humans are funny

Category: suicide

  • Whenever you’re alone, there are always other people.

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      After two weeks with my mom and two weeks with my cousins, my luggage wheels were traversing the Spanish cobblestones alone.

      Traveling alone is the best and the worst. It’s the hardest and easiest. When you’re alone, there’s no need to tell a companion that you have to walk in to this store really quickly to grab some laxatives (an example). No need to feel pressured to go see the Pharmacy Museum in Krakov because your friend wants to go (Ok, I wanted to go. Hint: You can skip the Pharmacy Museum in Krakov.) When you’re alone, there’s no need to apologize to anyone when the dinner you made turns into midnight cheese sandwiches (Seriously, how did that broccoli end up tasting like bad breath?)

      Plus, there are spiritual benefits to traveling alone, as it opens up a whole new world of awareness. With no phone or Facebook in a foreign land, dinners, lunches, breakfasts, and pretty much everything in between is spent listening to thoughts and getting to know what goes on inside your head. By now, I REALLY know what goes on inside my head. (It’s insanity in there.)

      That new awareness leads to good, but it’s also the hard part. There are phases to this hard part. The first is fear. Maybe not for everyone, but I am prone to outbursts of that worthless emotion (Don’t try to say that there’s some good in fear because whatever.) I fear getting lost. I fear asking for directions. I fear being seen as a tourist (which is what I am, so this one makes no sense– my brain wants me to be cooler than a tourist.). Since I am alone, I am completely aware of it, which is even more frustrating. –What if I say something wrong and he can tell my Spanish isn’t as good as his? –Your Spanish isn’t supposed to be as good as is, as he is FROM SPAIN. –You’re right, but still I’m scaaaaaaaared. –You’re being really scared of some stupid shit right now. —Waa.

      This lasts for a few days.

      And then come the couples. Suddenly, you look around and realize that everyone on vacation is here with their extremely significant other. Your pupils become sniper eyes as you notice every little held hand, every fucking beach kiss, every cute eye exchange when the baby needs a new diaper. You see it all. And to top it off, waiters just can’t get over that you’re a girl on vacation all by herself. Every time you sit down to dinner, they’ll say, “JUST YOU?” and feign some crazy shock. A few nights ago by the Madrid airport, my waiter said that my boyfriend must have been killed in an airplane. I looked him in the eyes very seriously and said, ‘Yes. Yes, he was.’ And then I looked away. Not really, but I should have because WHY CANT A GIRL JUST TRAVEL ALONE? SO WHAT IF HER OVARIES ARE AGING AND SHE DOESN’T HAVE ANYONE TO TRAVEL WITH?

      That’s the self-pity phase. It lasts for a few days.

      And then there’s an outpouring of love for family and friends. Well, if Rahul were here, he’d love this place. And if Andrea were here, she’d be making fun of that guy’s Speedo right now. And, boy, my mom would want one of those mumus over there. Man, my friends and family are pretty sweet. WHY AM I SPENDING THE ENTIRE SUMMER WITHOUT THEM? I’M SO DUMBBBBBBB. I miss everyooooooone. Waaaaaaaa. Even my landlord. And my mail woman. What is she up to right nowwwwww?

      That’s the regret/longing phase. It lasts two days tops.

      Then comes the I-don’t-give-a-fuck phase. This phase is freedom. It’s still introspective, but whenever fear comes up or self pity walks in, you can stop them at the gate and say, ‘YOU ARE IN SPAIN RIGHT NOW. LOOK THE FUCK AROUND AS THE SEA IS RIGHT BY YOUR FEET AND YOU’RE NOT WORKING AND WINE IS $3 FOR A GOOD BOTTLE AND THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT YOU WANTED TO DO WITH YOUR LIFE.’ AND LOOK HOW MUCH YOU REALLY LOVE CAPITALS!!!!

      I’d been hoping with fingers double-crossed for this phase to hurry up and come. Please come, freedom to speak and be and frolic and talk to everyone and dance with old people and eat foods that are weird and sticky!

