The Crazies: A True Story

Psychopaths. Sociopaths. My family is crazy. I'm sure there are many more "-paths" that apply, but those are the only terms that I know. My paternal grandmother was bipolar. Actually, I hope she was because then her actions would make sense. However, she was never officially diagnosed.

I asked my therapist if I'm bipolar (yes, I have a therapist and I love it -- imagine, I get to talk about ME for 50 minutes!). She said "No." Her confirmation was good to hear. I mean, I know I'm not crazy crazy, but when you come from a background of people with major emotional and psychological issues, it makes you wonder. I act out sometimes. But, it turns out that I am nothing but an extremely complex individual torn between the dichotomy of polar personality characteristics. As a result of my diverse dualities, I get anxious and as I've programmed myself to go through life feeling as little amount of emotions as possible, I don't know how to handle it so I surrender to my impulses. I enjoy being impulsive. It's fun. I get to experience things that other people may never experience because of their conservative natures. However, being impulsive is not the same as being spontaneous. Impulsiveness can get you in trouble.

Just in case anyone is questioning it, no, I don't have multiple personality disorder either. I asked. I ask a lot of questions, keeps my therapist on her toes. She thinks I'm defensive. And guarded. I think I amuse her. Oh, I'm also too intelligent, probably for my own good. She's never said the "for my own good" bit, I added that on my own. I make a lot of assumptions. The thing is, I'm usually right. Kinda sucks. Often times, I wish I knew nothing then I could drown in the bliss that is ignorance!

But really, my paternal side of the family is filled with wack-jobs. Those things can be hereditary. I think it skipped my sisters and me. But, what insane person would admit to being insane? The Mad Hatter sure doesn't. And he isn't. He's in Wonderland. He's quirky, complex, entertaining -- too deep for most commoners to appreciate. The Mad Hatter, he's my soul mate. Well, the Johnny Depp version at least. His cuckyness is saturated in his muchiness; I have muchiness too. Yeah, I really do appreciate the emotional layers that compose that character.

Back to the crazies though. They don't possess that nuttiness that's charming. The Mad Hatter is charming. My own sanity imbalance is endearing (so I'm told, but I agree. I'm neither boring nor lacking personality). Their insanity is disturbing. It's mean. Not all, just certain individuals, but those are the ones of my focus.

There's Mimi, who's dead but left her mark. Don't know if she became the person she was because she was bitter, malicious, or just really not all there. Crazy. Mean. Spiteful. Her redemption was Clayton. Poor, innocent Clayton. Clayton, who at my age can't walk, talk, or function as a productive individual in society. Clayton, who will never experience love, heart-break, joy. Clayton, who depends on the kindness of others to survive. She loved him. His love, devotion, and blind faith in her saved her.

Then there's Tita. Funny, Mimi and Tita are namesakes. Memo to self, never name one of my offspring Esther. Maybe Tita is normal now. She's a mother, a wife, and per Facebook, appears happy. But can someone like her really change? This is the girl who would try to drown her sister and my little Gugu for kicks. This is the chick that stalked her crazy ex-boyfriend, ignoring the restraining order he had against her. This is the girl who claimed to hate her sister, who called her ugly, a nigger, who tried to dehumanize her. If that's not crazy, I don't know what is.

Then there are the aunts. Two of them. Sisters. Both equally crazy. One is suicidal. Lady Lazarus. "The peanut-crunching crowd shoves in to see them unwrap me hand and foot. The big strip tease." A show with no final act. The other aunt, well she is just iiiiinsane. Amen. That's all I gotta say about that one.

The men are more sane. I don't know enough about them because I'm smart enough to keep my distance.

The cousins are normal; most, at least.

My sisters are too.

So am I.

I'm biased though. Kinda. But really. I'm actually pretty fair and quite objective. I see my flaws. I can own them. I'm arrogant, overly proud, suffer the tragic hero complex. Hubris. To quote Pacino in The Devil's Advocate, "Vanity - definitely my favorite sin." Mine's pride, but same difference. They're tightly intertwined.

To conclude, I'm not crazy. Just half my family. There must be something in the Nicaraguan water or in the Alvarado surname. Glad the mad-Alvarado chromosome isn't contagious.

