I don't remember much of having cancer, but I have a scar to prove it. I was seven or eight when I was diagnosed with melanoma. I remember it was in the form of a large, hairy mole on my upper right arm that continued to grow as I got older. My mother and father were scared when the doctor told them that if they didn't stop it from spreading immidiately, it would overtake too much skin to be removed with simple surgery. I could've died, had I let it grow any longer I suppose.
I remember being pushed into surgery. I lied face down, because the mole was on the back of my arm as they pumped my arm full of drugs to numb it. I was so young when my trypanophobia was broken. They did the surgery while I was awake, afraid that anesthesia and the severe blood loss I was to experience back then would kill me. The IV in my arm hurt enough as it was, but the needles pinched with a severity that made me feel as though I wouldn't make it. As the drugs took their effect, my arm become totally numb. I couldn't feel my fingers as they took the scalpal to my arm. I don't remember much the surgery- bright lights, men in surgical masks, you know the show. The thing that I remember most vividly though was whenever they cut a chunk of skin from my arm, they would place it in a small, metal tin and show it to me like it was our achievement together. Here's your reward, a slice of organic tissue festering with the cancer that coursed through you.
After the surgery, they sewed me up. The stitches stretched my skin because they didn't feel comfortable using a graft until they were certain there was no more cancer to spread. The little wires that stuck out of my skin were supposed to dissolve, but they never did, and inevitably they had to remove them. It left a huge scar on my arm that reminds me of that cancer whenever I see it, because of how much I had forgotten from my childhood since before my father died.
I never considered myself a cancer survivor until recently- it never occured to me. I was told that what I was experiencing was just a routine surgery and that I was going to be fine. They reiterated it so much, I'm disappointed that I couldn't read between the lines back then. But maybe I could and I just forgot. I don't remember being afraid though.
After the surgery, they carted me to a recovery room on a wheel chair for some reason that I didn't quite understand. It didn't matter, it was fun being in a wheel chair, alhough I didn't feel like I deserved it much. My arm was wrapped tightly and for weeks to come, I would remove it and show the stitches to my friends in order to seem cool.
Today, I don't think about it too much, except curious of whether or not it'll impact my writing career. "BEHNAM RIAHI: CANCER SURVIVOR." Yeah, whatever. Just a small woe on a much longer list, overshadowed by my more emotional struggles. I do get paranoid though, when ever I freckle. I study it almost obsessively, wondering if this will be the freckle that kills me. Growing up and becoming aware of my problems was probably the worst mistake I had ever made. I wish I didn't have this scar so the whole ordeal could've just been left in the past. Some things aren't meant to be forgotten though and I'm wondering if there's a reason I'm wondering about it so much lately.
I should probably quit smoking before the sequal comes around.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Saturday, March 20, 2010
collections 6:4
Can we ever abandon our old lives? Not likely. A lot of people have heard the story now- Maybe more people than I would've liked to have admitted it to, but a lot of people who I felt like I had to admit it to in order to start getting over it- my molestation. Once upon a time, there was a man who snuck into my room late after I dosed off... he ran his hands over my body, groping my genitals and violating me while I slept. It's not your ordinary story of a molestation though- I was twenty one when it happened and he was my roommate.
I had met him through my girlfriend at the time and trusted him, as though he were a close friend of mine. We spent afternoons talking about my girlfriend, video games, or any number of subjects- the things that friends talked about. I smoked some of my first cigarettes with him while lamenting the downward spiral of that relationship and I was there for him whenever he was emotionally struggling. And yet, he still snuck into my room late at night and touched me... I didn't know at first, but started catching on. I pissed the bed one night, something I hadn't done in over a decade... and I started having vivid sexual dreams. After I told him about the first sex dream, I said, "It felt so real." He giggled awkwardly, averting his eyes. Like he didn't know, right? My suspicians grew over time and once, I asked him about it. He wrapped his hands around my throat and started choking me, a great big smile on his face. I managed to kick him off, but then I knew that I had to leave. I packed everything up one morning and was out the door, homeless for two weeks because of him in the middle of my semester. I did manage to get back on my feet though- And one day, one of his female friends told me what I had already known. She just confirmed it for me, by telling me out of surprise.
I never did forgive him and I doubt I ever will, but as my semester ends and I'm considering going back home, the fear of seeing him again climbs deep in the pit of my stomach. Only moments ago, a friend of mine posted a new picture on facebook- he was a co-worker, as well as the co-worker of my molestor, and as it turns out, the two are still friends. In fact, everyone who my molestor and I had worked together with are still friends- I quit that job because of him, because they wouldn't do anything to stop him from working there, even though he sexually abused me, and yet they can still be friends with him... convinced that I had been lying, I guess. I guess it's easier to just assume the kid who left was lying.
He still approaches some of my friends- he talks shit about me, like I was the one who wronged him. The worst part about it is that I am an adult though, and that I could never do anything. I can't say, "Well, it happened when I was young," or "I didn't know better," or "There was nothing I could do." There's no excuse for this happening to an adult- I'm supposed go out and beat his ass or something, but for some reason, I don't even have the courage to see his face again. I don't have the strength to... I try so hard to pretend he never existed that any evidence he did makes me feel sick to my stomach, to the point of wanting to vomit. As an adult male who was molested, I can't play a fucking victim, even though I know I am.
