Category Archives: Personal Life

After the Storm: The Hidden Scars Within

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It’s been three weeks since I’ve had my car accident. The bruises on my abdomen have faded into near oblivion, and the welts on my arms are completely gone. You wouldn’t know I was in an accident if you were to look at me*. The soreness is nearly gone as well, and I’m going to taiji classes again. These are all good things, obviously, but they are also part of the problem I’m having in dealing with the aftermath. You see, since I’m mostly back to pre-accident form, my brain has a hard time accepting that I recently suffered a serious impact. Let me explain. I’ve been getting back into doing my taiji routine every morning. About a week and a half ago, I did the whole thing including the weight set, thinking I was ready for it. I was not. I was wiped out, so I started paring back. Looking back, I was too optimistic because I felt basically the same as I had before the accident. “Hey, I’m not too sore. I’m not too achy. I’m about about eighty-percent. I can do everything I used to do!”

Well, I can, but then I pay the price afterwards. The good news is that I immediately recognized I couldn’t just do what I  used to do, pretending the car accident never happened. I didn’t soldier on with my morning routine, gritting my teeth through the exhaustion. This is what I would have done before I started studying taiji. I have perfectionistic tendencies, believing that I either have to do something one-hundred percent or not at all. I’m getting better by telling myself that, hey, if you do seventy percent, that’s still better than doing nothing, but it’s not hard to chastise myself for not doing it all. It’s doubly frustrating because it’s the sword practice that wears me out. My favorite part of taiji, and I have to cut back on it. Normally, I have a metal sword I use, but I’ve had to switch to my crappy wooden one because the metal one is too heavy right now. It’s ironic because before the accident, I was looking into buying an even heavier metal sword because my current one was becoming too light. Also, before the accident, I was starting to do the (metal) sword with wrist weights. Can’t do that any longer, either. If I do my pared down routine in the morning before a class, I can only do one full Sword Form in class before getting tired. In a few of the classes I’ve been to since my accident, my teacher wanted us to do two full forms. The first time, I was wiped after one and sat out the second. The second time, I did half the second form. The third time, I did both all the way through, but was exhausted afterwards.  In addition, I have picked up the sabre exactly twice since the accident. It’s wood and heavier than my sword. It felt as if I were waving around ten pounds, and it was arduous. By the time I finished (and I only know two-thirds of the form) it the second time I tried it, I knew I wasn’t doing that again any time soon.

I hate feeling weak and frail. Part of the reason I started taiji was to feel strong, and it’s discouraging that I’ve regressed. Even though I know it’s understandable given the circumstances, i still get frustrated when I have to scale down my morning routine because I just can’t do it all. In addition, I was cleaning the fridge with my mom a few nights ago, and it took roughly an hour. I’ve done it by myself in the past with little problem. In fact, I would sing as I did it, maybe do a little dance or two. And since I normally clean at midnight, I’d be topless because naked cleaning is the best. This time, though, by the time I was done, I was dizzy and wiped out for the rest of the day. I half-wish I had physical reminders of my accident,** because right now, it’s too easy to gaslight myself. “It’s not that bad.” “You don’t have any broken bones or even anything sprained.” “You should be able to do everything now since you got off so lightly.” Intellectually, I know that I experienced a physical trauma, but it’s hard to accept it emotionally. I will give myself credit for not pushing myself to the point of harm, let alone past it, but I’m beating up myself too much for not being able to do more.


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My Car Accident: My Life Did Not Flash Before My Eyes

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I was in a car accident Friday night. My life did not flash before my eyes, but it’s one of the most surreal experiences I’ve ever had. I was on my way to taiji class, driving on a local road at about 30 mph. I was alert, scanning the road as I drove. As I was passing the entrance to the highway, I saw a blur hurtling at me. I tried to veer away from it and/or brake, but once I realized I was going to get hit, I relaxed. Time slowed down to a crawl, and there was a whistle in my ear. A second later, pain exploded in my chest such as I’d never felt before. For a second, I couldn’t breathe, but I never lost consciousness. Time sped up to normal again, and I was sitting in a pile of smoke with deployed airbags–which is what caused the pain in my chest. There was a burning smell in the air, and all I could think is, “Damn. I’m going to miss taiji class.” Shock does funny things to the brain, don’t let anyone tell you it doesn’t. I felt like I was watching the whole thing happen until the airbags hit me, and then I was jolted back into my body.

