***Sidenote: the upkeeping part of all of this really sucks. or maybe i just suck. anyways, here i go. trying again. best wishes are welcomed***
So, during the spoken word/poetry part of my class, I always tell my kids that when they feel something really strong that they can't really seem to get out verbally through speaking, resort to pen and paper. Let it come out in their writing. Maybe it'll help.
Tonight's the night to take my own advice and see where I end up.
----
It's not even homesick anymore. It's borderline depression.
This whole independence thing is really hard to enjoy when every part of me wants to be at least 50 miles within reach of my family. I want independence, yes. I want my cute studio. I want to continue to lounge around naked and enjoy my own company in the comfort of my own bedsheets. I want to love my car and have it love me back by not dying. I want all of this and more....but more than any of this....I really just want to be home.
Tomorrow is the 1 year anniversary of the earthquake/tsunami that hit Samoa, and I am completely numb to how I should probably be feeling right now. Instead, I feel pent up in myself. Like I have something better going on than to re-focus myself on how I used to care so much about this last year. I hate that the fire in me has been put out. I hate that I was the water. The urgency to cry is there, but it doesn't come out when I want it to, thus leaving me feeling really anxious, like I don't have control of my body, and that scares me a lot. And experiencing this all alone in my studio, by myself?
I think I'm writing right now to keep myself from hurting myself.
There is nothing holding me accountable for my own shit and the only one who should be in charge of that is me. If I fail this class, I will give myself what I deserved all along. If I don't get on top of my shit, I will make sure I pay for it. This is not a suicide note. I don't want to die. On the contrary: I want so badly to come alive again.
Everyone is leaning on a piece of me, hoping that I can be there to hold space with them, when in reality, doing that will do them no good. I am no good right now, not for you, and especially for myself. My sisters. I want to be there for them so badly, but how do I sit there, conjuring up some kind of recipe for wisdom and have the audacity to feed it to them, when I've been starving myself on purpose for a long time now? To her. I don't have what it takes to be away from her for longer than 2 days. We both witnessed that ourselves. I can't stand what she reminds me of. I don't have the heart to tell her what that is. I planned on taking this to the grave way before she put all her trust in me. I'm scared that she won't be patient with my process. I want her to be happy, though. If she's the kind of lover that turns beauty ugly, than I'm the kind of person who turns happiness into grief.
There you are, tears. Long time no see.
I need someone stable to come to me and hold me steady as I breathe for myself. This feeling of not knowing how to take care of myself is killing me, and I don't want to die. Not right now.
Going to go try and sleep the rest of this off.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
Labor Day Weekend: Back Home.
Too much time spent sitting in front of a computer, wanting to write, and not actually doing it. I'm extremely tired, I should be sleeping actually, but I'm not. I'm skyping with my friend Joce right now, and I'm writing this blog for memory's sake.
So yesterday morning....early in the morning....like, the kinda morning time where the sun isn't even out yet, I hopped on a plane at LAX (shout out to Miley) and brought my Baygrown butt back here to the place I call home. That's right: I'm home.
This is what it feels like.
-------
Papa currently looks like a Santa Claus cowboy. The hair on his head and face are practically the same length, and I love how stubborn he gets every time I ask hiim if he's gonna cut it. He says no. I support that. Mom picked me up from the airport yesteday, and man did she look healthy. This past has been a whirlwind of uncontrollable and misplaced emotions, what with her being in the ICU for a week, then hearing from her doctors that she could've died while unconscious during that time. Seeing her yesterday morning felt like praying. I don't pray anymore and it's becoming intentional, yet I don't have the patience to want to figure out why I've stopped. Can't seem to figure out if it's something that I'm angry over, or if it's something else. Anyhow, my mother is a 2nd chance breathing, and she's the first blessing that I count each time I remember to count them.
Our family runs a kitchen out of our church's bingo hall. It's been a year since we opened up shop. Most of my time was spent helping my parents run the kitchen, and just trying to be near them every chance I got. Daddy looked tired, but too happy to let that stop him from hugging me every 3 seconds. I know he misses me and wishes that I didn't move. I don't want to show how much I miss him and moms though- it hurts and above all, being vulnerable with my parents is just something that is really hard for me to do.
