The Monster of, Time

How we all wish, we could have more time with our own parents, as they’re, aging too fast, and it feels like we’re, running out of time to have them by our, sides…translated…

Time is a, beast, a beast that attacks any and everybody, the beast, gnashing its teeth at every person.

My parents who were always quite healthy, due to aging, they’d started needing the surgeries, to the age when you’re supposed to be able to do as you pleased, they can’t, do as they, pleased now.  My dad would go out for his jogs every day from before, but due to his sciatica, he’d stopped jogging; my mom, who’s originally perfect in her skills of threading that needle, because of her cataracts, she could no longer do it so swiftly.

illustration from UDN.com

I’d found that none of these fit to my reasoning of things, both of them are watchful of their health, so how come they still can’t get away from the gnashing, the tearing of that beast?

You may think, that all of these are common surgical measures, nothing to be worried over, but, whenever there’s surgery, there are, the risks, besides, the word, “operation” never surfaced up in our home before, and now, it’d prodded its, ugly head into our, lives.  I used to see my parents checking things out online, using the travel agency bookings, skimming through the, news, discussing where they’re to go visit next; and now, when they log online, it’s to check out the comments of the physicians of all the major hospitals around, discussing whom they are to, put their, bodies in the hands, of.

I stayed silently by, with my level of anxiety straight through the, roof, there’s that unspoken pressure inside my chest, like the hooves of that beast is, stomping inside.

It’d stomped on me very hard, but, it’d not allowed me to breathe easier, it’d kept me tightened, but not, too tightly wound.  I’d signed my parents up for their treatment clinics online, this doctor today, that physician, tomorrow, it’d felt annoying, but, as I’d thought, they’re getting older now, how many more times can I, help them, sign up for the treatment sessions?  How many years will I have them, with me?  And, up to here, I’d, felt extremely sorrowful, wanted to cry, but, ashamedly, I, can’t.

As I read “The Backside” by the author, Chu, I couldn’t understand it, but now as I reread it again, what made me want to turn away, was how Chu described his father, climbing with hardship up the platforms of the trains, and his turning his face away from his father, fearing that his father might see him, cry.  Chu sighed, that he didn’t know if he will ever get to see his own father again after that parting, and, it seemed, I saw the monster of time, stomping down at my parents then, and the monster of time, is stepping on all of us, too, hard.

all that we can do, is to make sure we spend as much time with our aging parents as we possibly, can…photo from online

Passing age forty, there are still many, unanswered questions I’m trying to find the answers, to.  On the lessons of loss, of life and death, there are still, so much that I needed to, learn, to know, to experience.

Even though my parents are ailing in their bodies, they still work hard, to make every single day, count, helping each other as they age, I pray, that their surgeries go well, that they get their health returned back to them, that they will continue to take their many, adventures, to live the life that they wanted to, live.

And as I wrote up to here, I’d suddenly understood, that the blessings of “living to a hundred”, isn’t wishing that someone lives to be a hundred years old, but how time can move slower, that we all age, at a, slower, pace too, so we can, have more time with those whom we love, to not have any regrets.

Please, monster of time, do, come to us, slowly.

And so, this is the realizations of how you have limited amount of time to spend with your parents, because they’re aging fast, and, as we get to a certain age, everything starts malfunctioning, because that IS, the AGING process, and nobody can escape it, and we hope that time can pass slower, so we can, care for our own parents, longer, but it’s not up to us, or them, it’s up to, time to see.

Proving to the Log-in Systems that We’re Not A.I. Bots

How do we PROVE to these computer programs, log-in systems, that we’re not, “bots”???  Translated…

The new security policy of the platform on Cloud, the dual identity confirmation became a prerequisite for logging, in.  Other than the password I’d committed to my, memories, I’d still had to have an extra way of confirming my, identity.  In other words, the fundamental of the passwords is no longer enough to, suffice, we had to, turn in another verification that “I am who I say I am”, as proof.