I was preternaturally calm after it happened. I’ve been known to freak out over the littlest and stupidest thing, but when it comes to a true crisis, I get very calm. Again, it’s probably partly shock, but it’s also the way my brain is wired. All the extraneous bullshit just melts away, leaving my mind focused. I stepped out of the car and heard a very kind passerby asking if everyone was OK. He had called the police and let us know they were on their way. Thank you, kind stranger, for being a good guy in that moment. I really appreciate it. The other driver was a young girl of South Asian descent. She was hysterical, and I felt weirdly protective of her. She kept saying her dad was going to kill her, and I patted her on the back and told her to take some deep breaths and that it would be OK. She asked me if I was OK, saying she didn’t see me. She added that her dad needed the car for work and now he couldn’t go and it was all her fault. She also had a young man in the car with her, and I realized that she was probably talking to him as she was speeding home to get the car to her father. She probably almost passed by her turn and then yanked to the left at the last moment. She was not slowing down at all when she hit me, and I can’t tell you how it felt to stare at 2,000 pounds hurtling at me, helpless to do anything about it. I tried to stop; I tried to swerve, but it all happened so fast–even though it felt like time had stopped. There was absolutely nothing I could do, and in the instant before I was hit, I just accepted that. “I am going to get hit. There is nothing I can do.” This passed through my brain in a flash, and I relaxed as she plowed into my car.

I realize that I’m repeating myself, but it’s my way of dealing with the situation. It’s still hard to believe this happened to me, even though it’s been a few days. My parents are in town, so I called them immediately after it happened. Then, I texted my taiji teacher to let her know I was going to miss class because of the accident. After that, I talked to the cops who’d just come, and they were courteous and helpful. The officer said, “You were driving down the street and she turned into you? Is that what happened, ma’am?” I said it was, and later, he told me the other driver had been cited for a failure to yield. I DM’ed Ian to let him know what happened, then my parents showed up. They had gotten a ride from a friend of theirs, and they were understandably freaked the fuck out. More so than I was, honestly. Again, shock and my weird ability to be calm in the worst situations carried me through the situation. The police officer asked if I wanted a ride to the hospital, but i declined. I felt fine, I insisted. Then, when I got into my auntie’s* car, my ribs hurt like a motherfucker and took my breath away. I reluctantly decided I should go to the ER, and she drove us there.


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Mental Taiji in the Everyday World

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Ed. Note: This actually happened yesterday, but I didn’t finish writing it  until late last night. I polished it up today before posting. Enjoy.

I did something stupid today. I went to fill up the gas tank at my local gas station. Like most people, I have a routine I follow when I do this. I put my keys in my purse, release the catch on the gas tank, pull out my credit card, then insert my card in the machine so I can fill my tank. I like that I can do everything outside and don’t have to go to the counter to pay. Simple, right? For some reason, though, I deviated from this routine. It started out the same. I put the keys in my purse and pulled out my credit card, but then I took the purse out with me and locked the doors (I usually leave them unlocked). I looked at my purse, wondering why I had taken it out, so I put it back in the car and shut the door. I filled the gas, and then–

I’m sure the astute among you can already foresee the problem. When I turned back to my car, I saw that my doors were locked. My purse was on the front seat–with the keys in it. And my cellphone. I realized that the only thing I could do was walk home which was a mile away, get my spare car key, and walk back. I have a lock box with a spare key in it on my front door, so that wasn’t an issue. Clutching my credit card in my hand, I started walking home, mentally kicking myself over my stupidity. How the hell could I do something that dumb? I fill the gas all the fucking time with no problem, so I have no idea why I fucked it up today. After two or three minutes of yelling at myself (in my head), I turned my focus on solving the problem, rather than beating myself up over it. I told myself to think of it as mental taiji as I walked home.

