November 16, 2022

The Soundtrack of My Life – 39 – Chop Suey

I am a rage monster. There is no other way to describe it. At some point in my life I was told, or decided, that showing any emotion other than rage was a sign of weakness. So whatever I may be feeling I re-route into that. The one exception is whenever I feel happy. Yet, at times, even then it pops it’s head up.

My husband has expressed repeatedly that the only thing he wants for or from me is to find a healthy way in coping with my anger. And I genuinely try. I am very self-aware that my anger effects those around me. Trust. I am fully conscious of the mood shift around me, because then I become even more angry from the shame I feel ruining everyone’s time. And I won’t allow myself to feel shame, so it fuels the rage. It’s this horrible cycle that, once I am caught in the spiral, I cannot get myself out.

One of my healthy coping mechanisms is to go for a walk but most of the time I am trapped in situations that do not facilitate that type of exercise. More often than not my husband wouldn’t allow it anyway because his choice is to talk it out. Every time. I have mildly adapted to it, but when he’s constantly with the brother-husband who gets uncomfortable being around the uncontrollable anger, it makes it way worse.

It’s gotten increasingly worse since my mother passed. I attribute it’s meteoric rise to me not managing the emotions attached with that loss. What really messes with my head is that in the wake of her death I actually feel more relief than anything, which makes me feel like a fucking monster. Then that throws more fuel into the rage-fire.

I have a therapist that I speak with about every other week. I sit there and gab on-and-on about everything that’s happening but I’m usually not angry at 9 A.M. Rest is something that soothes the overwhelming emotions. So, the opportunity I have to discuss it is lost. I either forget and get so caught up in “getting current” that it is never addressed. In the very rare moments I have brought it up, he wants me to work on “exercising.” Girl… I love the therapy trope, but that isn’t an option for me. Once I get home after work I immediately jump into caring for my husband. Sneaking off to the gym for a quite “sesh” on the elliptical isn’t doable without relying on a brother-husband/part-time caretaker who is already frazzled.

When looking at how my life has played out the last three years, my anger is “justified.” At the very least, understood. However, how I choose to or choose not to handle it is not. I am a monster and I am making everyone’s life miserable. I feel like Tia Pepa in Encanto. I’m always a monsoon.

This isn’t anything new. Like I said, somewhere I learned this habit. I don’t know when or where, and I have tried to look. Regardless of it’s origin I have to stop. I just don’t know how.

Music is one outlet I work through emotions. It can be healthy, but other times it also devolves into self-harm. This song, Chop Suey, being one prime example.

This song ushered in my true goth phase. On the heels of my break-up with Sergio, I had gotten really close with my friend Greg. Really close. At school, I was a Junior and he was a freshman and I moved my lunch so I could hang out with him. When we weren’t at school we talked for hours on the phone every day. For spring-break he accompanied my parents and I to Lake Tahoe. At some point we took a trip to K-mart and I found this CD amongst the mess that was their music section. Little did I know that this would become my anthem for the next few months.

One afternoon, while my parents were out gambling, Greg and I ordered an adult movie on the tv and I ruined our friendship by taking it to a different place. (Blowsies for the nosey bitches.) That one action fucking ruined everything. (I bet that’s where my weirdness about friendships becoming sexual comes from…) The rest of the trip he was quiet as fuck. I knew then that he was having an identity crisis, but I didn’t know what to say to help him. When we got back from spring break he gave me a note, in between periods, that said he was a Christian and couldn’t hang out with me anymore. (He claims that it didn’t say that but… whatever.) I was devastated. I broke down in second period so much that they sent me to the office and they didn’t know what to do so they sent me home.

After that I was so filled with sadness that it re-routed into rage. I listened to this CD repeatedly. I sang/screamed along at the top of my lungs so frequently and with such fervor that I gave myself laryngitis. I may not have been a cutter, but I was definitely someone who self-harmed. I just did it in the gayest way possible, by singing.

