There are no stupid questions, only stupid brothers

Thankfully, I have something to momentarily distract me from the stress caused by my parents’ hysteria.  My brother is no longer with Voldemort.  I should be clear that, though I was concerned by what I’d heard about her actions (which all spoke of her being manipulative, possessive, demanding) and didn’t care for the vibes I got from her photos (that she was a drunk, conniving dragon lady), Frank reasonably pointed out that she was the only kind of partner my brother could expect and, in fact, wanted in his current state of insecurity, thrill-seeking, alcoholism, and general poor judgment.  So I’d come to see their being together (and marrying before her work visa expired) as inevitable and really what my mother deserved, as Voldemort was, in fact, eerily like my mother in terms of her being conniving to get her way.

What surprised me, but shouldn’t, was that it was Voldemort who broke up with my brother–all because of this supposedly stupid question.  I don’t know the details of the situation that led to the split, but have only this cryptic scenario to puzzle over: She asked him a “stupid question.  Her friends told her it was a stupid question (well, the friends not trying to sleep with her at least), and she admits that it’s a stupid question. She also admits that [he] gave a stupid answer, and [he] tend[s] to agree. It’s one of those Catch 22 questions to which there’s no answer that makes both parties satisfied.  [He] answered it the way [he] knew [he] had to, to be true to [himself] and not lie, but she would have preferred the lie.  Okay, preferred isn’t too strong of a term obviously, since she broke up with [him] because of how [he] answered that question.”

The question remains, what was the question?  Obviously., it couldn’t actually have been a stupid question if it made her realize he wasn’t worth putting her hopes on.  My brother believes people tended to underestimate her wisdom and insight, but really I never did.  In fact, she was much too crafty for me to underestimate her in any way.  Like my mother, she’s a survivor and has street smarts, if not quite the ability to pull off a convincing fake smile.  If anything, it was her acting so clearly as puppet master that initially frightened me (and I’m as afraid of marionettes and those who operate them as I am of clowns).

Why are you afraid of me?

Also, people don’t break up because of stupid questions or answers.  It’s simply these differences that reveal deeper rifts in a relationship or are the last straw in what has been an ongoing struggle of personalities.  No, you didn’t divorce over his not buying sour cream.  No, he didn’t break up with you because you didn’t straighten your towel after your shower.  Don’t be foolish.

So what question could (1) be perceived as stupid by yourself and others, (2) be answered in an acceptable manner only by those trying to sleep with you, (3) and couldn’t be answered favorably by a significant other telling the truth, (4) the truth coming off to both parties as a stupid answer (5) but still leading you to give up hope on someone already in love with you, whom you’d believed would enable you to attain a green card?

One option in the list of stupid questions to ask a partner is, Do you think I should lose weight?  But this doesn’t meet criteria 2 or 5, as even someone who didn’t just want to sleep with you would be sensitive about your feelings to answer no and their telling the truth (if you really did need to lose weight) wouldn’t make you give up on them.

Another option would be to ask a hypothetical question like, Would it matter to you if I didn’t want to have children?  In this case, guys who only wanted to sleep with her would say no, it doesn’t matter (in fact, it’d be the last thing they wanted), whereas someone who cared about her would say yes, it did matter (i.e. I do want to have kids).  But this, even if only hypothetical, doesn’t qualify as a foolish question at all, nor would answering honestly result in what could be regarded a stupid answer.

What about, Does it really matter to you what your mother thinks of me?  This one, a guy who simply wanted to sleep with you would answer of course not (criteria 2).  And I know that, if my brother were to answer this question truthfully, his answer would be yes, it does matter (crieria 3).  This he could admit to himself would be a stupid answer, since why should it matter if you’re in love? (criteria 4)  And this would be enough for her to give up hope that he would marry her (criteria 5).  But I’m not sure it meets criteria 1 in qualifying as a stupid question.

So what was the question?  What was the answer?  And why do you never put your towel back properly after you shower?

. . .

Hmm, on to plan B: depend on myself.

P.S. “And no one dare disturb the sound of silence.” (Simon & Garfunkel – The Sound of Silence)

P.P.S. To clarify, Frank and I are still very much together.  My reference to depending on myself was in reference to not counting on others to reassure me or give their emotional support, as no one had responded to my previous message asking for such.  What did get affirmation, rather, was my saying I could only depend on myself (and could not expect anything from others).  Did people expect me to ask for money?  I just needed a friend.