Let me say that I am grateful it was a coolish day with a light sprinkle because I hate heat. Even so, I was aware that I was wearing my sandals which are supposed to be walking sandals, but really aren’t, and that I was sweating profusely. One reason I hate walking/running is because I sweat like a pig. By the time I got home, I was drenched. I had also encountered a gaggle of Canadian geese, and they hissed at me as I dared walk on THEIR sidewalk to get by them. I moved to the street because Canadian geese are assholes, and I made it home without further incident.

When I got home, I rummaged through the drawer where I keep the spare car key. It wasn’t there. I freaked out a bit as I tore through it again. It still wasn’t there. I opened the drawer next to it, and there was a key that looked like a car key, but it didn’t look like my actual car key which has a black rubber thing on its ‘head’. I called my brother to see if he had any advice, and he said to call the police to jimmy the door, but I didn’t want to bother them over something relatively trivial. He said I could call a locksmith, too, which I felt more comfortable with. I asked if he had a slim jim, which he did, but he was three hours away from me, so that wasn’t an option. He was pretty sure the key I had was a replica spare key, but I found the number of a locksmith to take with me on my walk back just in case.


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Truly, Madly, Deeply: R.I.P., Alan Rickman

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I woke up to the news that Alan Rickman was dead. Ian had messaged me as I slept, and it was a shock when I looked at my social media and saw the dozens of well-wishes and condolences. Immediately, I went into denial. No, Alan Rickman was not dead–how could he be? How could my one true love* be dead? I read link after link, but it still seemed surreal. He had been fighting cancer–fuck cancer, by the way–and today, he lost that fight. Once I accepted it was true (on the surface, I don’t think I’ve fully accepted it yet), I cried. Full-on cried. I have had a crush on Alan Rickman for such a long time, and even though I knew he was older than I by twenty-five years, I had hoped that he’d be with us for many years to come.

I am not one to crush out on celebrities. Don’t get me wrong. I think there are hot actors such as Kate Winslet, Gina Torres, Helen Mirren, Ewan McGregor, Daniel Dae Lewis, and Idris Elba to name a few. I’ve drooled over Christina Hendricks and Salma Hayek and Michael Fassbender, not to mention (please, I’d really prefer you didn’t) all those carefully-tressed hair metal bands of the eighties. But, I’ve never cared much about them in real life, not to be rude about it. I’d read about them and be interested in what they have to say, but mostly, I just enjoyed looking at them and watching them/listening to them do their thing. Alan Rickman was different, for whatever reason. The first thing I really noticed him in was Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets (though I was first attracted to Jason Isaacs, as you can see in this review. Please also note that even that early, I was pretty sure Snape was a good guy, and, yes, I’m tooting my own horn), even though I’d seen him before–including in the first Potter movie. He’s not typically handsome, and appreciating him takes time. There’s something about viewing the movie more than once, especially the scene in which he’s spelling that ponce played by Kenneth Branagh, that made me hot for him. It’s weird because he had that goofy wig on, but something about the voice and the masterful way he wielded his wand made me instantly smitten with him. Just below is a video with all his scenes from the movie, which is the way I watch a lot of his movies, tbh. He’s been in many shitty movies, but he’s always tackled each role with gusto and verve.


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Top 10 Things You Won’t Believe Made Me Cry, Gasp, and Laugh in 2015

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It’s the last day of 2015, which is surreal to me. Where the hell has this year gone? Looking back, it seems as if so much has happened, and yet, so little. On a social media level, I’ve pulled back from talking about politics as much and have mostly stuck to posting cute cat GIFs and videos, joking with friends, and occasionally bringing up a topic of interest that might or might not be political. I’ve come to the conclusion that social media is not the best medium for political discourse because of the inherent restrictions, and I haven’t regretted not being as politically involved as I used to be. Concerning my writing, I am pleased that I’ve gotten back into the habit of writing on a daily basis. I used to do that effortlessly, and then I stopped writing entirely for roughly a year. There were several reasons for it, and while it made sense at the time, it made me sad because writing is as necessary as breathing to me. I’ve said before that I write, therefore I am, and that’s never been more evident than in the time when I wasn’t writing.

