Every person has one piece of art that they identify with so deeply that it becomes their major inspiration. For me, this movie is it. I have a VHS copy as well as a DVD copy. I watched this movie over and over again–so much that my little brother (who adored me when he was toddler and wanted to do everything I did) and I were able to play out the entire movie, line for line.
While the movie in its entirety is wonderful in itself, the scene that drew me in was the moment Danielle asked her step mother whether she’s ever loved her at all. The step mother’s response? “How can anyone love a pebble in their shoe?”
We drove to Town Clerk’s office yesterday to apply for a marriage license. We picked up our license this morning and tomorrow evening, a Justice of the Peace will be signing that document with us.
It’s all happening really, really fast.
In the past month, after we first formulated the plan for marriage, I’ve had a lot of time to consider how I really wanted to go about this. See, for the “longest time”, I’ve always just knew that I wanted a wedding, a dress, and a group of people I loved.
It was only when the idea of marriage became a reality rather than a fantasy that I realised: I don’t want any of those things.
First, what is a wedding but an expensive waste of time and money? I was never the type to enjoy throwing parties. And when I got to do some brief research into venues and receptions, one of the most inexpensive places was still charging $250 a plate.
My dress. I recall the time I spent $300+ of my parents’ money on my grad (Canadian prom) dress when I was 17. It made me feel beautiful, like Cinderella.
I still have that dress. I still love that dress and I still treasure the feeling it gave me, but the point is that I was seventeen. I tried it on when I was 23… I felt ridiculous.
At twenty-eight years old, my dreams and goals have changed. I’m no longer a girl who would be excited at the thought of donning a beautiful gown. I feel beautiful in sweat pants and a t-shirt. I still have gorgeous, fancy dresses, but I have them because I like to wear them for various occasions, but they hold no sway or power over me. I found my sense of beauty within myself.
It helps, too, to have a person who thinks you are beautiful all of the time.
The group of people I love? As I grew older, the number of people I love and care about have dwindle down to a select few.
In my younger years, I sought a sense of belonging in my friends. I was desperate to belong to a group of people who I could identify with. I was desperate to be understood.
Back then, I would have wanted all these people to bear witness to my happiness. Now? My sense of self has become more solid. I have an identity all on my own and the need to belong departed with my youth. Now the thought of a group of people bearing witness to my happiness feels intrusive. I feel that even though I love these people, my happiness is my own and I wish to keep it my own.
Calling a list of Justice of the Peace people the other day–more than half the people I spoke to expressed surprise, and then judgement, when I announced that I would be having an informal, practical ceremony. Is it really that uncommon these days? Or am I simply living in an area that is not progressive enough?
So far I have only told my family and one close friend of our plans. It was more out of respect for them than out of the need to share. I felt that it wouldn’t matter to me what they thought..
But then my mother responds to my email and tells me that she is happy. In the email she’s attached photos of a jewelry box she purchased for my wedding gift. The words wedding gift broke me. This simple sentiment from my mother–who has a difficult time expressing love–drove me to happy tears.
And now here I am, posting a long, gif-tastic post about nothing in particular. Except that tomorrow, I will be married.
On Thursday, I met with doctors at Planned Parenthood and paid out of pocket for a medical abortion. The entire session lasted 1.5 hours. They gave me a quick video to watch, took some blood test, and then gave me an ultrasound.
The embryo looked like a small kidney bean.
The doctor administered the abortion pill in the session, then sent me home with the 2nd set of pills for me to take on Friday. I left the clinic feeling nauseous.
I keep waiting for a sense of loss to come over me, but there is nothing. I was told not to have vaginal intercourse (to prevent risk of infection) for at least 2 weeks. All I can think about now is how badly I want to have sex.
Jamie, who was ever stoic before the process, told me the other night that he was “not sad, exactly, but something.” I’m not sure what to make of that. He asked me if I felt sad. I said no, because I really didn’t. I feel relieved.
There is something different between us and can’t put a finger on what it is. Now I wonder if he would’ve liked to discuss it more before we went through with it. Perhaps he is not as logical as he had always hoped he was.
Disclaimer: Nothing is physically wrong with me (that I know of). I’m not physically ill.
I am reading about narcissism and co-dependency. It’s possible that a lot of the crap I’m reading online is garbage. The only way for me to find out is if I talk to a therapist. But even then I feel like it’s a lot of baloney. Who uses “baloney” anymore.
The symptoms listed of being in a relationship with a narcissistic person are very relate-able to me. It terrifies me that I can identify with it. But if it walks like a duck and it quacks like a duck, does it really mean it’s a duck? Could be a goose, right?
I’m scared and I don’t know who to talk to. I question other people’s opinions by default. There is no single person I trust enough because not one single person can possibly have the absolute authority to just know. Therapists are still regular people. Just because they studied brain functions and human behavior, it doesn’t exactly make them experts on human emotion.
Even the terminology itself is disgusting. Personality Disorder. Really? Who coined that? What kind of a prick would come up with such a phrase to label other people who think and feel differently than they do?
I’m stuck between asking for help and sucking it up.
I finally started it. All the random memories, along with the feelings associated with them, are now being recorded on virtual paper.
It’s something I was afraid of doing before. I was afraid of being absolutely honest even when it was to no one in particular. The fear of offending someone else’s sensitivities gave me pause.
But I’m ignoring all of that now.
I finished the series a best friend got me for Christmas. The Legend Trilogy by Marie Lu. Not the best writing I’ve ever come across, not even the best story. It wasn’t terrible enough for me to just abandon reading half way through. The ideas it put forth was familiar and the execution of it was admirable. I just didn’t feel sympathetic to the story or the characters–and I generally grow attached to books that CAN make me feel something.
I started another series that I came across while shopping for Steak. The book aisle at Stop & Shop is directly facing the meats. Miss Peregrine’s Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs. Now this book is more up my alley. It’s horrifying at times and it reads as it the author drew the story from genuine feeling. The writing is fluid and the story enjoyable. There are certain areas of the book where it feels like a heavy-handed plot device inserted to get the characters from point A to point B, but it doesn’t distract enough from the story itself.
My family. How do I explain this? I changed my facebook profile photo to one of my younger self propping up my baby brother. The only comments this drew were from my mother and my aunts.
My mother: “You miss your brother.” What she’s really trying to say is that I don’t miss her.
My other aunt: “Good! Now when you come back you should continue to love your brother oh!” ……………
Why is my choice of living in a separate area from family viewed as desertion? Why am I accused of loving my family less simply because I live in a different area from them? The idea of what “family” means for my Chinese relatives prevents them from understanding this, but their lack of decorum is preventing them from keeping their thoughts to themselves.
There is nothing like being guilt tripped by one Chinese mother. I’m being guilt tripped by multiple because apparent my mother’s sisters all band together when it comes to their children’s wrong-doings. Let’s quadruple the guilt power, shall we?