Now whenever I feel copious amounts of these emotions I’ll put on this album and rock the fuck out. By the end I have exerted so much energy into the volume of my voice and all that entails that I am exhausted. And I am left with a sense of peace.

Until the moment I find a real-time habit, this will have to be my go-to. That and journaling. Nothing makes the feelings dissipate quite like writing/typing everything out.

November 14, 2022

The Soundtrack of My Life – 38 – Best Song Ever!

My birthday was over a week ago, and even though nothing over the top occurred I still could not be bothered to write my post. Which is utterly stupid because I am falling way behind. At this point I need to write 10 to catch up and, ultimately, meet my goal. Can the bitch do it?

For my birthday I wanted to choose a song that didn’t particularly resonate with any memories, but instead was one that more or less represented me. But what is that track? I jokingly said (to myself) “Flag Pole Sitta” but… That is a song that represents two Joshes ago. Then I thought, maybe I’ll just choose a solid favorite, since it is my birthday, and then share some memorable birthdays throughout my life. But that wouldn’t have been very good. They lacked any real substance and would have just been snapshots. The real story is what had I felt in those moments? What was I thinking? For some I could recall but others, they were just mental images.

Instead I chose just one song that reminded me of my most memorable birthday. One that could not and will NEVER be topped. It’s impossible. Don’t even try.

I’m going to be honest, my birthdays are kind of shit. The problem is I build up these astronomical expectations for it to be something fantastic and ultimately it never happens. I blame Hollywood. I am near the point that I would rather it not even be celebrated at all, just to protect myself and (really) those around me. Every effort made in it is beautiful. And I am grateful, but I’m so fucked in the head that I think it should be something else and… I’m just an asshole. There is no other way to say it.

The one birthday that shall and will never be topped was in 2013.

After having been together for 10 years my husband finally agreed to follow through with our engagement and get married. I think he was hesitant because, while our life was good, we had been through rough waters many, many times before. Which one of these rapids, on the river of our relationship, was going to be so rough that it tosses one of us out of the boat?

Regardless of his fears, he agreed.

As a safety net to make sure he never forgot our anniversary, we decided to get married 3 days before my birthday.

This also happened in the same year that he had surprised me in March with my birthday present: a trip to London. Now our trip turned into a double-whammy. Birthday and honeymoon in one fell swoop.

It should be noted that I am an absolute anglophile. I love anything British, except the tories and the monarchy. Everything else is gold to me and has been since I was a kid. London has been the one place I have wanted to visit since I realized travel across oceans was possible.

The morning of our wedding at the LA courthouse there was an active shooter at LAX. Our hotel room was a suite just a block from the airport and we watched in real time as the cops went down the road, shutting everything down.

“Oh my god,” I said, “I hope this doesn’t delay our flight!”

The two of us got dressed up and headed to the courthouse. We were married and then back to the hotel, where we passively aggressively argued with each other about whether to wait at the hotel or walk to our terminal.

“The app doesn’t show that it has been cancelled,” I said, “And our gate is literally, right there.”

“Fine, fine, we’ll walk.”

We joined the stream of travelers heading, on foot, to the airport.

As it turned out, this was the right choice because we boarded our flight, on time, and made it to London.

I could not sleep on this 11 hour flight. I was wide awake. I was too excited to do it, even with a full Ambien.

We landed in the late afternoon, took the tube to our hotel next to the Gloucester Station and then tried our hardest not to go to sleep. My father-in-law had suggested this routine because it makes adjusting to the time change a little easier. And as the man had done MANY an international flight we took his advice. However, after not sleeping on the plane and the fact that it was dark by 5… Neither of us made it. We barely stayed awake at the restaurant we went to for dinner.

“Let’s just go to bed,” Charlie said.

This turned out to be one of the best decisions we made. Because we went to bed to early we both woke up at 5 a.m. As we were totally energized and didn’t want to waste our first real day in the room, we got dressed and decided to walk down Kensington Street.

In those silly questions people sometimes get asked, “What is the most memorable moment in your life,” this would be my answer.

