Sunday, August 13, 2006
Has it really been an hour and a half?
I think I'm going back to my old writing style. More self-aware, talking to an audience, and using unclear titles. I think it's better that way.
I went to my grandmother's house today (actually, yesterday, since it's past midnight) to fix something in her computer. According to my MSN Messenger logs I was away for an hour and a half. Now, walking there is six minutes, both ways; fixing the computer was fifteen-twenty minutes tops; which means that I spent all that time just talking to my grandmother.
I don't feel like I wasted my time. On the contrary. It was just so nice. I don't remember the last time I went over there and just talked to her. It may have been when I was twelve years old. Before my grandfather died. That's another part of my fucked up family's story.
I don't want to talk about my grandfather much, because that memory is still painful, even after 14 years. I was in the sixth grade and we went on my first ever two day trip from school. When I came back home my mother told me "your grandfather died yesterday". He had cancer and was in intensive care, but the fact that he died when I was on a field trip having fun was a bit too much for me.
Around the time my grandfather died my grandmother's sister died. Maybe she died a few months before, I don't really remember. Ten months after my grandfather died my grandmother moved in with her sister's husband. Not for anything other than saving money on day to day living. That is fuckup number one in this story. There are more. Then she leased her old apartment to a family. That's fuckup number two. Why? Because it's my grandparents house. I have so many memories from it. From the little garden where my grandfather grew chili peppers, through the little porch rail that would creak whenever we pulled on it, and to the time when we all counted the take from my grandparents' lottery stands after a really big raffle.
I didn't visit my grandmother at her new place. It just didn't feel like her home anymore. It wasn't the distance, because it was just a minute or two further along in the same street, which is also the same street where I lived. That's fuckup number three, and this one is all mine.
Today when I talked to my grandmother it was really nice. Sure, she hassled me a bit about the papers I need to finish, and about finding a girl, but we had a nice conversation. I really felt like she treated me like an adult, which is more than my parents do most of the time. It made me really sad, because I started thinking that I missed so many conversations like that over the past twelve years or so. When my father left home he started telling us that we didn't visit her enough. I couldn't tell him that it doesn't feel like my grandmother's home. It still doesn't feel like her home. At first she slept in the same room and bed as her brother-in-law (fuckup number four, to those keeping track), but a few years ago he decided that he needs more room, and so she slept in the smaller bedroom. With his sheer mass it's no wonder that he needs more room, and it really hurt me to see how my grandmother was being treated (I think I see a pattern here, although this is my paternal grandmother).
I'm trying not to think about the things I did and how things would turn out if I did something else, because that's the fastest way to become depressed. If you have even half a brain and an ounce of imagination you can turn any memory into something better than it is. You are not limited in your fantasy to feasible, logical, or achievable things. And when you compare your dream world to the shitty reality, it just depresses you. But sometimes you just can't help it. Sometimes you see the results of your own stupidity and you can't ignore them. But from there you have two options - mope about what you could have, or be thankful for what you can have. I'm going to choose door number two.
I went to my grandmother's house today (actually, yesterday, since it's past midnight) to fix something in her computer. According to my MSN Messenger logs I was away for an hour and a half. Now, walking there is six minutes, both ways; fixing the computer was fifteen-twenty minutes tops; which means that I spent all that time just talking to my grandmother.
I don't feel like I wasted my time. On the contrary. It was just so nice. I don't remember the last time I went over there and just talked to her. It may have been when I was twelve years old. Before my grandfather died. That's another part of my fucked up family's story.
I don't want to talk about my grandfather much, because that memory is still painful, even after 14 years. I was in the sixth grade and we went on my first ever two day trip from school. When I came back home my mother told me "your grandfather died yesterday". He had cancer and was in intensive care, but the fact that he died when I was on a field trip having fun was a bit too much for me.
Around the time my grandfather died my grandmother's sister died. Maybe she died a few months before, I don't really remember. Ten months after my grandfather died my grandmother moved in with her sister's husband. Not for anything other than saving money on day to day living. That is fuckup number one in this story. There are more. Then she leased her old apartment to a family. That's fuckup number two. Why? Because it's my grandparents house. I have so many memories from it. From the little garden where my grandfather grew chili peppers, through the little porch rail that would creak whenever we pulled on it, and to the time when we all counted the take from my grandparents' lottery stands after a really big raffle.
I didn't visit my grandmother at her new place. It just didn't feel like her home anymore. It wasn't the distance, because it was just a minute or two further along in the same street, which is also the same street where I lived. That's fuckup number three, and this one is all mine.
Today when I talked to my grandmother it was really nice. Sure, she hassled me a bit about the papers I need to finish, and about finding a girl, but we had a nice conversation. I really felt like she treated me like an adult, which is more than my parents do most of the time. It made me really sad, because I started thinking that I missed so many conversations like that over the past twelve years or so. When my father left home he started telling us that we didn't visit her enough. I couldn't tell him that it doesn't feel like my grandmother's home. It still doesn't feel like her home. At first she slept in the same room and bed as her brother-in-law (fuckup number four, to those keeping track), but a few years ago he decided that he needs more room, and so she slept in the smaller bedroom. With his sheer mass it's no wonder that he needs more room, and it really hurt me to see how my grandmother was being treated (I think I see a pattern here, although this is my paternal grandmother).
I'm trying not to think about the things I did and how things would turn out if I did something else, because that's the fastest way to become depressed. If you have even half a brain and an ounce of imagination you can turn any memory into something better than it is. You are not limited in your fantasy to feasible, logical, or achievable things. And when you compare your dream world to the shitty reality, it just depresses you. But sometimes you just can't help it. Sometimes you see the results of your own stupidity and you can't ignore them. But from there you have two options - mope about what you could have, or be thankful for what you can have. I'm going to choose door number two.