I guess I'm writing this on a public place because I think it will help me to use it in my actual writing, knowing that the truth will be out there and I won't be afraid to try it in work that I intend on publishing. My life has been ups and downs and that's one of the lower downs, but I need to climb up from it some way or another. I will never get vengeance, and I don't want it... As much as I may want to though, I will never forget it either. So this isn't for pity, this isn't for understanding... this is just an excerpt from a past life that I can't escape, that follows me wherever I go. I hope karma will handle the rest, but until then... I'll just keep on writing.
I had met him through my girlfriend at the time and trusted him, as though he were a close friend of mine. We spent afternoons talking about my girlfriend, video games, or any number of subjects- the things that friends talked about. I smoked some of my first cigarettes with him while lamenting the downward spiral of that relationship and I was there for him whenever he was emotionally struggling. And yet, he still snuck into my room late at night and touched me... I didn't know at first, but started catching on. I pissed the bed one night, something I hadn't done in over a decade... and I started having vivid sexual dreams. After I told him about the first sex dream, I said, "It felt so real." He giggled awkwardly, averting his eyes. Like he didn't know, right? My suspicians grew over time and once, I asked him about it. He wrapped his hands around my throat and started choking me, a great big smile on his face. I managed to kick him off, but then I knew that I had to leave. I packed everything up one morning and was out the door, homeless for two weeks because of him in the middle of my semester. I did manage to get back on my feet though- And one day, one of his female friends told me what I had already known. She just confirmed it for me, by telling me out of surprise.
I never did forgive him and I doubt I ever will, but as my semester ends and I'm considering going back home, the fear of seeing him again climbs deep in the pit of my stomach. Only moments ago, a friend of mine posted a new picture on facebook- he was a co-worker, as well as the co-worker of my molestor, and as it turns out, the two are still friends. In fact, everyone who my molestor and I had worked together with are still friends- I quit that job because of him, because they wouldn't do anything to stop him from working there, even though he sexually abused me, and yet they can still be friends with him... convinced that I had been lying, I guess. I guess it's easier to just assume the kid who left was lying.
He still approaches some of my friends- he talks shit about me, like I was the one who wronged him. The worst part about it is that I am an adult though, and that I could never do anything. I can't say, "Well, it happened when I was young," or "I didn't know better," or "There was nothing I could do." There's no excuse for this happening to an adult- I'm supposed go out and beat his ass or something, but for some reason, I don't even have the courage to see his face again. I don't have the strength to... I try so hard to pretend he never existed that any evidence he did makes me feel sick to my stomach, to the point of wanting to vomit. As an adult male who was molested, I can't play a fucking victim, even though I know I am.
I guess I'm writing this on a public place because I think it will help me to use it in my actual writing, knowing that the truth will be out there and I won't be afraid to try it in work that I intend on publishing. My life has been ups and downs and that's one of the lower downs, but I need to climb up from it some way or another. I will never get vengeance, and I don't want it... As much as I may want to though, I will never forget it either. So this isn't for pity, this isn't for understanding... this is just an excerpt from a past life that I can't escape, that follows me wherever I go. I hope karma will handle the rest, but until then... I'll just keep on writing.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
collections 6:3
Who wants to make me famous? Thus far, no one. Here we have a well-rounded boy with all the troubles of a regular boy (and then some!) and yet, there isn't a reality show about me yet. So here's the scoop:
I want to know if you can take an average kid like me and make him a fucking micro-celebrity. I figure with some fine-tuned editing, hiding some trade secrets, and putting my face everywhere this side of the moon, we can have ourselves a celebrity. Now don't you want to be able to say, "I knew him when he was just a kid whining on his blog about being famous?"
Here's what I've noticed has happened since I've moved to Chicago. I've modelled for a handful of photography projects, I've appeared in a handful of short student films, and I'm currently being painted by one of Chicago's finest. I've appeared in the school paper twice, I think? At least. I work for the up-and-coming Columbia sponsored zine, Chi-Tea too. I've performed at a number of open mics and have made a name for myself as being "vulgar," and I'm competing at the Windy City Story Slam on March 6th.
At parties, people have recognized me... "You're that kid..." I've heard it before. Being a college-level celebrity isn't enough though. We need to make Chicago see the boy who crawled from the rural trailer to get here.
Now while you're reading this, you're asking yourself, "Why should you be famous? What makes you better than the rest of us?" That's pretty much it though... Nothing does. The fact is, if I can become a household name, anyone can. So why not lift up one of your lessers and see where that goes?
As a celebrity, I will do everything in my power to bring notice to my peers. That's you guys. I'll even go so far as to have one of those celebrity lifestyles, where people sit around, drink or smoke or do whatever drug of choice is for them, while we discuss philosophy in my apartment as though we're pretentious socialites who glimmer in the public eye. Y'know, like the kind of stuff you see in movies with socialites. Who wants a martini?
So what's the point of this meaningless goal? There really isn't one. I don't even want to be famous that bad. I just think it'd be fun to see where it goes. Sure, I've done stuff before... I write, right? I've written a book, which still needs to be thoroughly edited before it goes to publication, but so what? It's just that life is more fun when you change it up every once in a while. I love the way things have rolled thus far- I've got a lot to be happy for. Good friends, for starters. Although I don't fall into any particular clique, I've got a number of friends who I know I can depend on and who I hope know can depend on me. Friendship is something I've grown to value over my years being not famous. It's like the cherry ontop of the sundae that is hardwork and effort. Without the cherry, you just got a pile of ice cream. It isn't even really a sundae.