Those who didn’t update the verification methods, are kicked out of the log-in systems, and all the work we’d done, placed on, hold, and the groups in my unit started, howling out in pain.  The manager of IT busied about, emailing the log-in links, and, reminded us all, to set up our, log-ins of dual-verification, otherwise, we are going to get kicked out of the systems, shortly after this again.

Those accounts that were blocked from access, made us feel like we’d been, locked out of the doors of the apartment suite we’d paid the rents on already, despite how we knew, that the spaces aren’t really, ours, what we’d cared about more, was how those saved documents, images, from within this “gate” leaving us.  The digital amusement park structured by the internet, had a ton of accessible data, but if we can’t retrieve what we need from the computers, even if they were the tracks we’d walked, the memories, we simply can’t prove that they’re all, ours.

this used to, “suffice”…image from online, just check that “box”…

Other than proving that I am who I say that I am, the rules of internet use is clear, and there’s this, other form of identity verification that’s quite, trying: to prove that I am, human, that I am not a bot.  Like being able to find the words in the mixtures of signals, or finding the matching pictures out of the nine squares, duplicating these, pointless behaviors, it all seemed to help the computer confirm, to be absolute certain, that the behaviors are, of the humans’.

My engineer friend told me, that when they needed to collect the massive amounts of data in the shortest time possible, he’d once written a formula, to break the “I’m not a robot”, verification requirement.  Once the duel partner was a puzzle sort of verification, the users needed to drag the piece of the puzzle to the missing location.  The program was set up to make the right answers easily, you only needed to get the image file out of the source code of the website, find those areas with darker color, calculate the distance from the locations, then, move the smaller puzzle pieces over to match.

And yet, these operative means of confirmation, the core isn’t reaching the right answer, but how you can, solve a problem like a, “real human”.  From the start, you’d dragged it all the way to the end, that’s naturally, cheating, and if you want to model after a real human being, you need to design an uneconomic method of moving the puzzle pieces around, pretend that you’re thinking things through thoroughly, to find that hard-to-reach answer, carefully, answer it.

“But, this still won’t get you in”, the engineer told, me.

“Why?  Because the process of dragging the pieces is, way too, quick?” I can imagine, how when you drag the pieces to the location, you’d had to, slow down your movement, to fit then in just, right, which is different compared to before when you’d dragged the pieces from far to closer.

“That was what I’d thought too, originally, but it’s not enough,” the engineer shook his, head.

On the surfaces, its’ the face-off of one program against another, in actuality, it’s the juicing of brain power of the engineer, imagining, what sort of a behavior, constitutes as human-like, to get believed as a, human, being.  And my engineer friend finally found the answer to this, the verification program cares about the tracks of the movements, whether it be using the touchpad, or your mouse, you can’t make a perfect straight line or a perfect, curve, as the computer sees you drag out that line like the drunk man, trying to walk a straight line, then it will be willing to, believe that you are, human.

“I’d jostled the mouse all the way, made the passage squiggly, then I’d passed the test!”, the engineer told me.

with how smart A.I.’s becoming, these programmers are coming up with these sorts of I.Q. test questions that ordinary persons who wants to access the accounts to use…found online

And since I knew about this, when I’m faced with the exact same kind of human verification processes, I’d, started, becoming unsteady with my mouse when I am answering the “please verify you’re a human being” inquiries.

And so, this is, how A.I. knows, that you’re not another, bot, because humans can’t do everything to perfect, to do something flawless.  Think about it, can you draw a straight line without a ruler?  Probably not, and these verifications of us being humans, are sometimes a huge pain in the ass, because I KNOW I’m a human being, and how the HELL can I be absolute certain, that the verification system I’m interacting with, isn’t a “bot”?  And yet, we need to verify ourselves, every time we use the systems, and it’s for the sake of our privacies, secure access to the systems.