I’m proud that I was able to stick to my goal of writing a post every day in the month of December (assuming that I’ll finish this one, which I will), even if most of the posts were filled with rambling thoughts that didn’t make a cohesive whole. One of my issues is that I’m a perfectionist, which means I’ll quit if I don’t think something is good enough. The problem with that is I rarely think anything I do is ‘good enough’, so I usually can talk myself out of publishing a post that isn’t word-perfect. I have several posts sitting in my drafts folder, languishing, because I refuse to touch them again. By publicly declaring that I would publish a post a day, I forced myself to write posts that I otherwise wouldn’t have. It’s silly that I have to put such artificial constraints on myself in order to make myself publish, but it worked, so I can’t be that mad about it.

I’ve realized that I still have trouble writing and publishing posts that I consider inflammatory, but I managed to do it, even if I had to lock one of the posts in order to do so. I accept that I have to create reasons for myself to do things I want to do, but won’t for one reason or the other. I’m not happy about it, but I will continue doing it if it means I actually get shit done. I mentioned in a previous post that I want to write and edit one or two trilogies in the next year as long as an anthology of short stories, so my short-term goal concerning those will be to finish the first book of each trilogy in January, at least the rough draft. One is already done, and I have about fifty more pages of the other before it’s done as well. Depending on how that goes, I’d also like to finish the first drafts of all the stories I want to write for my anthology, but I think I may need more than a month to do that. I don’t want to set myself up for failure, but I also don’t want to stop pushing myself when it comes to writing.


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A Sisyphean Task

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I wrote yesterday about some of my mental health issues that I want to work on in the new year, but the post devolved into me navel-gazing yet again. To continue with that musing, I’ve been thinking about boundaries. In yesterday’s, post, I talked about how difficult it is for me to set boundaries, and today I want to talk about how that extends to my brain as well. I know that sounds confusing, but just stay with me, and I’ll explain to you what I mean.

In my family, my father was big on saving face and not losing face. How he was seen by other people was of utmost importance, and he had this elaborate and byzantine set of rules as to what was acceptable behavior and what wasn’t. The one example that I use over and over again because it was so bizarre to me at the time is when I told a friend of his that he was playing tennis. I didn’t say with someone else, but that part is pretty implicit in the statement. My father blew his lid when he got home and I gave him the message. He was mad because me telling the one woman that he was playing tennis with someone else was somehow insulting to the woman who had called. My father didn’t bother explaining, but later I figured out that he thought it made him look like a jerk for not inviting the woman to play tennis with him. I didn’t understand it at the time, and decades later, I still don’t think I did anything wrong. However, the overreaction of my father made me chary of giving out any information to anyone lest I provoke the same reaction again.

To this day, I tend to hoard information rather than share it, even if it’s appropriate. My father had effectively drummed into me that you don’t tell–well, anyone anything. My mother reinforced this notion, but for an entirely different reason. If I tell her something, she’ll tell everyone or she’ll take over the idea as if it were her own. She has a way of making me feel incompetent, even when she’s purporting to be supportive. By her taking something over, it says to me that I’m not capable of doing whatever the thing is or that I need to be propped up. I know that’s not her intent, but it’s the practical result. I also know that it’s partly her need to be in control, which I’ve inherited in spades, although it manifests in a different way. In fact, my hoarding of information is one of the ways I try to be in control. If I’m the only one with knowledge, then other people can’t act in ways I can’t control.

Another thing that complicates the problem is that because I’m aware of most of my issues, I am constantly second-guessing my reaction to situations. I know I’m needy and clingy, even if it doesn’t always manifest outwardly, so if I feel slighted in a situation, I automatically think it’s all my fault. Sometimes, it is my neurosis talking, but other times, it’s a valid response. However, I’ve been told all my life that I’m overreacting or that what I feel isn’t really what I feel, so now, I’m hopelessly mixed up as to the proper response to a given situation. It’s similar to how I used to not express my opinion at all, then I went in the opposite direction and expressed my opinion all the time. Now, I’m realizing that it isn’t always important to have the last word, but simultaneously, it is important to not stuff down my feelings and opinions all the time, either. I already feel as if my opinion doesn’t matter, so keeping them to myself reinforces that feeling. It doesn’t help that as an Asian American and being bisexual, my opinion actually doesn’t matter to many people who are caught up in the binaries of black and white, straight and gay.