So why did I jump to this conclusion, since I'm so satisfied with everything I have? I just realized something. After I joined up this whole story slam thing and pushed it on facebook, I noticed something when I invited people to come check it out. Even though in the post, I said, "At least post on my wall and wish me good luck," I had zero people wishing me good luck, several people immidiately saying they won't be available on the coming weekend, and two people delete me from their friends. Seriously, they deleted me from their friends for inviting them to support me during the biggest career booster I've ever had dropped into my lap. I'm not sure what that is, apart from realizing whichever two friends who have chosen to disassociate with me are shallow, inept people who have no interest in supporting anyone but themselves... but it's not like I really have room to even say much on the subject, because I couldn't tell you who those two friends were for the life of me. I hope they were two strangers.
What is being famous going to do for me, we have to wonder. Well, for starters, it could probably get me a quicker publication when I do finally get around to editing my book (lol this summer, right?) and if I can get published, I can assure my other writing friends that I will do what I can to help them get published! That's also you guys. I could probably get involved in the biz- publications? Sure. TV? Maybe. Film? Who knows. Either way, famous Behnam is just as likely to hook up his friends as ordinary Behnam. And it's not like I'm a discriminatory, self-righteous asshole who is looking for a goddamn hand out. I'm a nice guy and it's about time karma pays me off for all the nice things that I do for strangers.
Now let's be serious. It's not likely that I'm going to get famous. This is all just the rantings of a kid who has too much time to himself this weekend. This isn't a serious expectation or anything like that, although I am flirting with the thought that this might be pretty fucking cool. In time, maybe it'll flesh itself out...
But why wait? Let's be stupid, let's be reckless, let's become the next difficult-to-pronounce household name.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
collections 6:2
This is the part of the story where he says, "It doesn't really matter what happens, because I'll always value everything that you've taught me." He says that as he holds he holds his breath, releases his clenched fingers from the hand of the woman he loves, and steps into the warfront. Bullets will inevitably plunge through his body like falling stars disappearing into the night sky and he'll fall to his knees. What he finds there will either be his salvation or his demise.
This is the part of the story where the hero dies or gets just what he needs. Every character ever written wants something. It could something as simple as wanting to live or it could be something as complex as wanting to find a higher power. A character who is apathetic doesn't do things- even if you should throw him into an unlikely situation (lol, helicoptor attack), it won't be much of a story if he doesn't make any attempt to defend himself. Just like with real life, apathetic characters don't make great people to hang out with. Every story needs a passionate hero who picks up his mighty pen or sword or whatever you want to arm him with for the sake of something- love, life, happiness, whatever. It could even be the sick pleasure of sadism that keeps him going, as long as it's going somewhere.
More often than not, I have to wonder if I'm just an apathetic character going through the motions. Sure, I'm in school... that must mean I want a college degree, right? I'm living on my own in Chicago, even though I don't have any family to speak of. That must mean that I want independence or the city lifestyle, right? I occassionally have a romance. That must mean that I'm trying to find the dream of falling of in love or at least trying to get a piece, doesn't it?
I don't really know what it is that I want. I don't even know why I'm blogging. Writing just to write doesn't make any sense though. We know one thing: I want to get published. Samurai Melodrama hasn't been touched since last semester and those were only some careful changes to the first chapter, but not careful enough to get me an A in my historical fiction class. Either way, they could use a little more work.
It's pretty easy to see what I don't want- stalkers, for instance, are an ongoing issue. Let's not drop names, but over the last year, I think I've had four people pursuing me with intent that has driven me uncomfortable and even angry. I also don't want bad grades, apparent by my fixation on my writing and working on new things. More than anything, I don't want failure. I'm sick of being the low-class kid who rolls his own cigarettes and never misses a free lunch at Columbia. I'm sick of wearing the same worn out boots or shoes that are in terrible need of a cobbler or disposal. I'm sick of the taste of black coffee because sugar and cream don't feel like a worthwhile expense.
Being poor has taught me a lot. It's taught me the value of a dollar- how to stretch it and how to make it do what I want. Today, the dollar has put me in school, it's given me my apartment, and it's given me what I need to succeed in a career as a writer (like a printer, ink, paper, computer, black coffee). However, the dollar has fucked me over one too many times. The IRS isn't on my ass quite as hard as they used to be, but there was a time where I owed fifteen thousand dollars to the internal revenue service because of mistakes my mother made that I never saw any benefit from myself. There were times where I thought I was going to get kicked out of my dormitory because I hadn't paid the full amount to continue attending college. There were times where I was even homeless. Money and I have had a relationship that's been on and off and while I'm in no particular trouble right now, I can see money being fickle as I consider my plans for the summer.