Help wanted

My parents, in agreement as they somehow tend to be about the kids, the only thing they have in common, are asking me to leave Frank, whom they say is manipulating me, but I honestly trust him more than I do them and choose him over them, though of course that doesn’t make me happy and isn’t easy for me, except that I’m financially dependent on them until we get low-income housing.  So after hanging up on my dad and kicking my mom out of the apartment because she wouldn’t stop disparaging Frank and me, I’ve decided the only way I can speak with them is in front of a counselor, with Frank present.  Is this so unreasonable?  Am I being irrational?  Or am I rightly standing up for myself and not allowing myself to be manipulated by my parents and treated as an imbecile?

Put another way, there’s one person I connect with emotionally, intellectually, instinctively, and sense-of-humor-ly and regard as my life partner, versus a narcissist who drives me to hate myself and an alcoholic who abuses my mother as much as he does her.  All three individuals notably well-intentioned.  I chose the former.  Is it so wrong of me not to give into the demands of the latter and go against everything I know?

Okay, I’m biased, but it is my life after all.  Is it so unreasonable to demand a counselor act as referee?  I’m not asking for either/or.  I’m asking for time to enable us to get low-income housing so we will cease to be a burden on them and controlled by them.  These aren’t rhetorical questions.  If anyone can provide input, objective or not, it would be greatly appreciated.  Many thanks.  Feeling very bullied and not appreciating it.

The cost of living

“Mark my word, no one else cares about you, only your father and I.  No one else will help you.  No one.  I don’t care what you think.. . . Who needs $20,000 a year for rent and electricity and phone and internet and food?  Who? . . . It’s our money, you know, our money. . . . I won’t be able to go to Singapore next year.  That would have cost $7000.  I can’t just go without giving people money, you know. . . . How could you tell your father he should go to the wedding in New Orleans, plant that thought in his head?  Where does he have the money?  Europe he deserved, but this will cost him three, four thousand dollars between airfare, accommodations, the gift, if he stays longer to see the place. . . . I don’t question your being with Frank.  I know you have difficulties. . . . He’s manipulating you.  You have to look out for yourself.  What does he do all day?  Why didn’t he join the priesthood?  Why didn’t he become a social worker? . . . Why do you need two dogs?  I don’t care how much they love each other. . . . You should get evicted.  The kids in my school say that gets you housing more quickly.  Just make sure to get your valuables first, you know, your clothing, your jewelry, your trinkets. . . . Your father is very worried.  You have to cut your expenses. . . . Don’t deprive yourself.  You have to go out.  Eat organic.  That’s important.  No canned foods. . . . I’m glad we can have a civilized conversation about this, that no one’s being hysterical with me.”

Fuck like it’s 1984

I don’t have energy when I’m awake to think about sex besides wanting to look nice, both for myself and for Frank, yet my dream self thinks I’m in denial.  At least, my dreams tell me I have a libido in me somewhere, even if it appears only in my R.E.M. cycle.

The first dream was very much a Yulia dream.  Technically, no sex was involved, but then I don’t think sex is necessary for something to qualify as a sex dream.  (Hmm, I guess it would just be a wet dream, really.)  I was being carried by a guy from the year above me in high school, my legs around his waist, my arms behind his neck.  He was getting a nice erection as I maneuvered my (clothed) crotch against his.  And when I wasn’t immersed in treating his tongue like a cock, I was lecturing and complaining to him and the people behind him whom I was facing about how frustrating it was that females in my school were seen as only smart or date-worthy while guys could be both smart and sexy and how this double standard drove me crazy.  I remember yelling into the crowd, “No dichotomies!” though what I meant by this is people needn’t be either/or.  Just because I wanted to learn didn’t mean I wasn’t interested in sex, damn it.  (I wish my waking self were as adamant about the right to sex.)

The next night, I dreamt I was in a school gymnasium set up with rows and rows of cots, almost like a war-time shelter (as I imagine them to be), and that each couple had a narrow cot to itself.  Everyone was wearing jeans and I was lying on top of my date, but oddly facing the high gym ceiling.  He put his hands in my jeans but I told him I had my period, not because I did but because I hadn’t gotten waxed.  Silly when you think of it.  I’m sure it was more of a turn-off to me than it was to him.  Then he proceeded to explore my chest underneath my long-sleeve sweater (very un-Yulia), but awkwardly he lifted my bra above my breasts without unhooking it (and why was I wearing a bra at all?).  So this seemed like a failed make-out experiment and, besides, we were surrounded by almost a hundred of our peers, which wasn’t so much embarrassing as foolish.  Why were the gym lights so glaring?  Was anyone planning on getting a private room when they were actually ready to have sex (instead of simply groping at their date)?  Why did this all remind me of institutionalized sex a la Orwell’s 1984?