      I realized it had finally arrived as I sat in the jump seat of a huge tourist bus, the very last passenger on board. My bag stumbled around on the floor as we zipped around a rotunda more than once. The driver was simply driving, not ready to arrive at my stop. He was telling me all about his wife’s suicide. She was too tall to hang herself from any beam, so she held onto her ankles until she died. She could have simply stepped to the floor, but she didn’t. She held on. AND THIS MADE ME SO HAPPY! Not because I’m a morbid human being with a suicide obsession (although also a possibility). It made me happy because this is exactly what would be happening in my own country. I wasn’t feeling alone. I wasn’t scared of saying something wrong in Spanish. I wasn’t missing anyone. I was myself. And I had found someone who wanted to talk to me about his life, which is exactly what happens in the States. People with stories always find me. Or maybe I find them. Especially “suicide survivors.” We always seem to find each other and share stories like old ‘Nam buddies. I was myself, and he was himself. And there we were, listening to each other and driving around Spain! If we were in the US, you bet that guy would be appearing in the next Taboo Tales.

      Feeling free, I danced that night until six in the morning with the Salsa champion of Italy! And after that I went to the biggest water park in Spain and GOT A FAST PASS! Then I had dinner with a piano teacher named Rosa. After that, I debated prostitution laws with a hot cop (it’s totally legal and only 20 bucks for the WHOLE SHEBANG!). Now, I am in Madrid writing this from the center of a square surrounded by Germans and luggage shops and jars of sangria and umbrellas and cigarettes and walking dogs and frozen yogurt shops and old women peering from balconies. And I feel calm and not scared and not alone. AND I NEVER WANT TO LEAVE. AND I STILL LOVE CAPITALS.

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  • I would rather stuff myself in a duffle bag and be dragged around by a homeless man for weeks.

    I have to admit I was slightly pissed when I heard the Osama bin laden news. Totally ruined my plan. I wanted to find Osama bin Laden. I was going to wait a few years until he got a little older and frailer. Then I figured I’d use my wit and charm and love of sand and heat to slither my way through the desert looking for clues. Once I found him, I’d tell him a bunch of jokes about how Americans think the Middle East is round and how American women are as loose as burkas. We’d bond over  homemade moonshine and his secret love of The Simpsons. Then he’d tell me all his secrets and I’d totally seduce him and take naked pictures of him and choke him to death during some crazy sex fantasy (something tells me Osama appreciated violent sex). This would have required I add a number to my growing list of sexploits, but I figured I’d be doing it for the love of my country and because I thought a public humiliation must accompany the death. Showing the world an Osama penis seemed like good revenge for 9/11.

    Anyway, whatever. America has squashed my dreams. But I realized yesterday that the main reason I planned such an escapade was not to defend the West from the wrath of the world’s most dangerous terrorist. It was far more selfish than that. Really, I just want my own Wikipedia page.

    I need another cause. I must get to Wikipedia. I’ve already tried to stop Hollywood women from wearing skirts that almost show their labia, but that epidemic is far beyond my reach. I’ve tried to stop breast cancer, but Susan G. Komen sent me an irate email letting me know that she’s on that topic.

    My new cause is even more important than all those less important things. And that is: End suicide jokes. Lots of hyperboles are in fashion at the moment. There’s the “I just peed a little,” which is popular. I’ve heard Ellen say it. And then there’s the “I just threw up in my mouth,” which I’ve heard everyone say.
    The worst well-worn hyperbole is the suicide joke, which unabashedly appears in conversations about relationships all over the world.
    People think it’s really such a hoot to say, ‘That date was so bad that I wanted to kill myself.’ Or the teenage favorite, ‘I would rather die.’
    There’s also the one with the finger-made gun pointing at the temple, often used in long meetings. And the more updated finger-made gun pointing at the temple plus a mimicked blood squirt from other temple. For some reason, these death jokes are such an integral part of popular culture these days. I know this because my mom uses them. She’s the last person to hear about things, so if she’s doing it, everyone’s doing it. She called me just the other day to tell me about a new crazy song, Who Let the Dogs Out?