In this enormous city, we were the only people on the road. It was absolutely silent and this fact astounded me. Granted, as I later learned, this is the more affluent part of London, which is why I was probably “taken” by it. We walked all the way from our hotel to Kensington Palace. The park was absolutely gorgeous in the sunrise light. The orange leaves seemed to catch fire in the suns rays.

It’s such a simple moment but for me it was… everything.

On my actual birthday we went to the “Experience Harry Potter” at Leavesden studios. We rode a double decker bus from the station to the lot. This was back when I was, also, a Potterphile. Y’know, before she doubled down on her transphobia. While I do still enjoy the products I have already paid for, I will not be doing so going forward. That’s the most political answer I can give. Those who have decided to trash their purchased items seems nonsensical. She already got that money. But to each their own.

Regardless, it was quite the treat. My husband wasn’t as happy with the experience. He had read so many reviews beforehand that he ruined it for himself.

We went back to our room afterwards and took a nap.

For the following week we had no solid plans. It was whatever we felt like doing in the moment. And seeing as how we had purchased the London Pass for our trip, they gave us a big book of things to do. And every day we were there we did something new. Even if we had allocated an entire month we wouldn’t have tapped the surface of the shit to do in the city.

For it being London it didn’t rain very much. It was certainly cloudy often, which is my favorite kind of weather.

Near the end of or trip, we were running out of things to do so, being the rock hound I am, we took a trip to a Chalk mine. It was billed as this spooky ghostly kind of tour but as it turned out the terror in the trip was the elbaorate maze of tunnels and the five foot tour guide with his coke bottle glasses.

“We’re being led by Mr. Magoo,” my husband said.

“We’re going to die down here.” I whispered back.

We went on this tour with one other couple, which is true to form. Most of the tours my husband and I have ever done it usually is just us. One time on the Queen Mary the tour guide acted as though we were part of a large group the entire time. “Does he see more people here than just us?” I had whispered to Charlie.

In the chalk mine we learned that the only historical significance was that it was a hideaway for families escaping the blitz during WWII. Otherwise all of the creepy tales were mostly fabricated, much to the disappointment of the other couple. They had watched a ghost program the other night and wanted to see it for themselves.

There was one moment where this small man abandoned us around the bend, extinguished his kerosene lantern, and then banged a loud metal drum. He walked back up to us, in pitch black, talking and all I could think about at the time was the hobbit. “Riddles in the dark.”

The reason I chose the song above is because it was playing everywhere we went. That is no exaggeration. At the time I was not really a fan of this song, so it stuck-the-fuck-out. By the end of the trip, I thought it’d be easier to join them and I fell in love with it. Now whenever I hear it that entire trip comes flooding back to me.

November 1, 2022

The Soundtrack of My Life – 37 – Viva Las Vegas

My dad was quite the Elvis fan. He loved him. One time we took a trip to Memphis so that my pop could go see Graceland. I had no point of reference at the time. I had heard his songs here and there but being only twelve at the time he wasn’t on my radar. During this trip I was more concerned with getting my hands on some beanie babies.

It was so odd to me that my dad only wanted to see his house. He could not have cared less about his cars or outfits. One would think, him being a super fan, he would have been chomping at the bit… but no.

Years later I would revisit Graceland with my mother-in-law who is also a big Elvis fan. She wanted to see everything. (Well, except for the cars. She could not have cared less about those.) Her main goal was to see his jewelry. Unfortunately all they had was maybe one belt buckle and a couple rings. “There has to be more!” she said.

Later that evening, after our tour of his humble abode, we watched the movie “Viva Las Vegas” in the Elvis movie theatre. And boy-howdy was that movie garbage. I have only seen two of his movies, Blue Hawaii and Viva Las Vegas and they are both giant pieces of misogynistic bull shit that feel almost like a cocaine-fueled dream than a movie. Out of the two, each had one song in each that I enjoyed. If you wanted a story or any kind of character growth… I’d look elsewhere.