Love is a funny thing to talk to me about. Most of the time, I'll deny it even exists. "What's love? Just two people getting along." Most of the time, it isn't even that. It seems like love is best defined as two people who don't get along but choose to stay together anyway. I've been in situations like that- but I don't know that it was love that bonded us. Recently, I read Shit Magnet by Jim Goad and a wonderful thing happened to me: Clarity. Shit Magnet is Jim's autobiography and in the book, he tells a tale of women scorned against him and out to create misery beyond anything he could've possibly comprehended. A lot of my relationships where I unhappily stayed together are similiar to his, except I don't beat the shit out of those girls like he inevitably did. It's a powerful weapon called guilt: Guilt projection is the idea that when someone is unhappy, unsatisfied, and unwilling to accept responsibility for their answers, they'll place it on their significant other- "You're the one who makes me unhappy." No, it couldn't be the fact that you've never thought highly of yourself. It must be my fault. Guilt projection is a powerful weapon that has a means of confusing the idea of love for what really is a tag game of blaming, until finally there's no point putting up with it. In the last few relationships I've had, I took the blame on my shoulders just because I didn't feel like doing it anymore. I'm not invincible and it hurts, to be degraded verbally to all her friends and family, but I'd prefer that to mainting any relationship where I'm just trying to push something off on someone else that they pushed onto me.
So what is love then? Love is patient, love is kind, love is everything the bible says it is. Love is living and according to the bible, we owe it to God for giving us the benefit of living. Thanks, God. You're really makin' it easy on us. Love has also been confused with obsession- That takes me back. I once was obsessed with a girl, nearly eight years ago. I was in high school and had never so much as smelled a girl before when one stepped into my life and we fell head over heels for a while. Back then, I would've let her poop on me if it made her happier to be with me, which reveals how little I really thought of myself in the first place. It wasn't about my happiness- it was about hers, but then again, why did I want to make myself happy anyway? I hated myself. It's not quite the case anymore and I by no means am excited by thought of a Cleveland Steamer.
In fact, I'd say I have a healthy relationship with myself despite the questions of mortallity apparent in my last post. I like the way I like, the way my skin hugs my bones and the art or jewelry embedded into it. I like the way my dick looks, enough to describe it to an audience of my peers during the first week of school last semester. I like the way my hair looks as it grows out and trails over my face, like a feather veil to decieve those around me from being certain of my true intent. I like my bold lips, my olive skin, my large, brown eyes, and the way my my face has a triangular shape. I think I'm attractive, so what? I like the way I think too. I like the way that I can jump to abstract thoughts whenever I want and the influences I have- the will that I have in order to be successful and the mathematic talents handed down to me by my parents. I like how I'm cleverly poetic when I have the right inspiration and how I easily I can pick up another language. I even like how warped and vulgar I can be, whenever I want to.
I'm not saying I'm superior to anyone. I'm no ego-maniac- just a kid with a healthy self esteem. This body and this mind aren't forever and like everything, they'll return to the earth from which they've come one day. But for now, I think it's appropriate to say that I have a better understanding of love than I previously thought. If I had to say what love is, it's being able to admit when you're wrong or being stupid- love is being able to be humbled by another person, regardless of how highly you think of yourself. Love is being willing to ignore your responsibilities, to make sacrifices in order to appreciate the person who you care about. But if only one person in a relationship loves themselves, it becomes one person making meaningful sacrifices and admitting he's wrong. It becomes one person who has something to throw away for the other and another person who has nothing worth throwing away, because that other person cares so little about everything he or she already has.
So now the big question- Have I been in love? That one'll sit in the air. It's not that I'm uncomfortable answering it, but rather I don't see a purpose in it for the moment- I could say no and break the heart of everyone who's ever shown any measure of affection to me or I could say yes and make others hopeful when hope isn't meant for them. Love is private- love is a secret that you want to tell everyone, but you know better about it.
So we've broken down my two wants into clear ideas: Money, the success that comes with it- the freedom that comes with it. And love, the constraint that comes with that and the willingness to sacrifice the freedoms you've achieved. I'm not sure if that's what I really want or not- if that's what makes this character tick, but I think at the very least, I'm onto something. Tomorrow is a new day- the sun will rise over the city again and I'll travel through snow, in order to better my education and hope that one day, I can give someone I love everything she needs. Either way-
Now that we know who this character is, let's keep reading to see where my story is going.
This is the part of the story where the hero dies or gets just what he needs. Every character ever written wants something. It could something as simple as wanting to live or it could be something as complex as wanting to find a higher power. A character who is apathetic doesn't do things- even if you should throw him into an unlikely situation (lol, helicoptor attack), it won't be much of a story if he doesn't make any attempt to defend himself. Just like with real life, apathetic characters don't make great people to hang out with. Every story needs a passionate hero who picks up his mighty pen or sword or whatever you want to arm him with for the sake of something- love, life, happiness, whatever. It could even be the sick pleasure of sadism that keeps him going, as long as it's going somewhere.
More often than not, I have to wonder if I'm just an apathetic character going through the motions. Sure, I'm in school... that must mean I want a college degree, right? I'm living on my own in Chicago, even though I don't have any family to speak of. That must mean that I want independence or the city lifestyle, right? I occassionally have a romance. That must mean that I'm trying to find the dream of falling of in love or at least trying to get a piece, doesn't it?
I don't really know what it is that I want. I don't even know why I'm blogging. Writing just to write doesn't make any sense though. We know one thing: I want to get published. Samurai Melodrama hasn't been touched since last semester and those were only some careful changes to the first chapter, but not careful enough to get me an A in my historical fiction class. Either way, they could use a little more work.