Red Bag & Blue Memories, Notes from the Long-Term Care Caretaker’s Journal

She’s slowly, forgetting, and you’re left, with all the miseries of your pasts, of how your mother had, pushed you, how she didn’t love you how you wanted her to love you, and yet, you’re still, shouldering the responsibilities of caring for her as she becomes, demented, because you have to, because that’s what the society expects from the children in Asian societies, and there’s NO way out of any of us here!  Translated…

I’d, stumbled and fallen again in emotions, again, and it’s still because of my, mother.  Her memories are like that loose button pulled by time, slowly, they’d fallen, out of, place, but she’d insisted, that, all was still within her own, control.  I’d taken a leave of absence today like I had done before, to go with my mother to the hospital to pick up her medications, to fulfill the established synchrony of mother and daughter that’s gone on for years on end.  As we left the hospital, I’d driven her to the wholesales mart to pick up her favorite fruits, then, took the turn into Mingshen W. Road, to buy her a bowl of hot, warm, four-ingredient soup that she loved.  The temperature of the soup is enough to chase the cold away.  The companionship was like that invisible thread, leading you, onward, you’re unwilling to, let go, nor can you, let it, go.

The real conflict, from an ordinary lunch that was originally smooth going.  We’d entered into the market, ordered a plate of dumplings in the steams of the restaurants.  My mother brought along the eating utensils that she normally carried, and prepared a set for me too.  At the time, all was, fine, but as we arrived home, she’d found that a spoon had gone, missing, and I was her, primary, suspect.  She’d took out that blue carrier case, started, interrogating me, but I’d, clearly remembered, that she took out the red carrier today.  That bloody red cloth cover, glowed brightly under the sun, like that fire that burned.

illustration from UDN.com

I’d walked over to the car, started, rummaging, and surely enough the bag had fallen to, beneath the seats, with the spoon, the chopstick lying inside, quietly.  But what hurt was, my mother’s stubbornness in insisting that I’d “stolen” her set, like if she’d admitted that she’d accused me wrong, her world would, collapse.  I’d started by explaining, with my patience still intact, to my patience, slowly, drifting out of me, to the point of having my own, emotional, meltdown, everything overflowed.  I didn’t do anything, and yet, I got accused for stealing her eating utensils; that spoon became a final straw.  Suddenly, it’d dawned on me, how thin my patience was actually, how that light tremble can, crush it, completely.

For long, my mother and I got along, with the prickly hugs.  She’d loved us, but, using her, sharpened ways, like how she’d, added in the rubbles in her love that she’d shown to us.  When things don’t go her way, she’d, started, recounted out the times that we were awful, how bad we were, built up that line of defense of hers with her words, and I got, sliced to injury, in the midst.  What hurt me the most was, how I had, used the same means of how she’d treated me, to treat her, back.  I don’t want to become an adult like her, but as I got too emotionally, I’d, lost it.  My mother’s stubborn facial expression was like that mirror that reflected, how much I still needs to, work, on on myself.

I’d often thought about my own father who’d passed away too early.  How my mother had, treated him, was like that small knife that’s on the wind, piercing through the originally undisturbed, peaceful air too.  While my father, he could always, maintain his calm in the midst of this, like he’d known how to, stay stable in the, raging, storms.  His silence wasn’t out of timid, but a sort of a persistent tolerance.  I kept on, trying to, train myself to become more like him, but in this particular conflict, I’d still, cracked.  I’d felt helpless, and blamed myself too, and realized, that this was a lesson I must, master for the rest of my, life.

Writing all of these down, I’m patching up the tiny rips for myself.  As the words fell onto the pages, my heart started, saturating too.  It’s not out of sorrows that I’d vented here, it isn’t a failure on my part that I’d, admitted to my own, fragileness, but to find that center in my heart to, stand, back up again.   For I know, my mother’s memories will only get lost more and more from here on out, and there will be other moments that caused the upset between us.  But even so, our interactions became like that old residence, with the cracks on the walls, leaks when it rains, but so long as I’m willing to bend over, to fix things, to leave that light on for one another.  It’s still my home right there.  I’m willing to, still hold my mother’s hand, as she gets lost more and more times in her, memories, seeing those light that came through the cracks of the walls that had been, mended and patched over repeatedly.