    My therapist even did the gun-to-the-temple thing.
    While we were talking about my father’s suicide.
    Swear.
    It’s so popular that people don’t even realize they’re doing it.
    BUT THEY’RE DOING IT!
    Everyone’s doing it.

    But, guys, can you maybe stop? Please?  I highly doubt you really want to off yourself because of a bad date or because you were caught in the snow or because you ran out of olives or because you got your period in your white shorts or even because you crashed your new car. If you really and truly would rather die than study lame pie charts in a meeting or go to Disneyland with your family (although I do understand how trying Disneyland can be), then your life sucks and you should move to a yurt and try to figure everything out.  Really, I think you’re just trying to be creative by using a cliche. It’s not working. It’s not a crazy exaggeration if everyone’s using it!

    One in every sixty-four people has a friend or loved one who’s committed suicide because about one-hundred people kill themselves per day. PER DAY! That’s a lot of people. Tons. And each time you point a fake gun at your head, it’s reminding the ‘survivors’ that someone they love actually did point a gun at their head (or the equivalent) one day. And it wouldn’t be that big of a deal if that joke weren’t so popular, but now I’m reminded of suicide in pretty much every conversation I have with anyone. Today my friend did the fake gun, and when he thought he needed more emphasis, he went back for a slashing-of-the-throat motion. I’m going to start asking people to simply end every conversation with ‘Hey, remember that time your dad killed himself?’ Because that’s what it does. For me and for one in sixty-four people.

    But don’t stop with those jokes just for me and my Wikipedia movement. Do it so you’re not cliche. Although there’s no such thing as a free lunch for bulls in china shops and men who are worth their weight in gold, cliches make you sound just like everyone else. And you don’t want to be like everyone else. You’re an individual. With a life! A life worth keeping as long as it doesn’t entail a horrible date or Disneyland.

    Try these more creative versions instead:
    *It was so bad I wanted to cut off my nipples and sew them to my eyelids.
    *It was so horrible that I wanted to roll around in elephant poo, pull out all my fingernails, and then go to the dentist.
    *I would have rather watched ninety-year-olds in an orgy for seventy-two hours straight while wearing a diaper and standing on the shoulders of the tallest man in the world.

    Don’t be a cliche. Do it for you. Do it for me. Do it for Wikipedia.

  • Dead Dad Part 2: acceptance, leftovers, and magic wands


    This week was shocking. So many friends and strangers and bloggers and dads reached out to me to let me know how much they related to my Fathers Day tribute. Or how much they cried. Or how much it made them feel (It’s here if you haven’t seen it).
    And hearing all this is really the most wonderful thing to hear. Knowing that my words have moved someone to tears is astounding. And unreal. And feels so fucking good. That’s really my life’s goal– to make people feel something.

    But I have a confession to make. I feel an obligation to tell you that that post took me 14 years to write. Not literally. I wasn’t sitting at a desk for fourteen years with a pen poised over paper. Then you would have probably never met me, and I would either be really fat or malnourished. But writing that piece required that I accept everything about my dad, which took a while. Accepting everything about someone is like inviting everyone on the entire street to your party. And being okay with the homeless people who show up and raid your vegetable crisper. You have to truly accept things that you may not like. Or things that scare you. And the hardest part is that you have to admit to yourself that your way is not the only way. TOUGH stuff. For me, it’s easier with dead people. I have yet to accept any boyfriend without requesting minor changes in personality and character. Yes, honey, I swear I love you but really you should be more motivated and also like the things I like.

    Parents are even harder to accept. You have an idea of who you want them to be, and when they don’t turn out like that, you have to just swallow it. I didn’t imagine my dad would be gay. But I accepted it. And just when things were cool, he up and committed suicide. Great. Hadn’t imagined that either.
    I gotta hand it to him– the man was an ace at surprises.