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Taking Out the (Emotional) Trash

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I tackled the concrete things in my life I want to do in the next year in my last post, and now I want to focus on the mental health issues that I want to work on in the upcoming year. This is more difficult because I can’t simply say, “I will set better boundaries three times a day–” Hey, wait. I actually probably could do that. It’s just a matter of discerning what boundaries I want to set and then do it. Yeah, that’ll be easy. A better example is, “Just stop thinking negative thoughts about yourself all the time.” OK, yeah, I’ll get right on that. I’ll just eradicate the thoughts that have been in my brain for nearly forty years like that. I”m snapping my fingers in case you’re wondering. That’s where the ‘write down concrete steps’ comes in, but so much of the advice for combating negative thoughts is horseshit. “Just replace the negative thoughts with positive ones.” The problem with that is I feel as if I’m lying when I say positive affirmations about myself. I can’t tell myself I’m beautiful because that is just patently false*. I can’t tell myself that I’m worthy of love because I don’t know what that even means. The few positive things I can say about myself–I have nice hair and eyes, that I’m smart and creative–I can’t even take any credit for them. I was born with them, and while you could argue that it’s up to me to use my creativity and my intelligence to my best ability, I was still born with them.

The other problem is that some of my best attributes are also my worst problems. I’m empathetic and have a knack for getting people to open up to me, which is ostensibly a good thing. I can hear you saying, “What’s the downside to that?” The downside is that sometimes, it’s more about appearances than actually caring about the other person. I’ve explained before that I need to be seen as a caring individual, which is partly why I exert myself in such a fashion, but there’s also a part of my brain that says, “This might be the only positive interaction this person has all day. Don’t fuck it up!” Again, it’s part of my training from childhood that I feel responsible for everyone else’s feelings. Logically, it’s self-aggrandizing to think that if I don’t respond to someone’s tweet or I don’t follow up on a person telling me s/he’s had a bad day, I’m sending that person into an irrevocable death spiral. Emotionally, it’s how I feel. I’ve been trying to work on it, but it’s not easy. Especially since showing concern and asking questions is like breathing air to me.

The thing is, I feel like a hypocrite when I do this and I’m not feeling it. It’s gotten me in trouble when people think we’re closer that we actually are. For all my caring and empathy, I have a coldness at the core of me. I have very few close friends in real life, and I like it that way. I prefer spending most of my time alone with my two cats. They’re enough companionship and sometimes, they can be too much when they’re being especially bratty. Despite my array of issues, I’m comfortable in my head,** and I can entertain myself endlessly. I don’t want to go out every night, and even when I have something planned that I know I will enjoy, I have to talk myself into actually leaving the house.


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New Year’s Resol–

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I don’t make New Year’s resolutions because I have enough opportunities to flagellate myself year-round without the added pressure of being aware I haven’t lost twenty pounds in two weeks, am more likely to be killed by a terrorist shooting lightning bolts out of his fingers than I am to get married,* and my chances for winning an Edgar Award are slim to none. In addition, in our gotta-have-it-now society, it’s easy to think if you don’t succeed in the first month, you might as well give up for the whole year. A few years back, I decided it was better to set goals than to make resolutions, and ‘they’ say it’s actually better to set concrete goals with discrete steps than to just say, “I want to lose a hundred pounds”, but it still didn’t spur me to actually meet the goals on my list. The last week or so, I’ve been thinking a lot about missed opportunities this year, and I’ve decided to revisit the idea of setting goals for next year. Some of them are concrete, such as losing weight (or inches in my case) and publishing a novel, but others are more nebulous like setting better boundaries and not being so hard on myself.

I’ve been reading some of my unfinished (and finished but not completely edited) novels, and they’re pretty good. They’re unique just by the dint of the protagonists being Taiwanese American bisexual women** like me. Toni Morrison said:

If there is a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, you must be the one to write it.

This is why I started writing prose in the first place, and I resent anyone who tells me that my writing is too niche or that I shouldn’t always write about Taiwanese American bisexual women.