It's pretty easy to see what I don't want- stalkers, for instance, are an ongoing issue. Let's not drop names, but over the last year, I think I've had four people pursuing me with intent that has driven me uncomfortable and even angry. I also don't want bad grades, apparent by my fixation on my writing and working on new things. More than anything, I don't want failure. I'm sick of being the low-class kid who rolls his own cigarettes and never misses a free lunch at Columbia. I'm sick of wearing the same worn out boots or shoes that are in terrible need of a cobbler or disposal. I'm sick of the taste of black coffee because sugar and cream don't feel like a worthwhile expense.
Being poor has taught me a lot. It's taught me the value of a dollar- how to stretch it and how to make it do what I want. Today, the dollar has put me in school, it's given me my apartment, and it's given me what I need to succeed in a career as a writer (like a printer, ink, paper, computer, black coffee). However, the dollar has fucked me over one too many times. The IRS isn't on my ass quite as hard as they used to be, but there was a time where I owed fifteen thousand dollars to the internal revenue service because of mistakes my mother made that I never saw any benefit from myself. There were times where I thought I was going to get kicked out of my dormitory because I hadn't paid the full amount to continue attending college. There were times where I was even homeless. Money and I have had a relationship that's been on and off and while I'm in no particular trouble right now, I can see money being fickle as I consider my plans for the summer.
Love is a funny thing to talk to me about. Most of the time, I'll deny it even exists. "What's love? Just two people getting along." Most of the time, it isn't even that. It seems like love is best defined as two people who don't get along but choose to stay together anyway. I've been in situations like that- but I don't know that it was love that bonded us. Recently, I read Shit Magnet by Jim Goad and a wonderful thing happened to me: Clarity. Shit Magnet is Jim's autobiography and in the book, he tells a tale of women scorned against him and out to create misery beyond anything he could've possibly comprehended. A lot of my relationships where I unhappily stayed together are similiar to his, except I don't beat the shit out of those girls like he inevitably did. It's a powerful weapon called guilt: Guilt projection is the idea that when someone is unhappy, unsatisfied, and unwilling to accept responsibility for their answers, they'll place it on their significant other- "You're the one who makes me unhappy." No, it couldn't be the fact that you've never thought highly of yourself. It must be my fault. Guilt projection is a powerful weapon that has a means of confusing the idea of love for what really is a tag game of blaming, until finally there's no point putting up with it. In the last few relationships I've had, I took the blame on my shoulders just because I didn't feel like doing it anymore. I'm not invincible and it hurts, to be degraded verbally to all her friends and family, but I'd prefer that to mainting any relationship where I'm just trying to push something off on someone else that they pushed onto me.
So what is love then? Love is patient, love is kind, love is everything the bible says it is. Love is living and according to the bible, we owe it to God for giving us the benefit of living. Thanks, God. You're really makin' it easy on us. Love has also been confused with obsession- That takes me back. I once was obsessed with a girl, nearly eight years ago. I was in high school and had never so much as smelled a girl before when one stepped into my life and we fell head over heels for a while. Back then, I would've let her poop on me if it made her happier to be with me, which reveals how little I really thought of myself in the first place. It wasn't about my happiness- it was about hers, but then again, why did I want to make myself happy anyway? I hated myself. It's not quite the case anymore and I by no means am excited by thought of a Cleveland Steamer.
In fact, I'd say I have a healthy relationship with myself despite the questions of mortallity apparent in my last post. I like the way I like, the way my skin hugs my bones and the art or jewelry embedded into it. I like the way my dick looks, enough to describe it to an audience of my peers during the first week of school last semester. I like the way my hair looks as it grows out and trails over my face, like a feather veil to decieve those around me from being certain of my true intent. I like my bold lips, my olive skin, my large, brown eyes, and the way my my face has a triangular shape. I think I'm attractive, so what? I like the way I think too. I like the way that I can jump to abstract thoughts whenever I want and the influences I have- the will that I have in order to be successful and the mathematic talents handed down to me by my parents. I like how I'm cleverly poetic when I have the right inspiration and how I easily I can pick up another language. I even like how warped and vulgar I can be, whenever I want to.
I'm not saying I'm superior to anyone. I'm no ego-maniac- just a kid with a healthy self esteem. This body and this mind aren't forever and like everything, they'll return to the earth from which they've come one day. But for now, I think it's appropriate to say that I have a better understanding of love than I previously thought. If I had to say what love is, it's being able to admit when you're wrong or being stupid- love is being able to be humbled by another person, regardless of how highly you think of yourself. Love is being willing to ignore your responsibilities, to make sacrifices in order to appreciate the person who you care about. But if only one person in a relationship loves themselves, it becomes one person making meaningful sacrifices and admitting he's wrong. It becomes one person who has something to throw away for the other and another person who has nothing worth throwing away, because that other person cares so little about everything he or she already has.
So now the big question- Have I been in love? That one'll sit in the air. It's not that I'm uncomfortable answering it, but rather I don't see a purpose in it for the moment- I could say no and break the heart of everyone who's ever shown any measure of affection to me or I could say yes and make others hopeful when hope isn't meant for them. Love is private- love is a secret that you want to tell everyone, but you know better about it.