And so, this is, how it goes, you are left with the care of your aging mother who’s becoming, demented, and, she is going to lose more, but because she raised you, she gave you life, so, you must, fulfill the obligations of the filial piety that’s, forced upon you to carry.

This is what happens to a lot of the traditional Asian families, with the children, who’d suffered through their parents’ upbringing because the parents passed the abuse and neglect they received down to their own young, and when we’re grown, we think that we can be free, then we can’t, because we’re still all bound, by the obligations of these, traditional Asian “virtues” (virtues my ASS!) of filial piety!

Going to the Movies with My Son

Because she wants to spend more time with her son, she’d gone to see the movies that she couldn’t, get, how far we are willing to go, to get closer to our, children by experiencing new things we normally wouldn’t…translated…

My son who’s a busybody started slowing down the paces of his own life all of a, sudden, and asked us out to the movies, I’d agreed to this date immediately soon as he’d asked.

I’d gloated secretly, it’s finally MY turn.  From before, he, his younger brother, and the chores around the house were lined up to get my attention; and now, I’m waiting my turn with his work, classmate, and the games, and I have, no complaints.

like this…photo from online, except that in her “case”, her son is an adolescent

As I was waiting for the movie, I’d, started, honing up on the contents of the movie invited me to, after the twelve episode long of “Chainsaw Man: Reze Arc” it’d caused me to get farther from him.  I’d buried my head, trying to catch up, and saw my son, holding two posters of the movie, taking the shot to send to his classmates, he’d flashed that rare smile from getting drained dry by his work.  He wanted to see the movie, for the limited edition memorabilia, while I came, just for his, smile.

The protagonist, Denji had an even worse life than Oshin.  There was the grotesque feel to the scenes of the movie with the glows from the blades.  The moment before, the hacking of the flesh, the moment following, the broken limbs covered up the screens, bloody.  The quick entry of all the characters caused my brains to jumble up.  I’d, entered into the theatre, in that, false pretense, the sound was full, the audience’s popcorns, too.  The story began, fitting for all ages, with the start of the days of the protagonist, midway, the female lead showed her true colors, the blood gushed, covered the screens, which was what the human versions can’t portray.  The stranger than fiction was what I saw, while my son saw the creativeness, and the innovative.

The movie ended, the lights came on, and, I was equally surprised as my son, that I did not, doze, off.  The world of the child is like that deep lagoon, that we can’t see through, I’d worked hard, getting closer to him, and I saw that light, a window to a wider world than mine, that he’d, introduced me, to.

So, this is, love me love my dog, the mother wanted to know what her son is into, and so, she’d gone to this, movie that’s out of her league, not what she normally sees, and, she managed to connect with her son, in this afternoon matinee movie date.

The School’s Making My Son Own Up to His Misbehaviors

The school and the teacher’s methods of teaching the children to INTROSPECT what they’d done wrong in school, the right way to teach them!  Translated…

During the nap hours at school, my child had engaged in that game of catch with the fruits the school gave them for lunch that day, causing the fruit to bust, the juices flowed out; my child’s homeroom had the kids fill out the slips of breaking the school rules first, then, turning the slips in, and then the school will decide their, punishment, and they were told to take the slips home for us to, look over and sign.

One of the column had the children put their thoughts of the cause and effect of what had happened, and what they did wrong, and how they felt about it, and my child wrote, illegibly, too hard to, read, and I’d, hammered down on him, why did he write so illegibly, with the miswritten characters too?  He’d told me to overlook the, details, to focus more on whether or not he had, evaluated his own behaviors or, not.  Then he’d, begun, complaining, how the teachers and principals had already, grilled him in school, and had him admit to what he did in school was, wrong.

“Then, did you, really, introspect your own, behaviors?”  “of course I had!  I shouldn’t have believed that horseplaying was fun, wasting the food sources, making the environment unclean.” “What else?” “Most importantly, to NEVER make the same mistakes, again!”

the child sent home with, this…image from online

I’d nodded in agreement, in the parent’s comment column, I’d put down, “My child knew that his behaviors were improper, and will never do it again!”, compared to misbehaving, I’d cared more about if he’d known what he’d done was wrong.  If he didn’t believe what he’d done was wrong, then how will he change his own behavior from internally?