Why don't you make yourself comfortable and sit on my cot.

The third night, which was last night, I was on a Greyhound bus for a visit to an author’s reading or some such event and I had a lovely romance with a fellow traveler, who was foreign and whom, when he got off after the trip, I knew I would never see again.  I didn’t even get to say goodbye to him properly.  This was certainly the most distressing of the dreams.  I’d rather wear a bra and long-sleeve sweater than be stranded just when I found someone who inspired my craving.  Sad dream.

Okay, how do I get back to grinding while complaining about dichotomies?

P.S. Bravo.  I finally had an orgasm today (the first time in years).

Untenable

The question is, how much do you spare your partner from knowing if it means shouldering the stress and decision-making yourself?  Why keep any secrets from him at all?  Because he doesn’t manage it well and it’d only increase his pain further and he’s already incapacitated by it.

The thought of breaking up because we can’t maintain this lifestyle, leaving him homeless and me shattered, that was making me go nutty this morning.  Sure, living within my means is essential, but isn’t it just as essential for me to make this possiblewhile not giving up the person I thought I was spending my life with?

So I spoke to him and he’s agreed and that’s a relief to know we’re on the same page.

We’ll have to move to low-income housing once he gets disability.  Between the two of us, we can make any home lovely.  We also need to get Sophie and Delilah certified as pet therapy dogs so they’ll be allowed into a building.  Once that takes place, we may even be able to live without financial assistance from my parents.

This promise to them may not solve everything, but it will buy us more time with my parents.  It really does bring home how I’m a dependent of theirs, how they could undo everything if they didn’t accept how I lived.  I’m glad frank understands.

Of course, all this is assuming there’ll be housing available when we need it.  But I can’t stress about that now.  The key right now is to have a plan.  One way or another, we’ll make it work.

Time to downsize.

But it strikes me just now, for someone as unfiltered as I am, I make such an effort to shield Frank from stress, to protect him.  I know this says a lot about how we were raised and have managed to cope with life’s stressors, but my therapist tells me to be solution-focused, not problem-focused, so the thing for me to do is be more open to Frank and  trust tat he can deal with the truth, not agonize over what I worry he may might not like to hear.

Asian Mother Syndrome: Ireland

The Blackwater Lightship by Colm Toibin (Scribner, 2001)

This beautiful novel chronicles a week in the lives of its characters as they try to comfort their mutual connection, Declan, a man in his late 20s dying of AIDS and running out of time to see long-standing conflicts be put aside between his sister, mother and grandmother, all of whom are estranged from one other for over a decade because of reasons even they cannot quite articulate or understand. Aided by two friends who’ve been looking after him long before his family suspected anything was wrong, Declan also compels his family to come to terms with their stubborn refusal to ask for help from one other. Psychologically astute to the ways in which people hide from themselves and others and don’t recognize how their best intentions may hurt them and those they love, this novel about living and dying is both beautiful and heart-wrenching, but never sappy. Though the characters are all stubborn in their own ways and the coast itself is veiled in mists, the novel is anything but willfully evasive and challenges our ability to empathize and forgive. (4.5 of 5 stars)

A great passive-aggressive gift idea when given along with Codependent No More.

Some lines that resonated with me:

“My mother taught me never to trust anyone’s love because she was always on the verge of withdrawing her own.  I associated love with loss, that’s what I did.  And the only wa I could live with Hugh and bring up my children was to keep my mother and my grandmother away from me.’ (p. 188)”

“‘I wish you’d been satisfied with me at some stage, even though I’m not what you wanted.  I wish you’d stop wishing I was someone else.’
“”Helen, I’ve always accepted you,’ her mother said.
“‘That’s a lovely word for it, thanks,’ Helen said. (p. 206)”

“‘And it seems really odd to me that you can talk about what sort of daughter you’d like to have had in front of me.’ (p. 210)”

