I took a trip today. For some reason, I was very cynical with my father throughout the trip. I must admit, he is getting old and his mind is not very sharp anymore. I have to tell him when the light is green, when he’s about to hit the car in front of him, why rebooting the router is a mindless, knee-jerk solution to a problem, why building PCs is superior to buying Dell pre-builts, and why the mouse is superior to the controller in FPS games, especially regarding his obsession with BF1 even though his KD is incredibly negative, and he can’t aim for squat. I don’t want to speak negatively about my dad, so back to me.
I forgot to bring two big things: my charger and my coat. So I had to turn on Nokia mode on my phone so that it would last through the weekend (and it did). I was disappointed at how easily I forgot the two important items.
I went to a history museum for most of the second day of the weekend. I was interested in the content of the museum, but it felt depressing that I subconsciously kept asking myself “what is the whole point of this? what is the whole point of that?” It’s like why we play sports. Wait, I’m actually asking this? This is depressing. Sports looks fun, but I can’t manage to muster any emotion in a particular game. Basically it all roots down to “why do we live” which is a rather obvious sign that my brain is in need of maintenance. It probably would have gone worse if my brother was here, given my own attitude.
Once during mass, I looked in front of me and saw a kid wearing his letter jacket. It proudly said “Class of ’17” and on the side was patched with some science competition along with the NHS symbol (which reminded me of my NHS officer interview, which I totally bombed: “What are the four pillars of NHS?”) At the moment, I felt absolutely distraught and imagined myself shaking my fist exclaiming, “Why did you bring that here? This is a place of humility, not boastfulness!”But I simply frowned and said nothing. He appeared somewhat Asian and wore glasses; a clear sign of competence. He’d probably beat me to a pulp in terms of chances of getting into MIT. Not that I had any in the first place. And my dad is even more naive adding this condition, “If you don’t get to MIT…” That should be an IF, not an IF NOT!
When I had to go to IKEA, this finished me off. I glanced around the tasteless furniture, the epitome of contemporary urban life and its utter lack of any distinct culture. The furniture had no life to them, and I wanted the suffering to be done with already. I knew I couldn’t buy anything because there was no space at home, but like my dad says for anything these days, the things we were buying were “for the office.” I couldn’t stop myself from looking around; most people were better dressed than I was. The spiffy arrangement of leggings of various colors and patterns and jackets and coats could not be ignored, and there was also a good share of couples, probably dating, engaged and married all in there. Perhaps I notice this because I keep my head down in shame when I walk.
In essence, I feel squarely defeated. I do not feel like I am ready to be a functioning member of society. The streets of downtown are abound with young people in their twenties, and everything, all the business, is directed at them. The college I may be bound to go is located smack-dab in this bustling city. I thought I was ready for my life to begin, but I am not.
Now my father is hollering at me that if I want something, that I need to earn my own money to get it. Basically, he wants me to get a job. But he also wants me to get a simple job, like being a cashier. But I suck at handling money; my hands are usually either cold and sweaty, or freezing cold and bony, and when I converse with people, it makes things more confusing rather than more helpful. My hygiene is poor and unacceptable. I only wash my hair once or twice a week. A simple stroke of my hair sends dandruff and loose hair falling like snowflakes. I only shave when I look at myself in the mirror, touch my growing beard, and shudder wondering how other people think about it.
I may have an extraordinary sense of physical direction, but I don’t have a sense of place in the world. I feel that my relationship with other people is purely passive; that I never really get to know them. I never dated, in constant fear that a girl will realize that my life is purely a one-dimensional dream. And I know people are out there talking about me, knowing that I am a one-dimensional person who doesn’t deserve to be rank number one of the class.
I don’t have anyone I can consistently talk to, or talk to about things other than school. Even my brother has close friends but I never got any. There are some people at school who “wish they were me.” I try to conceal my anger when they mention this in my face, because I wasted my time.
I wasted my time! I wanted to do so, so much. And do you know how much of it I did? None of it! I wanted to make projects, big and small, get to know some friends, learn an instrument, intern somewhere stimulating, tutor people formally, master calculus early, take AP Chemistry instead of some stupid throwaway class, maybe even exercise regularly, but anything other than sit on my desk and sulk about!
Now I will tell you what my mother says, because you have probably heard enough of my father. My mother asks this question, “Do you pray?” Well, yes, I pray! Instant response: “Why are you cross with me?” And she goes and writes it in her diary. She brought my brother to tears basically suggesting that my brother was “not Catholic enough” but without ever saying this. Her standards for being an upright Catholic simply increase and never decrease. You can’t ever be excessively reverent or prayerful, but you can sure get a bad look for not conforming to the new heightened standards, as if intentionally not partaking in something implies a wholehearted refusal of your faith. But if I ever tell her this, she denies it. It is the reason she is predominantly vegetarian, fasts on Fridays, probably skips lunch daily (and later bites on small things like chips and chocolate to stave off hunger), and refuses to go a day without attending mass.
She also stresses that a spiritual director does “just as much” as a psychologist since she thinks that I just want general counseling. But I don’t; I want a real diagnosis and treatment, because my tendencies are unnatural and I obviously show signs of disorder. Neither of my parents want to take me anywhere, in the end, because then it would mean the entire family has a psychologist (“so do family therapy!”) And to add insult to injury, my mother blames it all on the computer, that none of this would have happened if it wasn’t for the computer. Wrong, the same problems would have manifested differently.
Maybe the school’s counseling can dispense decent advice.