My son was surprised, “mom, you are the very first parent who’d written your own comment ono this piece of paper.”  I’d then told him, that everyone is responsible for her/his own speech and behaviors, and naturally, I shall do my duty as the parent, to make sure that he knew what he’d done was wrong.  After that, I’d, signed on the parents’ signature column, and reminded my son, “Don’t you ever do that again!”

And so, this is, what involving in your child’s actions the correct way looks, like, instead of just signing whatever your child gave to you to sign, because that’s what a lot of parents do, because they do not have the time to read it over, you’d made SURE that your son knew what he’d done was wrong, and that he will NOT do it again, so you won’t have to go through this, again.

The Calm These Teens with ADHD Found Through Doing Yoga

Finding that state of, meditation and keep ourselves, inside that, calming state of, mind, to cope with the unsettlements of this world that’s, outside of our, beings…translated…

They were, a group of, adolescent, boys, some of whom had been diagnosed with ADHD, and wanted to take my yoga course on a trial period, because they’d heard, that doing yoga can help them grow, taller.

As I’d thought of my two-hour sessions, I’d thought of how “breathing” is that bridge that connects the body and the mind, that so long as I’m able to teach these children to focus on their breathing, it wouldn’t matter if it were only a few short minutes’ times, I’m sure, I can, help them, feel that introspective sensation.

And surely, the first move I’d had then on their stomachs to use their diaphragm to breathe, the four-limbed staff pose, there were three out of the group who’d, fallen asleep on sight.  And at the end of the sessions, the other students asked in a hushed voice, “Miss, do we, wake them, up?”

a good, non-prescription method to help these children to find that calm that will help them focus…photo from online

Then, I’d had them become aware of their own bodies through the stretches, everybody had a good time, testing to see if their shoulders were, tightened, if they have enough muscle strengths in their, abs.  They were quite curious, in making the discoveries of their own, bodies, and in the yelps of pains, laughter, horseplay, making fun of each other, tried the various exercises and stretches, this was their new beginning to connect with themselves.

At the end when I guided them to relax, I’d used that calmness of having them imagine, that they were wrapped in a huge, bubble.  They’d naturally, retreated back to that, cave that’s inside them, all had, quieted down.  At this time, tears came to a child’s eyes, and, she’d cried out all those, tensions she could find no verbal expressions for from before.

From the corpse to waking back up, the boys started, giggling from within their souls, like the newborn infants had, and I was so very moved by that, serenity that they were, experiencing.  Some of the kids were, already lucid, but still immersed in the dreams that they couldn’t, wake up, from, lying on their backs, and just, stared into, space, like they’d gone to another, dimension.

So, we hadn’t been able to feel this relaxed since forever.  Even though there are so many moments in life that we feel confused in, through the slowing of our breaths, we could follow that light, and find that steady in our minds and hearts that we need, to settle ourselves, down.

These exercises in yoga isn’t for learning more, but to teach people to let go of more.  And we’d, achieved just that in this, session, in the silence, we’d found that strengths of our own selves, back.

So, this is how yoga is not just for the body, but for the, mind too, and these are a group of children with A.D.H.D., and they were able to find that calm that they needed, through these, simple yoga poses.  Maybe that’s why, a lot of people are taking up yoga right now because this world is in a total MESS, and we are all in desperate need for that place of calm that we can, retreat, into.

The Generations that Started Changing the Dynamics of Interactions with Their Daughters-in-Law

SNAPPING out of the vicious cycle of mother-and-daughter-in-law bad interactions here, very WISE indeed!  Translated…

As a married woman becomes a, mother-in-law, it’s only, naturally, that she wanted her own daughter-in-law to get put through the trials that she’d undergone as a, daughter-in-law too, but it’d, caused the problems of the in-laws, and interpreted as one woman’s making the troubles for another, woman.  Actually, the issues of mothers-in-law and daughters-in-law, stemmed from the problems of gender equality, which is a part of the patriarchal society makeup, hard to change; thankfully, modern day women are more aware of gender equality, there’s this, slow but certain shift between the power struggles of mothers and daughters-in-law.