Can’t go there

As my therapist noted last night (the earliest appointment I can get with her is at 8 p.m.), it’s not my job to change anyone, to make them understand or acknowledge something they don’t willingly want to get.  it’s not my business.  So I wrote my brother an apology for having been so pissy with him on my birthday call to him a few days ago and promising him I won’t mention my concern about him again, though after I sent it, I began to cry, feeling that, if he insists on flaunting his drinking to me (Frank says alcoholics do this to everyone, not just those who disapprove of their drinking, as a way to normalize their behavior), then I don’t see how I can ever really speak to my brother about anything again because my concern will be such a suffocatingly enormous elephant in the room.  It’s not that we ever spoke more than once a year, but knowing I can’t bring up his drinking made me realize I have no place at all in his life since he’s chosen drinking.  And I never knew how much this would upset me until I wrote that email promising not to mention it again.  Really, it’s the first time I’ve ever been brought to tears thinking about him.  And how would I acclimate myself to interacting with him without mentioning it, if i never see him?  Maybe next year, when he visits, I’ll know to look to Frank or at my lap when something bothers me that I can’t bring up.  But I can’t see myself calling him again with the topic of his drinking (and his girlfriend and his treatment of his dog . . .) off limits and the thought of removing his number saddens me, even though I only use it once or twice a year.  How’s that for admitting I care about him?  I wish there were better circumstances in which I could see this played out.

And I didn’t even say everything I could have

I called my third brother for his 30th birthday yesterday.  I got his answering machine when I called, so i left a message.  Then he called but I couldn’t get the phone in time.  He left a message about how we coulg talk that day, or he could go ahead and get drunk and we could talk tomorrow.  I called back several times, only getting his voicemail again.  But minutes later, he called me back.

Y: Aha!

R: Yes, you got me.

Y: Happy birthday.

R: Thank you.  And happy belated birthday to you.

Y: Thank you.  What I should have said before was it wasn’t Frank who called her–I can’t say her name, mom’s conditioned me against it, so she’s just She who Cannot Be Named, Voldemort–Frank didn’t call her a dragon lady.  I did, I’m sorry, I was just talking without a filter.

R: She’s here. We’re cleaning up the apartment.

Y: Yeah, mom said.  I’m glad you won’t be driving.

R: I haven’t done that in years.

Y: Still, I’m glad.  Will Pete and Amber be there?

R: Yeah.

Y: They’re nice.  I even had a nice correspondence with Pete until he told me about Havasu and I responded that, as a child of an alcoholic, I got queasy even passing bars, so I didn’t know how to respond.

R: What?  Child of an alcoholic?

Y: Yeah, me, us.

R: What are you talking about?

Y: Of course we are.

R: You’re just looking for excuses.

Y: Don’t tell me you don’t think  dad’s an alcoholic?  That’s crazy.  He can drink several bottles of wine a night.

R: So can I.

Y: That’s because you’re an alcoholic, too.

R: No, I’m not.  I’m not emotionally dependent on it.

Y: You’re physically dependent on it.

R: I can go days without drinking.

Y: Knowing that you’ll be able to drink in a few days.

R: You don’t know what real alcoholics drink like.

Y: Everyone says that.  Oh, he only drinks with friends, only drinks beer, wine, cosmos, in bars, on weekends.  It’s all the same.

R: No, it isn’t.

Y: It’s a spectrum–that includes you.  You accept vomiting as part of your life.

R: I accept vomiting as a part of life.

Y: But why?

R: Look, there’s nothing wrong with drinking.  It’s like masturbation.

Y: No no no no.  Don’t go there.  It’s not like that.  You take pain killers with alcohol.

R: It’s fun.  You should try it.

Y: That’s not funny.  Look, Frank could explain this all much better than I can, but he’s too polite to talk to you about it.  Trust me, everyone in the family knows you have a drinking problem, except dad.

R: I’m my father’s son.

Y: Even Pete noticed you were different from us.

R: Who?

Y: Me, and K. and L. and mom.  And that’s saying something, coming from him.

R: He did?

Y: Look, you can’t mention that.  But you obviously trust him more than you do me.

R: I’ll have to talk to him about that.

Y: You can’t.  The point is, all your friends are alcoholics.  Once you join AA, you’ll have to lose all your friends, Amber, Pete, Voldemort.  Your friends are drunk in every photo you take of them.  Look, I know this is the wrong time.  I’m sorry.  But when you get to step whatever, you’ll apologize to me.  Are you marrying her in two months?

R: We’ll see.  We’re not there yet.

Y: Just think about having kids as an alcoholic.  You’ll end up hitting them.  You know you will.  Okay, I should stop.  Have a nice party.

R: Yeah, I have a night of binge-drinking ahead of me.

