad owes me money. My sister owes me money. I doubt I’ll ever see any of it. I was too generous is a time of need and trusted the least financially trustworthy people I know. I want to tell my boyfriend about all of it. Telling him would take this weight off of my chest. But then it becomes a shared burden. And I can’t burden him any more than I already have. It’s not like he can help the situation, anyway. We’re both financially drained.

He moved in about two months after we first started dating. I know it seems fast. It was fast. Way faster than I expected and, if I’m being honest, way faster than I had wanted. But he was on the cusp of street-living and I wasn’t going to let the guy I was falling for live out in the cold for the winter. Especially not with his small dog. So I let him move in. And it’s been amazing. I love living with my best friend. His dog and my dog get along so well. We have a little family. It’s more than I could have imagined myself having if you had asked me ten years ago.

He is disabled. I don’t know if he’s come to grips with this yet or not, but he is both physically and emotionally disabled. He hasn’t had a job since he moved in with me. For most people, this would be a deal-breaker. But I have a good job that pays for everything. Lately, though, it hasn’t been stretching as far as it normally does. Prices are going up and, unfortunately, my wages can’t keep up. So my financial inability is not his fault. Do I wish I had help? Or course I do! But, having grown up with someone who was similarly disabled, I know how painful and emotionally debilitating it can be. And my love overshadows my needs.

I grew up poor. Double-wide trailer in the middle of the California bible belt poor. There were 5 kids, 2 adults, 3 dogs, and 4 bedrooms. Dad worked as a bus driver on the weekdays and a limo driver on the weekends. Mom was disabled and, because of her inability to come to terms with his, abusive. My older brother was abusive. My siblings all lashed out differently. But we were all scarred by our upbringing. Scarred by mom’s abuse. Scarred by daily beatdowns. Scarred by dollar store dinners that didn’t come with seconds.

We are a product of our upbringing. But I refuse to be this specific product. I refuse to emulate and instead choose to rebuild. But these building blocks are heavy and dangerous on this shaky foundation. I need a hand to help me build. And I have the best hands to hold in times of need. I will rebuild my life into what I want it to be.

Helping hands come in all shapes and sizes. Unfortunately, we don’t choose what they help with. Some help with the heavy lifting, some help with project funding, and some help massage your shoulders after back-breaking work. I have helping hands in my life. I love my helping hands. But an extra pair would be appreciated. Anything would be appreciated.

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talkingitout-blog2 · 4 years

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Food Therapy

Today would have been my uncle’s 64th birthday. We lost him back in April.

Mom says that he had an accidental overdose that led to multiple strokes, causing him to fall into a coma he would never come out of. I think she’s trying to protect me. I think he killed himself.

He had been in pain for decades. When I was small, he had surgery to fuse the bones in his neck. The surgery was botched and left him in lifelong pain. After he remarried, he seemed happier. He laughed and played music with other people instead of holing up in his house, plucking out the same Stevie Ray Vaughan songs ad nauseam. But the pain was still there. No amount of happiness was going to change them.

When he started his catering company, I was sure he was gunning for the role of family patriarch. He took care of all of us. Whether that was feeding us, spending time with us, offering us jobs with his catering company, or in my case, sending us $150 grocery store gift cards when we call crying about not having enough money for food AND cold medicine.

When I got the call, I was at work. I actually got the text. Nobody thought it was as serious as it turned out to be. I promised I would come up on my day off to visit. Hopefully he would be awake by then.

I stood in the hospital room, staring at my uncle. He was stretched out on the bed, tubes and hoses coming out his nose, mouth, and throat. People tell you that, when you see people in this situation, they look nothing like the person they were before. He looked exactly the same. His eyes were very small and squinty, like my grandma’s. They were shut tight on the hospital bed. It looked like his eyes looked when he was laughing.

My uncle and I had the same sense of humor. Sarcastic and dry. It’s why we got along so well. We were always shooting barbs at our family members, and laughing twice as hard when they shot them back. We loved a good roast.

His skin against the white, starched hospital sheets was pink. Healthy, newborn baby pink. He hadn’t had this much color in his face in years. I thought to myself, “Wow, he looks great.” There was a sharp inhale. His jaw stretched to yawn. He tensed his neck muscles and threw his head back into the pillows.

“That happens, it’s involuntary. He’s not waking up.”

His new wife never liked me. She pretended to, only because she knew our relationship was strong. He wasn’t there anymore. She no longer had her shiny, pleasant veneer that made her somewhat agreeable. Her features were darker. Her sugar coating was dissolved by tears and hospital bills.