I have an older cousin’s wife, who’s a “traditional good daughter-in-law”, live in with her in-laws, took care of them perfectly, and earned the commends of the neighbors, to one of their neighbors felt that his own daughter-in-law’s name stood out too much, and demanded that she changed her name to my older cousin’s wife’s name.  And aunt and uncle had commended my cousin’s wife on how tentative she was, and, she’d said that they’d, cherished her very much too.  but, I’d, observed that her in-laws are high in demands of the cleanliness of the homefronts, my cousin is working away mostly, everything in the house, fell on my cousin’s wife’s, shoulders, and I believe, she’d been living under, enormous, pressures all these, years, she had the untreatable and long-term migraines.  She’d once told me in private, that despite how her two sons are very well behaved and kind to her, she will, NEVER live in the same house as her daughters-in-law.  I’d asked her why, she’d told, that if her daughters-in-law live with her sons on their own, there wouldn’t be, that much, pressures on all of them.  Later, my cousin’s company earned a lot of profits, and he’d purchased two mansions close by to their current home, and as the kids grew up and married, each were given one mansion to live in.  With my cousin and his wife staying in their original home, and they all had their independent spaces of living, and they related to each other wonderfully.

Just so happens, that there’s an older woman with whom I went on my early morning exercise routines with, that when she was wed to the youngest son of the family, her in-laws had passed, and the four older sisters would take turns coming back home, she’d told, that she has, four mothers-in-law.  Once on our run together, she’d told me, that her son is thinking of marrying the woman he’d been, dating, she’d told him that she will not live with them, nor will she be responsible for caring for their children in the future, and her reason was, so her daughter-in-law can have more space and room to be herself.

Like my older cousin’s wife and the older woman I’d gone on my morning runs with, they both withstood the pressures from their in-laws in their younger years of marriages, and realized, that they have to give the autonomy of life back to their own daughters-in-law, this will help implement the gender equality starting at the family’s level———it is the fundamental rights of the children of how they will run their own homes, without any interferences from the older generations.  I’m sure, there will be more and more cases of these, women allowing the younger generations of women to run their homes their own, ways.

And so, this is a good example, of how NOT to allow the vicious cycle to pass down to your future generations, and, these older generations, are slowly, changing their views of the makeup of the families, because these older generations of women had been under the trials of having to live in with their mothers-in-law, and they are realizing, that they should NOT impose their younger generations, to put more pressures on their own offspring, like how too much pressure had been forced on them to carry.  Breaking the bad vicious cycles of interaction with the parents-in-law starts with this generation!

Trump Signed the Executive Order to Control the Profits Made by Venezuela’s Confiscated Oil

He still got what he wanted, more CASH, and this will only increase his appetite for invasions, and for the takeovers of foreign countries, as he was successful this time with Venezuela, in overthrowing Maduro, and putting the puppet president elect, Rodriguez on the “stage” there, and, Rodriguez isn’t safe either now that Trump got what he wants…off of the Front Page Sections, translated…

Trump signed an executive order on the ninth, placing the country into a state of emergency, with his aims of preventing and “protecting” the incomes from the crude oil sales of the crude oils from Venezuela.

and, just what make YOU think that Venezuelan stability is UP to YOU to protect??? From YouTube

Reuters and Axios news reported, that the executive order made no mentions of specific companies, only stressed that the incomes from the crude oils is the assets of the Venezuelan government, with U.S. keeping it safe for the country, and the uses is allotted to the operating of the Venezuelan government and in Venezuela’s foreign affairs, not for the creditors of Venezuela to use for the claims.

Based off of Trump’s executive order, the WH confirmed that the Venezuelan incomes deposited into the “Foreign Government’s Savings Funds”, is to get put to the use of helping Venezuela establish peace, prosperity in the economy, and political stability.