Sunday morning: Oakland Pride Festival. With my mom.
I did not stutter. This is not a joke.
So yeah. I was invited to perform with a queer Pacific Islanders Womyn's group called One Love Oceania (OLO) at the womyn's stage of Oakland Pride on Sunday. We had a 10 minute set, and we decided to perform a fusion of live music, dancing, and spoken word. Shit was bananas. Moms and I got there early enough to avoid the shoulder-to-shoulder, stepping-on-eachother's-feet frenzy. It was quiet and moms wasn't saying much either. Didn't know if asking her how she felt about being there with me would heighten the silence that was already there. maybe it would've opened up a new line of communication that we haven't uncovered yet. either way, i didn't i ask her. on to the womyn's stage....
I'm proud and thankful for OLO. For performing with these incredible womyn. For being Pacific Islander, and queer, and Samoan, and young, and sexy, and never wavering in my faith that I have for my community. There's something about being loved by a Pacific Islander that is vastly different and unique from being loved by anyone else. Not better. Not worse. It's not like that. Who would I be if I wasn't born with these roots under me? I don't even want to know.
----
Back in LBC. Lots to think about in regards to my short-term goals for the rest of this year. Few things to comb out and sift through. Pray for me please. I'll do the same once I learn how.
Love,
Risa
So yesterday morning....early in the morning....like, the kinda morning time where the sun isn't even out yet, I hopped on a plane at LAX (shout out to Miley) and brought my Baygrown butt back here to the place I call home. That's right: I'm home.
This is what it feels like.
-------
Papa currently looks like a Santa Claus cowboy. The hair on his head and face are practically the same length, and I love how stubborn he gets every time I ask hiim if he's gonna cut it. He says no. I support that. Mom picked me up from the airport yesteday, and man did she look healthy. This past has been a whirlwind of uncontrollable and misplaced emotions, what with her being in the ICU for a week, then hearing from her doctors that she could've died while unconscious during that time. Seeing her yesterday morning felt like praying. I don't pray anymore and it's becoming intentional, yet I don't have the patience to want to figure out why I've stopped. Can't seem to figure out if it's something that I'm angry over, or if it's something else. Anyhow, my mother is a 2nd chance breathing, and she's the first blessing that I count each time I remember to count them.
Our family runs a kitchen out of our church's bingo hall. It's been a year since we opened up shop. Most of my time was spent helping my parents run the kitchen, and just trying to be near them every chance I got. Daddy looked tired, but too happy to let that stop him from hugging me every 3 seconds. I know he misses me and wishes that I didn't move. I don't want to show how much I miss him and moms though- it hurts and above all, being vulnerable with my parents is just something that is really hard for me to do.
Sunday morning: Oakland Pride Festival. With my mom.
I did not stutter. This is not a joke.
So yeah. I was invited to perform with a queer Pacific Islanders Womyn's group called One Love Oceania (OLO) at the womyn's stage of Oakland Pride on Sunday. We had a 10 minute set, and we decided to perform a fusion of live music, dancing, and spoken word. Shit was bananas. Moms and I got there early enough to avoid the shoulder-to-shoulder, stepping-on-eachother's-feet frenzy. It was quiet and moms wasn't saying much either. Didn't know if asking her how she felt about being there with me would heighten the silence that was already there. maybe it would've opened up a new line of communication that we haven't uncovered yet. either way, i didn't i ask her. on to the womyn's stage....
I'm proud and thankful for OLO. For performing with these incredible womyn. For being Pacific Islander, and queer, and Samoan, and young, and sexy, and never wavering in my faith that I have for my community. There's something about being loved by a Pacific Islander that is vastly different and unique from being loved by anyone else. Not better. Not worse. It's not like that. Who would I be if I wasn't born with these roots under me? I don't even want to know.
----
Back in LBC. Lots to think about in regards to my short-term goals for the rest of this year. Few things to comb out and sift through. Pray for me please. I'll do the same once I learn how.
Love,
Risa
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
i know. I KNOWWWW.
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