I went on Facebook after work one day after his “accident.” My cousin. She posted about having to say goodbye to a good man. She posted that she would always love her father. She posted that she would miss him. She posted his picture.

“Dad, did he die?” My dad hadn’t heard anything yet. He called grandma. Grandma hadn’t heard anything. Grandma called my uncle’s wife. She decided she wanted to take him off of life support. She hadn’t consulted with the family. She just...made up her mind.

I’ve always been indecisive. Making a decision requires a commitment that I’ll never be ready for. I’m too afraid of being wrong.

I called work. I told them to fuck off for a day or two.

My whole family sat in the hospital room. My grandpa, my grandma, staring at their first born son. My uncle’s, my dad, looking at their big brother. My siblings, unsure of what would happen next, frightened by the sight of our big, strong uncle so helpless and sedated. My uncle’s wife, drained of everything. My mother, sobbing to feel like part of the story. My uncle’s wife’s daughter, dressed head to toe in black with a wide brimmed, floppy hat and a jack-o-lantern purse, just happy to be involved.

I pull out my phone. “We should play the Beatles.”

Growing up, my uncle’s home was littered with Beatles memorabilia. I distinctly remember his collector’s edition copy of Yellow Submarine. They were everywhere.

“God, no. Play Stevie Ray Vaughan.”

My dad is almost never right. But he was this time.

As Stevie Ray Vaughan played in the room, I felt the absence of my cousin. She had said goodbye the night before. She couldn’t bear to be with the family when “it” happened. I couldn’t really blame her, but also, I could.

We shared stories. My uncle running his company, physically destroying a copy of Dumb & Dumber, taking my uncles and dad to concerts. The stories ran like liquor; enough to help us take the edge off, but not enough to make us forget the gravity of what was to come.

We each had our moment alone. I walked into the room from the hall, where the holding area was. The air flew from my lungs. The altitude shifted and suddenly the air was too thin to inhale. I fought the knot tangled in my throat as I choked on my breath. It was only me and him.

We used to go grocery shopping for the catering company. We would load up on decadent and expensive ingredients that were entirely unnecessary for the project at hand. But it was that quality that made cooking with him special. It was always a treat to play with new ingredients that we weren’t familiar with. We either delighted in the flavors and textures discovered, or laugh at how awful it was. We built recipes from nothing, each more unique and flavorful than the last. We made magic.

“I’m going to miss you so much.” I went down swinging as I lost the fight against my tears. My face was hot. My nose was running. I had never had the chance to say goodbye before. This was a chance I had screamed at God for every night.

I had lost so many people. My beloved aunt. My great grandmothers. My friends. My teachers. My role models. I had never been gifted the opportunity to say goodbye. And each time the moment passed without my engraved invitation, I grew angrier. Angry at God, angry at the world. I deserved a goodbye. At least one! Why hadn’t I been given the chance?

“I promise to take care of her.” My cousin was heavy on my brain. If this was dad, I would lose my mind. I couldn’t begin to imagine to pain she was feeling. The hollow place in her chest was probably screaming to be filled. I’ve felt that hollow place. It’s never screamed, but I bet it echoes.

I leaned forward and rested my head on his shoulder. I held his hand. For a man who lay dying, his hands were hot. I ran my thumb over his tattoo.

“What’s your tattoo mean?”

“I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

I pressed my forehead against him harder. I needed him to feel me there. I gently kissed his shoulder. The hospital gown was rough on my lips. He involuntarily jerked and yawned a second time.

“That happens, it’s involuntary.”

He didn’t know I was there. He couldn’t have. But in that moment, I saw a sign carried on the ether of the Universe and into the room. It was my message. It was telling me that this was my chance. I whispered, “Goodbye. I love you so much.” I kissed his shoulder once more.

When my hand grabbed the handle of the hospital room door, it was ice cold. My hand was still hot from my uncle’s tattooed hand. I wanted to go back and grab it once more, just to savor the feeling of his warm, alive hand one last time. But I had said goodbye. I couldn’t physically turn myself around to look again.

On my way to work today, I clutched my travel mug of coffee in my two hands. The city bus bounced and rocked as the driver exceeded the speed limit. My hands felt hot. I smiled.

To honor my uncle on what would have been his 64th birthday, I made dinner. I made tortellini with shrimp and snap peas, tossed in a light butter cream sauce. The flavor were bold and appealing. The shrimp were briny and the peas were fresh and offered a light crunch. The tortellini was perfectly cooked.

Today, for the first time since goodbye, I made magic.

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