And this is how SLY Trump is using the EXCUSE of “for your own good” for your welfare, he’d, SCAMMED Venezuela of its oil resources, and what makes U.S. the father or mother of our countries?  And, why should the countries that are independent, NOT be able to choose how they use the sums gained from the countries’ sales of their natural resources?  Who gave Uncle Sam the RIGHT, to DIRECT us in how we use the funds that our countries make?  And yet, no country is standing UP against Trump’s controlling everything!

When Postpartum Depression Sneaks up on You

The life experience, that only WE women go through, because we are the ones getting pregnant, and giving birth, with all the hormones, messing with our minds…translated…

Motherhood should be joyous, blissful, and, wonderful.  And yet, many women, after they became mothers, they’d found, that their lives after birth aren’t what they expected.  Life afterbirth is chasing the clocks, everything is our first time, but we had to, master it immediately, other than becoming insomniac because of caring for the newborn, many moms can’t even find time to go to the bathrooms, or to have a filling, meal, and, postpartum depression, this, unwelcomed guest, came knocking on our, doors.

Thinking on it, it is reasonable, that this “guest” in our lives came at this time: the multiple roles we take, the major life changes, who wouldn’t feel anxious annoyed and low?  But it’s also, unreasonable too: it’s more than we can handle that we’re caring for our newborns, who has the time for depression?  This is what confused many mothers, “this is just postpartum depression, or is it something that comes with motherhood, that I’m just, not tough enough to hack it?”, life gets busy without time allotted for us to find out the answers, and this question got stuffed at the bottommost shelf inside our, minds, as we check off another item on that, to-do, list, and, we’d, kept up with this for several more, months, until we finally learned from our friends, that this, IS, postpartum, depression.

Like the writer told, postpartum depression is the same as regular depression, it doesn’t discriminate, not just the physician’s wife who has everything she needs and wants, even the psychiatrists with specialty in postpartum can, get, it too.

I’d had a period of gloom right after I had my first.  My due date was around the time of my specialty physicians’ exams, the studying, the test was, no problem, what destroyed me was the sleep patterns of my newborn, I’d read a ton of volumes of the expert opinions, sorted through all the articles on infant care I could, find, still, many a nights, I’d, carried my infant child, paced around in my own living room, as the sun, rose up.  There was a whole year’s time that I’d felt annoyed, anxious, wanted to cry, until my child went into the nursery care, I’d started seeing my patients, again, and found myself back piece by piece in my hobbies of dancing, and writing, along with the joys of, motherhood, like how the writer said, through baking the goods, it was the joys of watching her families savor the baked goods that’s, healed, her. Later, I’d read the dissertation of Winnicott on primary maternal preoccupation, that mentioned the concepts of primary maternal preoccupation, it’d given me a brand new understanding of the world after birth.  Winnicott is not just a pediatrician, but also a psychoanalyst, he’d described that toward the end of a woman’s terms, to a few weeks after birth, she will go through a period of immersing her entire being into caring for the newborn, the mother would give herself completely to the newborn infant, to the point of, losing complete contact with the outside world, and, if this is not happening in caring for the newborn, then the woman will get diagnosed with an illness, but this is considered a healthy adjustment of after giving birth for the mother.  Only a woman with enough stability in her psychological states can she enter into this condition of mind, then, as the infant stop clinging on her way too tight, she’d, returned back to her, normal, self again.

This interpretation gave me a brand new understanding of postpartum depression.

The surfacing of postpartum depression doesn’t mean that you’re not a good enough mother, or that you don’t love your newborn enough, but that you’d given all you got in the path of becoming a mother already.  It reminds us to remember, that as the child no longer needs you 24/7, you can, slowly, find your selves, back.