But I digress. My point is that my novels have some value just because my protagonists are not ones you see every day or at all, really. Beyond that, my writing is solid. I write mostly mysteries, and I have a good sense of pacing and characterization. My dialogue is pretty spot on, and I’m really good at planting false, but believable clues. I’m weak on description–I hate scenery with a passion, and I sometimes bog down my writing with too much minutia. Still. I find I can breeze through one of my mysteries and still be engrossed in it. I’ve also notice that I’ve been writing different versions of essentially the same story for several novels. I’m currently working on two different trilogies–I like trilogies for some reason–and I’m trying to decide which one is better. Also, more palatable for a wider audience.

When I write a trilogy, I usually have some idea of the second and maybe the third as I near the end of the first, which is good because I can then go back through the first novel and plant seeds for the second and third. When I write a novel, I have the general outline in my head before I even start writing. Mostly. Usually. I don’t outline on paper because I find it to be a waste of my time. If I’m going to write something down, it’s going to be the actual novel. I usually know who the killer is from the very start, though I have changed the villain in a novel once or twice while writing it. Lately, I’ve been toying with the idea of having a different protagonist for each novel in the trilogy, and in an earlier trilogy, I was going to kill off the protagonist of the second novel.


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The Two Faces of Depression

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It’s the day before Christmas, which means the end of the year, which means I’m starting to think of all I haven’t accomplished in the past year. Again. There are two times I do this in a concentrated way, one is my birthday, and one is at the end of the year. Both are grim times, and even though they’ve gotten better over the years, some years they hit harder than others. This, apparently, is one of those times. It’s sad, too, because I really wasn’t expecting it. I used to hate and dread Christmas, but this year? I was cruising along, not giving a damn. Then, about a week ago, I started noticing that I was becoming testier and that my thoughts were turning darker. I say testier and darker because I’m always testy and my thoughts are usually dark, but there was a marked downward turn. If you’ve never experienced depression, it can be difficult to understand. “Hey, Minna, if you notice that you’re starting to feel depressed, why not just do something to prevent it from happening?”

Believe me, if I could, I would. Nothing is more frustrating than realizing that I’m slipping in a depression and feeling helpless to stop it. Correction–it was worse when I’d start feeling depressed, but didn’t realize that I was tumbling into the abyss. The world would turn gray, and all the colors drained from my life*. I’d start thinking about everything I hate about myself, and before I knew it, I’d be inert on the couch. Back then, I had voices in my head all the time, one in particular. I called him The Dictator because he was so rigid and unyielding. He was absolutely ruthless in crushing any whit of self-esteem that I had. There were lesser voices in my head as well that I thought of as his minions, and they did his bidding 24/7. The Dictator was so real to me that I could almost see him. He fed me a steady stream of negativity until it was all I could think. “You’re worthless.” “You’re fat.” “You’re ugly.” “You’re gross.” “You should die.” “Nobody loves you.” “Nobody should love you.” The worst part was that he knew my weaknesses so well, he would sprinkle enough truth in his statements to make me believe him. “You’re so needy and clingy” would preface “no one will ever love you”, and because the former is true, it was hard for me to deny the latter.

I know it’s weird for me to talk about him as if he’s an entity outside of myself, but it’s how I felt at the time. I had this intruder in my brain, and he ruled my brain with an iron fist. I believed everything he said and allowed him free reign of my mind until my last therapist finally got me to talk about him. I’m making it seem cut-and-dried, but it was anything but. I didn’t know this person lived in my brain, much less that he had absolute control over my thinking until after many years of working with my last** therapist. With patience, she was able to tease out that I had this complex system of shoulds and shouldn’t, what I had to do and what I couldn’t. There were stupid things such as if I looked at a clock and it was on the quarter hour, I had to count to twenty-five. When my therapist heard about that one, she asked what would happen if I didn’t. I started to answer, but i couldn’t because I had never thought of refusing. I just automatically did it. I don’t know how it even started, but it soon became a hard and fast rule that I had to do it. After my therapist asked me that question, I consciously stopped myself from counting in that situation. At first, it was uncomfortable and I counted more often than not, but I was able to break the habit. Now, I only start counting if I’m really stressed, and I rarely finish.


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