Friday

Only in San Francisco do you see a grown man serenading the foggy morning, dancing, singing at the top of his lungs while swaying to his own beat from street corner to street corner.

It was easy to see that his expressiveness was not so much due to his carefree personality (though maybe it was -- it's not like I know the guy), but he was probably on something. Regardless of the reason for his exuberant outburts, it was still quite amusing and brought a certain joy to those watching.

Fighting time to make it to the office by 8:30 (I wish I started at 10), I wasn't able to stop and check out the show, though I was tempted. Instead, I walked a little bit slower and allowed a smile to spread across my face. I felt my cheeks turn into apples as I took one last glance back before crossing the street and making my way to the wonderful world of D&O.

Gotta love Fridays!

La Fe

I want to return to those times. When I believed. When I knew, without a doubt, that God existed. When praying to Him and la Virgen was a part of my morning and evening ritual "Padre nuestro que estas en el cielo..." I remember being four, sweet and innocent, and asking Baby Jesus to take me up to Heaven during the night, so I could sleep on a big, fluffy cloud but he had to bring me back in time for school. I truly did believe in the Holy Family; I believed in Their power; in Their ability to make miracles.

My request for a cloud persisted, I knew in my naive little heart, that if I asked enough times, He would listen and answer my prayer. In His own way, maybe He did. One night I went to bed, like always, asking for my fluffy cloud. I fell asleep and I felt a presence with me on my bed. I couldn't turn, it felt as another body was lying there next to me. I frantically patted my bed and it was empty, the only body on it was me. But I still couldn't move and I still felt the presence. So, I did what any normal child would do - I freaked the hell out! Maybe that night, He came to keep me company since my being alive and all might cause confusion in the astral plane. I now think it's a funny story, but I wish I still had that determination, that faith that didn't waver, that persisted, that knew that They were there, listening, loving us, guiding us.

I don't know when exactly it was that I lost my faith. I know I still have some of it, I can feel it inside of me. But it's deeply hidden. It's obstructed by fear and disappointment, always disappointment. When one loses faith in those one loves, faith fades. For me it was my dad. He's been the greatest disappointment in my life. I now pity him -- I pity his weakness, his pathetic-ness, his fear. I feel ashamed to come from him. I feel torn about it. He's my dad. I shouldn't be ashamed of him. I should love him. I should respect him. But I can't. I don't even know if I want to. His selfishness robbed us of so much and his actions continue to haunt me. The memories of words said, of things done are embedded in me. It's hard to let go. It's hard to forgive. I felt God cheated my mom, sisters and me for putting us through that. Maybe it was fate, inevitable. I am who I am today because of it. But sometimes, I wonder if that's a good thing.

I faced disappointment again. I felt guilty. I've been punishing myself for letting it happen. I've been feeling shame for putting my guard down, for trying to open up to him. Like my dad, he also is tormented by inner demons. Like my dad, he's selfish. But something in him awakened something in me. He made me feel alive in a way I had never felt before. I don't understand why or how, because he never did anything or said anything. It was just something about his presence, something that I saw and felt in him that both mesmerized and terrified me. Something he doesn't see in himself.

I thought that perhaps God had put him in my path and that I would find happiness with him. But he's damaged. I don't know how long he's been that way; I don't know if he can change. I would have done anything to heal him, to help him find himself, but his stoic nature pushed me away, his indifference broke my heart, tore it to pieces. Again, my faded faith started to fade even more. Another disappointment. Another scar. Another lost dream.

Mi mama dice que la fe es ciega. Yo peleo con ella, le digo que como puede creer sin prueba, como es capaz de poner todo en algo de lo cual no ha visto. Pero ella me dice que nosotros somos prueba, que nosotros somos la creación de El. Somos hijas de un Rey. Ella cree y no deja de creer. Hay veces su fe me da lastima, que siempre sigue sin dudar aunque su vida nunca ha sido un cuento de adas. Pero mas que todo la admiro. Miro todo lo que ha vivido. Todo lo que ha sacrificado. Todo lo que ha echo. En esos momentos se que lo a logrado por su fe; en su corazón nunca esta sola. Eso me avergüenza. No de ella, pero de mi misma. Yo quisiera tener fe como ella. Quisiera ser constante en mi vista acerca de la religion. Miro como ella no deja de luchar, y la manera en la que siempre nos da fuerza, amor, y alivio y me rompe el corazón de no ser mas como ella. Ella es feliz y sabe su valor; ella sabe quien es. Sabe que es hija de Rey y por eso no deja de luchar y de darse su lugar, siempre encontrando fuerza en Dios y la Virgen.