So we've broken down my two wants into clear ideas: Money, the success that comes with it- the freedom that comes with it. And love, the constraint that comes with that and the willingness to sacrifice the freedoms you've achieved. I'm not sure if that's what I really want or not- if that's what makes this character tick, but I think at the very least, I'm onto something. Tomorrow is a new day- the sun will rise over the city again and I'll travel through snow, in order to better my education and hope that one day, I can give someone I love everything she needs. Either way-
Now that we know who this character is, let's keep reading to see where my story is going.
collections 6:1
Every morning for the last two months, I woke up thinking the same thought: Today, I'm going to die. I haven't died yet, but today I was sure would be my last. As I traversed under the canopies before every door on Wabash St, I kept thinking, "This is where it all ends." I imagined a car losing control in the snow and colliding into me, crushing my frail form to a fine, stick dust. I imagined an icicle dislodging from the roof of a building and coming down, delivering that final blow as it impacts trough my skull and organs, impaling me on something that will inevitably melt away. I imagined a man drawing a gun from his coat and forcing it into my mouth, pulling the trigger just enough times to sever my cerebellum from my spine and leave me a lifeless husk as he steals my bag, my coat, my wallet.
None of those things happened. I made it to Jewel, I bought some tobacco, and I had another cigarette as I waited for my demise. This is my demise though... This feeling of uncertainty which has carried me this far, uncertain about love and happiness or hate and sadness. I'm uncertain about every decision I've ever made. Should I have forgiven the man who molested me or should I have killed him? Should I keep trying to attain revenge for the people who killed my father or should I just give up the fruitless war that no one will ever realized I blipped on the map for? Should I forgive my mother, the woman who betrayed me, robbed me, and abandoned me when I was only in high school or did I make the right decision to try and be her son again? And what about her husband, who beat me and left me fearful and taught me for the first time why suicide doesn't seem so painless or do I let him go and enjoy the pain he'll inflict on others? Or the girl who cheated on me, in front of me, with a man twice my size... should I have given her that ride home, even though I was heartbroken? There're so many people who have wronged me in my life, because of racism and alternative forms of discrimination- was I right to passively let them go? To consider forgiving them and demeaning my own wars?
I should've died in that car accident six years ago. When my car slipped on the asphalt because of the recent rain and sticky weather and the front end scraped against the side of the highway, and that car came speeding up as mine spun to its side... that car should've collided through me then. It shouldn't have stopped when it had and I shouldn't have been able to back up and straight my vehicle. It should've passed through me and stolen my ghost from my body.
That's only one occassion that I should've died. There was also that time on the free way when the roads were covered in black ice and pulled in front of a semi, only to lose control and go spinning into the median... My car was covered in snow and as I pulled back onto the road, I was nearly wrecked again by another semi. I should've died then too.
I should've died when my mother's husband was standing in front of me, drunk... as I stood between him and the battered wife who I called my mother. He could've killed the fourteen year old boy with one punch, but instead, that fourteen year old picked up the phone and threatened to call the police. He could've still killed the boy, but he ran out the door... even though he would've killed my mother had I not stepped in.
I should've died so many more times that I can't remember. Many are blocked out and many I never realized. My life has been a series of moments that I must consider, "I'm lucky to be alive." But the days that go by where I can't ignore the voice in my head that says, "it's time," are killing me. I can't wake up every morning like this, peering at everything in my room that I could use to end myself. I can't go to bed every night, wondering who would be the first to discover me hanging from a noose- would I hang in my class room? On the floor my classes are on? Where my student organizations meet? In my home? At work? Where my family lives? My diminishing sanctuaries?
Death is vanity- I'm clearly not getting enough of it lately. Wanting to die is as meaningful as wanting to be noticed. I'm not saying that I want to die... I just feel like I should. I'm not going to end my life any time soon, at least not on purpose... I just feel like it's going to happen at any moment. As though it'll strike me like an epiphany and then I'll be surrendered to darkness. I imagine the only thing I'll realize is, "this is my last breath," as it escapes lips and that'll be the end of it. I don't think I'll cry or be unhappy, because I'm not afraid of death. I'm ready for it... I've lived my life to the fullest, trying to attain things that people only fantasize about. I may have even attained some of them. Who knows? It doesn't matter though. No matter how many lives I've touched, my death won't matter any. My funeral might be big, it might be beautiful, and it might be everything that everyone ever wanted their funeral to be like... but it'll only be a whisper and nothing more.
I'm getting old, but I ain't dead yet. I guess there must be a reason I'm still here. I guess I have to keep pushing and sticking to my choices. Maybe when I wake up tomorrow, I'll remember how much fun it is to live again.
Are you there, God? It's Ben. I know you've given me your worst, because you're a sick, sadistic motherfucker. But I ain't dead yet. If you've got anymore, better shovel it on quick before I come back hard enough to put the devil to shame.
None of those things happened. I made it to Jewel, I bought some tobacco, and I had another cigarette as I waited for my demise. This is my demise though... This feeling of uncertainty which has carried me this far, uncertain about love and happiness or hate and sadness. I'm uncertain about every decision I've ever made. Should I have forgiven the man who molested me or should I have killed him? Should I keep trying to attain revenge for the people who killed my father or should I just give up the fruitless war that no one will ever realized I blipped on the map for? Should I forgive my mother, the woman who betrayed me, robbed me, and abandoned me when I was only in high school or did I make the right decision to try and be her son again? And what about her husband, who beat me and left me fearful and taught me for the first time why suicide doesn't seem so painless or do I let him go and enjoy the pain he'll inflict on others? Or the girl who cheated on me, in front of me, with a man twice my size... should I have given her that ride home, even though I was heartbroken? There're so many people who have wronged me in my life, because of racism and alternative forms of discrimination- was I right to passively let them go? To consider forgiving them and demeaning my own wars?