Y: Bye.  Happy birthday.

R: See ya.

I obviously haven’t figured out how to discuss my concern for him without letting my anger get in the way.  That (“Anger”) happens to be the chapter I’m reading right now in Codependent No More, not that it’ll suddenly teach me how not to act out as I did last night.

I was thinking R. might take us more seriously if Frank were a recovered alcoholic himself.  He is Irish after all: everyone assumes they drink or are in recovery.  I spoke with Frank about creating a scenario so he’d have more alkie cred with R. Something like:

It all makes sense now

Okay, so we haven’t told anyone but you should know, Frank is an alcoholic.  You can’t tell mom.  For three years just after college, Frank couldn’t hold down a job and was homeless: he had to crash at friends’ places when they’d let him.  He even used meth: yeah, his teeth actually are dentures.  Finally he had to go into rehab, court-ordered, and he got job training and that’s how he learned to write resumes and become a career counselor.  Anyway, he knows what alcoholism is.  You should listen to him.

Sound believable?  Doesn’t it explain everything?  His Irishness, his angryfrank-dom, his potato famine . . .

P.S. I told my therapist, “Now aren’t you glad I didn’t call you for your birthday!”  :)

One of us

Returning home on the bus after my infusion, I met a woman who used a walker, who asked me if I had MS.  I asked her how she knew and she said she had it herself and saw my cane next to me on Winston.  Aha.

It turns out she’d seen my current neurologist, but when he left the hospital for a private practice, she remained with the hospital and saw the specialist I’d seen for over a year, whom I’d liked very much.  She said she preferred the latter doctor since she was able to see her whenever an issue came up, whereas with my doctor, she’d have to wait a month or two.

“Oh, really?  I can always see him the next day,” I blurted out, before realizing my gaffe.  But then, it was always clear he treated patients differently depending on how much he liked them.  I’m just glad he likes Frank as much, if not more, than he does me (I’m not jealous, just very, very relieved).

The woman was telling me of another doctor she’d been encouraged to see and I’d been told about him by another person as well (is it a cult?).  The thing is, the doctor, whose office is amazingly near us, doesn’t accept insurance!  What kind of patient does he cater to?  The wealthiest and most keen on unconditional pampering?  What does he provide that the specialist at the hospital can’t?  (Pain killers?)

An initial consultation with him costs $1500.  The woman wondered aloud, “What does a regular appointment with him cost?”  Good question. . . . And what kind of MS specialist doesn’t accept insurance when the medications alone cost thousands per month?

The woman happened to have the same insurance as I do (Empire BC/BS), but because her husband doesn’t work for the public sector, as my mom does, they pay $2200 a month when my family has to pay only about $5000 a year.  Now that’s inspired another WTF reaction from me: “What the fuck?”  It’s ridiculous.

Thankfully, my former doctor at the hospital is excellent and accepts insurance and provides quality and compassionate care to everyone she sees, regardless of income or background, and makes sure they do their exercises and look after their mental health as well.
So I respect her tremendously and always will.

That said, I can’t say I wouldn’t have my personal biases as well, like my neurologist, were I in his place, but it does suck to hear the stories of those who are told to see him only once a year or were treated as nuisances by him.  What to do?  If Frank himself didn’t need pro bono neurological care, I’d definitely have remained with my previous doctor, for ethical reasons.  How does she do it?  I wish I could ask her, so I could learn to be a better person myself.  But I forfeited that right, returning to my original neuro.  Why does it still make me feel guilty?  Where’s that oxygen-depriving sweat lodge when you need it?

That Spiritual Warrior garbage was certainly a wannabe cult.  The eeriest part of the article was when the leader Mr. Ray dressed up as god (how does god dress, do tell) and asked participants to enact their own suicide: were these the followers he didn’t like or the ones he felt would benefit most from this healing ritual? Did they get to enact his murder as well, to cleanse themselves of the manipulative con man?

Man’s need for a ritual, at $9000, Peruvian poncho not included ($250).  Native Americans, Peruvians, same thing.  But if he intended on maximizing his profits, why didn’t Mr. Ray sell Sikh kirpans (their curved knives) as well?  Or Eskimo seal clubs?  Or authentic Greek and Tibetan worry beads (made in China)?  The sales opportunities are limitless. . . .  My awareness of potential financial gain is increasing by the moment.  He must be god.

P.S. “What if god was one of us?” (Joan Osbourne – One of Us)