    When someone commits suicide, your entire perception of him is stained. Every good memory is accompanied by flashes of death or guilt or panic. For a long time, I would see a size 15 New Balance sneaker, and I would remember my father. And I would smile. And then immediately my brain’s channel would flip to him dead on his bed waiting for someone to find him. And then I’d undoubtedly remember his neighbor saying that he only knew my father was upstairs decomposing after he’d cleaned out his refrigerator and realized that the horrible odor was indeed not Korean leftovers. Yep, my decomposing father smelled like old kimchi.
    It’s gross. And perhaps horrifying. So I was positive those good memories were stained forever.
    I thought his goodness was gone. I thought I could never get the good back without a slap in the face with the bad.

    And then 14 years went by.
    And it’s finally happened. I’m at the point where I can imagine his brown slippers and see only 3-year-old me pretending they were boats. And then smile. And then move on.
    Only now can I listen to tapes of him playing the piano and simply remember his long fingers and how they swept across the keys like magic wands.

    14 years is so long. So so long. It could have been sooner. All I had to do was make the choice.
    But it’s hard to make that choice when you don’t understand there’s a choice to be made.
    My dad had a choice. He had life right there asking him to decide. He could have said ‘This is hard, but I’m learning how to get through it.’ Instead he said, ‘This sucks. I’m outtee.’

    Life’s all about those decisions. I have been choosing for years to say, ‘I grew up with a dead dad. That sucks. Whatever. I’m not going to think about it.’ And now I’m finally choosing to say, ‘This gives me a different perspective, and I’m going to learn what I can.’

    Once I made that decision, things became clearer. I figured out that my pops was just a man. Like any other man. He had problems and fears and traumas and delights. And he spent his life winging it. Just like all of us do. We’re guessing right now. And that’s all we can do. In 1996, he felt hopeless and helpless. And he guessed wrong. He made the only kind of mistake from which he couldn’t learn. Before, I used to wonder what he was thinking in those minutes before death, completely conscious about his decision and his imminent demise. Did he think about me? Did it take long? Was he gasping for air? Was he thrashing around? Did he change his mind? Did he regret it? Did he regret anything? Did he wonder if he’d left the iron on? Did he know he’d end up smelling like Korean leftovers?

    I’ll never know. But I have finally decided that I don’t need to know. I know that he was great when he was great. And I don’t need to spend any more time asking questions I can’t answer. Questions nobody can answer.
    I have chosen to finally move on. To finally forgive this man and see him as just that: A man. A man who made a mistake. A man who would undoubtedly take back that mistake. A man who would be here with me right now if he could.

    That’s why that tribute was so important to me. And that it means so much that other people got something from my years of work. 14 years in the making. 14 years to this moment where I can finally see our picture together and remember only the man whose feet I climbed onto. The guy who would dance me around the living room. That was my dad. That guy. That’s the guy I miss. That’s the guy who made everyone feel. Thanks again, Pops. You’re still teaching me lessons every day.

    Now… on to the difficult task of accepting the people who are alive.

    Me: Dad, I can’t believe you let Mom cut my hair this short. It’s hideous.
    Dad: You look fine. I’m the one with this horrible beard. It really itches.
    Me: Your beard is great. And those glasses. Just wait til 2010, and you’ll fit in with the hipsters in LA.
    Dad: Nah, I think I’ll head out in 1996 instead.
    Me: All righty then. It’s been fun. I shall remember this time we had together. Peace out.

  • I’ll be signing autographs by the Minestrone.

    Congratulations! Today, you are reading the blog of The Most Versatile Blogger. Yes, I am THE big winner of THE biggest prize among the blogging community! What, What? Makes a girl wanna use some exclamation points!!!!!! Some people are saying that this prestigious award is more of a chain letter because it really involves any awarded blogger to award fifteen other bloggers, creating sort of a chain, er, community. Those people are jealous rats. This award is big time, and I will wear it proudly like I wear my special occasion expensive shoes and my high school graduation ring. Just kidding. I don’t really wear that. (Sorry for begging you to buy that for me, Mom.) So what if pretty much every blogger on the internet is about to receive the same award? So what if anyone with a blog can award anyone else with a blog? This is my time, dammit. Today, I am The Most Versatile Blogger, and that’s how it goes. I win, bitches! I win. I win. I win.