I should've died in that car accident six years ago. When my car slipped on the asphalt because of the recent rain and sticky weather and the front end scraped against the side of the highway, and that car came speeding up as mine spun to its side... that car should've collided through me then. It shouldn't have stopped when it had and I shouldn't have been able to back up and straight my vehicle. It should've passed through me and stolen my ghost from my body.
That's only one occassion that I should've died. There was also that time on the free way when the roads were covered in black ice and pulled in front of a semi, only to lose control and go spinning into the median... My car was covered in snow and as I pulled back onto the road, I was nearly wrecked again by another semi. I should've died then too.
I should've died when my mother's husband was standing in front of me, drunk... as I stood between him and the battered wife who I called my mother. He could've killed the fourteen year old boy with one punch, but instead, that fourteen year old picked up the phone and threatened to call the police. He could've still killed the boy, but he ran out the door... even though he would've killed my mother had I not stepped in.
I should've died so many more times that I can't remember. Many are blocked out and many I never realized. My life has been a series of moments that I must consider, "I'm lucky to be alive." But the days that go by where I can't ignore the voice in my head that says, "it's time," are killing me. I can't wake up every morning like this, peering at everything in my room that I could use to end myself. I can't go to bed every night, wondering who would be the first to discover me hanging from a noose- would I hang in my class room? On the floor my classes are on? Where my student organizations meet? In my home? At work? Where my family lives? My diminishing sanctuaries?
Death is vanity- I'm clearly not getting enough of it lately. Wanting to die is as meaningful as wanting to be noticed. I'm not saying that I want to die... I just feel like I should. I'm not going to end my life any time soon, at least not on purpose... I just feel like it's going to happen at any moment. As though it'll strike me like an epiphany and then I'll be surrendered to darkness. I imagine the only thing I'll realize is, "this is my last breath," as it escapes lips and that'll be the end of it. I don't think I'll cry or be unhappy, because I'm not afraid of death. I'm ready for it... I've lived my life to the fullest, trying to attain things that people only fantasize about. I may have even attained some of them. Who knows? It doesn't matter though. No matter how many lives I've touched, my death won't matter any. My funeral might be big, it might be beautiful, and it might be everything that everyone ever wanted their funeral to be like... but it'll only be a whisper and nothing more.
I'm getting old, but I ain't dead yet. I guess there must be a reason I'm still here. I guess I have to keep pushing and sticking to my choices. Maybe when I wake up tomorrow, I'll remember how much fun it is to live again.
Are you there, God? It's Ben. I know you've given me your worst, because you're a sick, sadistic motherfucker. But I ain't dead yet. If you've got anymore, better shovel it on quick before I come back hard enough to put the devil to shame.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
collections 5:18
Dear Dad,
Why did you have to die? I really need you right now. I know it's been ten years, but I need you so much that I can't even breathe on some nights. It isn't fair that you left me when I was a kid... I didn't understand what it meant then and I don't understand what it means now. I just know that I need you. I can't take everything by myself and not a day goes by that I don't wish you were here to tell me everything would be okay- to support me in my goals and dreams, patting me on the shoulder the way you used to do and let me know that I can depend on you. I can't depend on you though- because you left me, and it's just not fucking fair. I can't keep swallowing this lump in my throat that's choking the oxygen from me... I can't keep digging into empty pockets and finding nothing but butterflies. Even butterflies migrate with their families, but since you left I barely have a family to depend on. I have a mother who works her ass off just to survive on her own and my brothers live aimlessly, with no hope to make much for the future. Weren't you supposed to invest in me? I don't want to cry alone anymore. I don't want to feel a part of myself die each time I fail you, because you aren't here to tell me to try again. I don't want to do any of this shit anymore. I want to be with you. I want you to hold me like you did when I was a little kid, but the closest I'll ever get is listening to my Iranian friends talk about their dads and try to connect all the dots that I've forgotten. I'm tired of this pain, this ache, this loneliness that I have to live with- I'm tired of my family being so far away while I stay in this epic city all by myself. I'm tired of living some nights, knowing that I have to take care of all my problems by myself. Was it worth it? Was it worth it to die the way you did? To give your life for my nieces and nephews in Iran, trying to get them to this country? Were they more important than me? Your oldest son? My mother and brothers didn't know that the tenth anniversary of your death had come, but I knew. I was counting the days, just as I've counted the days since you've been gone. Tomorrow I'll choke down these feelings for another day and I'll pretend like I don't want to cry anymore, just like I've done every day for the last ten years... but you were my best friend and my father and my hero. And now you're just a ghost and I'm still a boy who can't grow up because he never learned a goddamn thing that he didn't have to teach himself. I had to figure out where to go after high school on my own and what to do. I had to figure out how to take out a loan to pay for it and how to manage my time so I can make the most of my education. I had to figure out how to network and how to make the contacts necessary to succeed in my field and I'll have to figure out how to be successful in that field. I'll have to figure out what to say to a woman you love and how to raise your children and what retirees do for fun. I'll have to figure out how to be a man, because I'm just a fucking child- This is why I haven't grown or aged since I was thirteen. Because I've never been able to grow up without you.