The main reason I chose this song is because this previous Friday, the day this was supposed to be published, I was in Las Vegas with my boys for the Magic 30 convention. This was the final stop, before home, on our cross-country road trip. And this was the event I had been waiting anxiously for since started a month ago.

Magic the Gathering (if you don’t know) is a collectible/tradable card game that came out in 1993 (if you’re doing the math it shouldn’t be called Magic 30 but… whatevs). It’s a strategy card game where people purchase booster packs to get better cards to incorporate into the decks they use against their opponents. The idea is that you are a wizard with a “library” of spells and creatures to defeat an opposing wizard. There is more complexity to it than what I am describing, but if I were to delve into them this would be a much longer post. I for one like to produce “fun sized” posts to entertain the masses.

This was the first convention I had/have ever attended. I have wanted to do San Diego Comic-Con in the past but I am not quick on the purchase button for me to get a ticket. Plus I’ve never actually had the money to go to one before. This time I had the funds to buy all of my boys a ticket and entry into a few tournaments. Even competitive play is something I have never done, nor have I wanted to. Most of the attendees to such events loath a soap, water, and deodorant combo. There was none of that at this event, so maybe it’s just a local thing. Or maybe if they can afford a ticket to the event they also usually purchase the necessary self-care items.

When I first signed up I had also wanted to do a ton of events, but out of the corner of my eye I caught a disclaimer that events tend to run long. So from the 6 I had initially purchased I scaled it by half. And thank the universe I did. One of my events was over 5 hours long. I didn’t even get a chance to finish it, because I was in super bad mood and the dudes at my table said there was only 2 rounds, when the app CLEARLY said 3. But instead of trusting the people, y’know, facilitating the event I took listened to the word of a bunch of know-it-alls who deemed the “winning deck” of our “pod” was just some kid with a bunch of creatures instead of me, whom they all decided (collectively) to take out first because I was the biggest threat. So… fuck them. (I’m not bitter.)

Despite my failures in that single tournament (it was them and my own stupid inability to slow down and pay attention) I had an amazing time. I fully intend on attending another one in the future, should they hold one. And supposedly this is a yearly thing. Who knew?

After spending an insane amount of money on Magic cards… (see the photograph below) I am officially home. It’s weird to be back, but I couldn’t have lived like that for much longer. Hopping from one hotel to the next is exhausting, especially when you have a co-traveler who requires many different life-saving devices in tow.

I’m just glad we got to tick off some bucket-list items for my husband (Boston, Florida, and New Orleans.)

Our only regrets is not spending more time in Austin and in Boston. My husband opined, as we were leaving “Bean Town,” that he wished we had set aside an entire month for the city instead of just a week. He is a foody traveler. He wants to taste all of the best local places to eat. I’m a sightseeing/experience guy myself.

It started out with just this… which is still TOO MUCH…

and then morphed into….

One of the boxes of cards and 3 of those decks merged into that white card box. Those are 3 shirts in the pile at the bottom. And not pictured here is this SWEET jacket I got.

October 25, 2022

Tell Me More About Me

Ever since Orlando we have been on the road home. We had intended to have a longer stop there, so I could go to the Magic Kingdom, but we cut it short so we could meet my in-laws in New Orleans. Unfortunately their flight was cancelled and they never made it. (Bummer.) We would have had a lot of fun. I love my in-laws.

So with an extra day in New Orleans we were left with a lot of time to fill. All of which was spent in the French quarter.

While parts of it are derelict and ugly, it still maintained this beauty that I cannot quite explain. Aside from the smell on Bourbon Street. It was pungently sour and I could not place it.

“That’s vomit,” my brother-husband informed me with a confidence I could not argue with.

And seeing as how we were on Bourbon Street, that tracked.

All of our trips are pretty much dictated by food. As I’ve gotten older I’ve deviated from the husband to be more of a sites and experience guy. I think because I pack on weight like I’m heading into the harshest winter in existence and food will be scarce.

My husband was adamant on trying gumbo, jambalaya and even a po’boy. But once the two boys learned it was seafood they were out. They don’t eat anything that comes from the ocean. I’m okay with it when it’s battered and deep fried.