And so, by this view, postpartum depression is no longer perceived as a mental illness, but a passage of our lives after we become, mothers, because the hormone levels, and, the adjustments of our schedules now being, circling around that, newborn baby of ours, it’s only naturally, that WE women would have problems adapting to this “new way of life” immediately, because time does NOT stop, for us, to take a breath in, and exhale, everything happens, one right after, another, because that’s, L~I~F~E!  And we either adjust our mindsets, or, we will have this huge mess of our, lives.

My Daughter’s Coming of Age after She’d Gone Abroad by Herself

Allowing her daughter to fly solo, because that’s what she realized that the teenager needed…translated…

The white light, it’d, reflected on the hardwood desk, the circular shaped tracks, deep, messy, with hate etched in, became, a total, eyesore.

I don’t know how much pent up anger was in my daughter when she’d carved these markings in; nor can I recall, in her sixteen years of life, what I’d done, to make her, hate me, so much, that she’d, begun communicating with me using her anger instead of, words.

Every night supper came, she’d rushed down the stairs with that anger hovering over her face, carelessly, picked up the foods out of the plates, then, “Whack!”, slammed her, door, cutting me, and the rest of the family, out.  This status of “physically being here, but not in the hearts” became every day occurrences since she entered high school.  No matter how I’d pleaded, coaxed, or even, ordered her to come downstairs, she’d, kept at her own, way, looking at me with her cold glares, then, vanished in silence, behind the, doors.  Her anger became like that soundless lurking wave, slowly, drowning this family, in.

She’d locked herself up, and let her academic performances slide too.  I am worried, flustered, distraught, and heart wrenched, I have no clue where all her negative emotions, come, from.  Until, the conflict finally blew, wide open on a weekend.  She’d gone out with her friends, stayed out all day, and I’d, begun, interrogating her, “Why are your friends more important than your, family?  When did we become, your, worst, enemies?”, she’d turned hysterical, “because you all hate me!  That’s why, I try to, get out of your, ways!” I was shocked, and continued asking, “Who says we hate you?”

She’d fallen, silent, couldn’t answer me.  The anger was halfway up in the air, and dissolved on its, own.  I took the advantage, and reminded her that she should still continue to work hard in school, that this is the time when we are still able and willing to, invest in her, future, she’d laughed dryly, “What’s the, point?  Aunty worked so hard in going to university again, and, right after she went home as she received her diploma, she’d died in that, crash, what did she work so hard in school for?”, I’d taken that deep inhale in, “it’s not the result, but in the, process.  Your aunt enjoyed her return back to school, that’s the memories of her own, self.  If she didn’t go back to school, then, as she died, I’m sure she would have even more, regrets.”, she’d still, remained, unmoved by my, words.

Then I’d suddenly recalled, she’d told me of how her school is having a field trip to, Korea.  I’d encouraged her to sign up, she was surprised, looking at me—because the fees are a bit high for our family to, afford.  But I’d believed, maybe, in that foreign country where she’d longed to go to, she sees the students who are, working hard for their dreams, trying to, achieve their, goals, she will see a wider, a bigger, world than just the inside of her own, room.  I’d disregarded my husband’s objections to this, and, paid for her to go.

Since that trip, she’d looked, like a brand new person, with her eyes aglow, like another soul had, entered into, her.  She’d become willing to, come downstairs to join us for meals, to even, interacting with her; and that atmosphere of low pressure, finally, lifted from our, home.

And I started talking to her, using this, rare opportunity, “if you want more experiences like this one, you’re going to have to, pursue it yourself.  With your economic wellbeing taken care of, then you will, have the right to choose the life you want for yourself; being economically independent, then you can, live in a place you want to live in.  And all of these will be fulfilled, starting now, with you, enriching yourself!”

She’d listened quietly, without any, objections, and just nodded her head.  At that moment, I see those, tracks, slowly, vanishing.

And so, this mother, she’d allowed her own daughter to fly solo, because she realized that that’s what the teenager needed, and, with her daughter’s flying solo, and losing her aunt, the teen was able to become, steadier in her foothold in life, and it’s all because the mother didn’t lock the daughter up in that gilded cage, instead, she’d, released her child, trusting that she would, find her own way.