I love you though. I always will. Please, help me... please.
Behnam
Why did you have to die? I really need you right now. I know it's been ten years, but I need you so much that I can't even breathe on some nights. It isn't fair that you left me when I was a kid... I didn't understand what it meant then and I don't understand what it means now. I just know that I need you. I can't take everything by myself and not a day goes by that I don't wish you were here to tell me everything would be okay- to support me in my goals and dreams, patting me on the shoulder the way you used to do and let me know that I can depend on you. I can't depend on you though- because you left me, and it's just not fucking fair. I can't keep swallowing this lump in my throat that's choking the oxygen from me... I can't keep digging into empty pockets and finding nothing but butterflies. Even butterflies migrate with their families, but since you left I barely have a family to depend on. I have a mother who works her ass off just to survive on her own and my brothers live aimlessly, with no hope to make much for the future. Weren't you supposed to invest in me? I don't want to cry alone anymore. I don't want to feel a part of myself die each time I fail you, because you aren't here to tell me to try again. I don't want to do any of this shit anymore. I want to be with you. I want you to hold me like you did when I was a little kid, but the closest I'll ever get is listening to my Iranian friends talk about their dads and try to connect all the dots that I've forgotten. I'm tired of this pain, this ache, this loneliness that I have to live with- I'm tired of my family being so far away while I stay in this epic city all by myself. I'm tired of living some nights, knowing that I have to take care of all my problems by myself. Was it worth it? Was it worth it to die the way you did? To give your life for my nieces and nephews in Iran, trying to get them to this country? Were they more important than me? Your oldest son? My mother and brothers didn't know that the tenth anniversary of your death had come, but I knew. I was counting the days, just as I've counted the days since you've been gone. Tomorrow I'll choke down these feelings for another day and I'll pretend like I don't want to cry anymore, just like I've done every day for the last ten years... but you were my best friend and my father and my hero. And now you're just a ghost and I'm still a boy who can't grow up because he never learned a goddamn thing that he didn't have to teach himself. I had to figure out where to go after high school on my own and what to do. I had to figure out how to take out a loan to pay for it and how to manage my time so I can make the most of my education. I had to figure out how to network and how to make the contacts necessary to succeed in my field and I'll have to figure out how to be successful in that field. I'll have to figure out what to say to a woman you love and how to raise your children and what retirees do for fun. I'll have to figure out how to be a man, because I'm just a fucking child- This is why I haven't grown or aged since I was thirteen. Because I've never been able to grow up without you.
I love you though. I always will. Please, help me... please.
Behnam
Sunday, October 25, 2009
collections 5:17
I need to get in touch with my roots again. As I sit here, all I can think about is standing on an empty plain with the wind passing around me, picking up the grass as the cornfields sway around me, with a pack of cigarettes in my pocket and one dangling from my mouth, clinging only by the moisture of my lips. I need space to breathe- space that the city doesn't offer. I've spent years running- running from everything that I thought I didn't deserve. Like love- when you look back at my history, I've got a bad habit for getting into relationships and then abandoning them by setting dates for the future. "In two years, I'm leaving Varna to go to community college." "In two years, I'm leaving community college to go to Chicago." "In two years, I'm leaving Chicago for Japan or grad school or whatever." I don't even know where I'm going, but I feel like there's so much I have to do and I feel like I can only do it alone. Like I'm standing in that plain, watching the sun set into the cornfields like I had when this whole life thing began at eighteen. Words like, "I love you," used to quiver on my lips with every girl willing to hold my hand, but now it feels so scary to admit anything that isn't just, "fun" or "convenient." I'm hiding my depth, assuming there is any, because I'm not ready to explore it yet. I remember driving between those cornfields with something blaring over the radio, speeding up and slowing down at my convenience because there wasn't another car on the road for miles, but now I have no car and the road isn't as endless as it once was. The speed and direction has already been set because I don't have it in me to swerve off and try something new- I'm too committed to my debts, my education, and my career. I look at my past lovers and it's like, "Who was I to leave you behind?" Why do I feel the need to abandon everyone who cares enough about me to help me on my journey? There're so many girls out there with hurt feelings buried in their bosom and they treat me like I'm a casualty of war or something- being careful not to remind me of the past that they so blatently pretend to ignore. I understand that these were my mistakes and they were only my mistakes to make, but I'm not the only one bottling things up inside. My most recent ex, Erin, is someone I might consider a hero for not bottling a goddamn thing up. She isn't afraid to dig into me, pushing me beyond my barrier of safety- I almost regret leaving her because she still cuts right into the core, unlike those other girls I've abandoned. But even she will begin to treat me like just another gimp shipped back when she's found someone better to spend her efforts on. I'm still a wasted effort. I remember going to work and easing back, waiting for my shift to end with a pocket full of cash to do whatever I wanted with. Some of it would go to rent, some of it would go to bills, and some of it would go to thoughtful moments to my friends and lovers. I can't afford friends or lovers anymore- and looking now, I'm troubled that I don't have a usual "group" to hang out with. I'm stretching myself thin for no reason but to hide that depth. In the end though, I wonder if there'll be anything at all hidden within- or if it'll be as empty as I feel to this moment.
Things were so simpler then.
Things were so simpler then.
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