Lacking any real direction we wandered the quarter and then did a walking ghost tour with this adorable guide who made me smile every time she did her “fuuuuuuuuun fact!” She lunged foreword on one foot and did excited jazz hands, jangling her jumble of steel bracelets.

The other thing we did was visit the shop if the famous voodoo queen, Marie Laveau. It was quite the tourist stop. There were all sorts of magical things, rocks, potions, candles, alligator feet. As we were waiting for the brother-husband to find a voodoo doll to get his step mom, my husband turns to me and says “let’s get a psychic reading!”

This is not anything my husband has ever wanted to do. However being in the shop his enthusiasm was understood.

So, since I didn’t get the psychic reading I had wanted to do in Salem, I thought here would be even better.

“Yeah? Let’s do it.”

The gentleman was meek, small framed with blonde hair. He had on a tight black shirt that went to his mid thigh with woven fabric on the sleeves. He was definitely playing the part of a mystic. It was fun. He took us through a door with a combo handle to a tiny little wood cubicle. In it was a small table and two chairs. My husband could barely fit into it with his power chair but we made it work.

He took my hand and started.

“So, the diabetes skipped your generation.” It was both a question and a statement.

“Yeah,” I said. I was shocked because if that was a guess it was a good one.

“And you had a lot of ear infections as a kid, those are all better?”

“Yeah.”

He proceeded to tell me everything about me. Later, when I asked my husband about the reading he said, “he had you pegged perfectly.”

And he did. I just didn’t know if it was my own interpretation of the moment or real. Getting his confirmation made me feel better.

He proceeded to tell me many different random facts that had no correlation. It was almost as if he was skimming the page of my life and retelling me in this sort of stream of consciousness.

I would never leave California. I’d travel a lot but never leave. I’d have a son; and a daughter. Both adopted. And that I would start school again in the spring.

That one was weird cause I’m like… I don’t see that happening. However… since then it has become very clear that if I want to move into a better role at work I have to go back to school. My husband said the psychic, Phillip, said I’d be going back to study math.

I don’t remember the specifics of how it came up but I told him I was married and he looked genuinely perplexed.

“Do you have someone on the side?” He says point blank.

I bark a laugh, give this wry smile, and say “yeah. You could say that.”

I proceed to tell him the dynamics of my and my husbands relationship.

For whatever reason he did not pick up that I was referring to Charlie.

“You will never get divorced.” He said matter-of-factly. “And your boyfriend isn’t going anywhere.”

(My husband said that Phillip stated that “he wouldn’t go anywhere until I got bored with him” and I genuinely don’t remember that.)

He stops my reading there and reaches out and lays a hand on my husbands knee. He proceeds to tell him that he’s not leaving the chair. (“Duh,” I thought. By the way, we did not give him details of my husbands diagnosis.) He said that there were many doctors appointments for my husband in the future. And that he was going to start an experimental treatment that was going to improve it. Which… is a stretch.

The number one thing that stood out to me about his reading was that he told my husband he wasn’t going to die any time soon.

Some highlights that tickled me, were when he said that my mother would never remarry and was content in her small space. He was right but not in the context he was telling me this information.

When I told my in-laws about this they were convinced he looked up my social media. And he may have, but the fact that it took him a concerning amount of time to comprehend that charlie was my husband was odd. I made multiple references to him as my husband. He eventually picked it up but… it was strange. The other thing is the details he told me, his good guesses, is not info I have EVER or would EVER share here. I mean, I have now in the context of this retelling, but at no point have I shared the medical facts he told me.

We were both thoroughly pleased with it. Absolutely worth the price. If you ever find yourself in the French Quarter, get a psychic reading from Phillip.

I would like to add that I am someone who does believe this stuff. There are things in this world no one can explain. And rather than attribute it to some higher being I give the credit to the immense power of the universe. Some may also call that god, but I do not. And I don’t think psychics can tell the future. I think they’re more interpreters of energy. I think Philip just read what he felt from our interaction.