Lately though, in trying to find my happiness again, I've realized I can't blame God. Or free will. Or try to convince myself that ignorance is bliss. Ignorance is ignorance. Ignorance is despicable. Happiness comes from within, from loving and accepting oneself. You can't measure your worth by others' standards. As much as it hurts, every wound, every disappointment is a lesson learned. I now know that I do possess the ability to love, fearlessly and genuinely. Maybe la Virgen is still watching out for me, silently guiding me, leading me to finding, accepting and loving me. Maybe there is still hope for me, maybe my faith can be restored. Maybe all I need to do is to open my heart, let my guard down, and surrender to the beliefs I was raised on. "Santa Maria, madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros los pecadores ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte..."

The Gipsy

The fortune teller took the deck of cards and held them in her hands. She bowed her head and prayed in silence. She looked up once more and silently began to scramble them. The girl looked as the old woman shuffled the almost tattered, worn-out deck. She then gave the cards to the girl and asked her to play with them, to allow her energy to feed the cards. The girl took them between her hands, she craddled them, she felt their thinness, their creased wrinkles, she sensed their power, the wisdom, knowledge and secrets they contained , she spoke to them, allowed them to feel her inner desires. She hoped that they would speak through the old woman, that they would help guide her and find her path. She was instructed to split the deck into 3 piles and hand them to her, pile by pile, in the order of her choice. Once done, the reading began.

The old woman spread the cards out as the girl watched on. She started speaking of things familiar to the girl, she started speaking of him. It scared the girl. He was the one who possessed her heart, the one who occupied her mind. She wanted to give up on him, but she didn't know how.  The lady said he loved her in his own way but he was unable to show or say it; he didn't know how. He never learned to love. Instead, he learned to be a man - closed, strong, masculine, responsible. He never learned to feel vulnerability, to put his guards down, to allow his gentleness to show. "He needs to find himself," the woman said.

The woman assured the girl she had a bright future ahead. She said she would be happy. She said if he was meant for her, he would return. It was up to him to make the change. The girl left as confused as before. She didn't know what she should do about him. She didn't know how to help him. She knew she wanted to make him happy, but understood that his happiness was beyond her control. Only he could find it. She hoped that he would hurry, that he would search for her, and that she was still waiting for him when he realized he loved her.

Falling/Landing

In my dream I'm falling. The abyss is deep, never ending. I wonder when I will hit the bottom, when will every bone in my body pulverize. I'm looking forward to the moment when by body and the granite up ahead meet, I fear the anticipation of the unknown more than I fear the reality of my death up ahead. I know what will become of me once the fall ends. I don't want that shattering finality to my mortality, but I don't want this racing heart-beat, these fluttering butterflies housed in my stomach, the shortness of breath - all symptoms brought on by the irrevocable fear of not knowing when everything will end. The journey is scarier than the outcome. The outcome is final, the journey is a process.

I'm awake. I'm alive. I realize your my abyss. I think I finally hit your concrete. My bones aren't broken, only my heart is. I wonder if this is our finality, if it truly is over. I'm unsure as to whether or not I want to climb your walls again, once again hoping I won't fall and get hurt. But your walls are slippery, treacherous. I don't want to think about it. I want to believe, like before, that it is over. But it is hard to release all hope when you desire something so much.

I'm dreaming again. Falling. I don't know what path to choose. I don't know if I'm ready to let go. To move forward. To forget you. I'm split. Half of me can't wait to forget your name, your face. My other half fears the possibility of one day no longer loving you, of forgetting you, of forgetting the way you make me feel. I don't know what's a greater evil - leaving you behind me, or holding on to you.