    My duties as winner are to:
    *thank the person who gave me this award.
    *share seven things about myself.
    *pass the award along to 15 bloggers who I deem fantastic.
    *gloat all day long

    Jessica at Alone with Cats & Margaret at The Crymes Syndicate have both awarded me such prestige. Well, Margaret awarded anyone who read her blog, which means ME. If you also want this award, all you have to do is read her blog. But don’t tell me that because I might not feel so special then.
    These girls are both candid and hilarious, and I encourage everyone to check them out. I have just recently come to learn about this huge world of bloggers who support each other and read each others entries. These chicks have been so welcoming and encouraging and supportive. I hope I get to meet them one day, so I don’t feel like a internet psycho for loving them through cyberspace.

    Now on to the seven things about myself, as if this blog wasn’t already shrouded in self-importance.

    1. I prefer bar soap to the fancy shmancy ‘body wash.’

    2. I’m currently taking a stand-up comedy class. That’s right. You will all soon be obligated to come see me at an open mic, where I will be raunchy and revealing and make you squirm in your seat. Especially when you realize I’m making jokes about you.

    3. My father committed suicide. I guess that’s not so funny, but it’s also not so horrible either. You know that weird feeling you got when you read that? Sort of discomfort mixed with sorrow and helplessness and a lack of words accompanied by some awkward fidgeting? That’s how most people react, but it’s my new mission to end the bad stigma. Suicide is simply another accident, like a car crash. The person committing the act would surely take it back if he could.

    4. My first job was at a local video rental place, where I rented porn to old men who would return it (to me, not to the drop box) after a few hours. Gross.

    5. I’m writing from Souplantation, an all-you-can-eat buffet with horrific carpeting. I can’t seem to write at home– too distracted by the food in my fridge and the surfaces that need dusting. For some reason, the array of muffins and soups helps me think.

    6. I like my age now. And I can’t wait to be a really cute old lady a la Betty White. What’s in the middle scares the shit out of me.

    7. People often ask me how I’m always so happy (well, after my trip they do.). I think the secret is that I love and trust everyone at first sight. Until they prove to me otherwise. None of this ‘gain my love shit.’ If I know you, I love you. For example, the couple in their fifties beside me with 3 plates each heaped in foods from the buffet. They’re both wearing sunglasses inside. And then there’s the Jewish couple passing out cookies to everyone and trying to make new friends. Love. Love. Love them.

    8. If I didn’t have to pay off my student loans, I’d be in a hut in Africa, where I would be on a mission to help lots of people and educate about AIDS. I wouldn’t stop writing this here blog, though. It’s kinda my favorite thing to do. Thanks for reading it.

    9. I think it would be cool to have a glass eye.

    10. If I could be any age, I’d pick 3.

    Aw naw. That’s 10 things. Cannot get enough of writing about myself. Me. Me. Me.

    And now on to the new winners, who must claim their prize tomorrow so as not to interrupt my gloating (also, if you decide not to accept this chain letter, er, award, I won’t be offended): Rahul @ I Wear T-Shirts… Sometimes, Loralee @ Glass Half Optimistic, Rebecca @ Loving Living Small, Dewan @ Imperfect Enjoyment (buy his book too), Kelly @ IbbyDibbyDow, Rich @ Round Seventeen, Ernessa @ Fierce And Nerdy, Metalia @ Metalia, Sabrina @ Leap And the Mosquito Net Will Appear, Ann @ Dr. Strangemom, Kathy @ Mama Kat’s Losin It, and really anyone else who wants some props. I’m just getting into this whole reading-other-people’s-blogs thing. So make some suggestions as well. These are also good ones who’ve already had this illustrious honor bestowed upon them: The Pretend Writer, Best of Fates, Midwestern MamaH, Bite the Bedbugs

    Uh oh. Gotta go. I see some paparazzi by the mac-n-cheese. I’m big time, y’all.