postscript

(Edited July 2, 2009)

(Author’s note: All links open in a new window)

I’m not very complicated to understand, really (which is funny considering there are less than a handful of people who do understand).

(But I do cuss. A lot. I’m unsure if this is troublesome. But at least I keep it at bay around children.)

On some level, I’m probably like every other girl who enjoys certain things in the privacy of her own home that others probably wouldn’t understand. I like to walk around the house wrapped in bed sheets. Clothing feels stifling and unnatural to me. When wanting to be my most comfortable self, I sometimes wrap it around and there it stays until I need to leave my house or have visitors.

My favourite thing in the morning is Rooibos tea or Chicory and Coffee, both with cream or whole milk lactose-free milk. I find my tolerance for dairy decreases over time. I can’t drink a glass of regular milk anymore. I can stick it in things like oatmeal. Anything more turns my stomach into a hell beastie.

I will never give up cheese. Never. Nope. U-uh.

I have a silly habit where, if I <i>can</i> fall asleep, I tend to do so on my couch surrounded by fluffy pillows, a really big blanket, and a book. I sometimes sleep so few hours that when I do experience being sleepy, I am sometimes reluctant to move to my bed for fear I won’t be able to sleep. The idea of not being able to sleep makes me feel tired. Now, if it made me feel sleepy, I’d be much happier. Though, in the past 2 years that sleeping has been an issue, I’ve discovered that the amount of abuse one’s body will endure before it becomes acclimated to said abuse is both remarkable and disturbing.

I have the tendency to laugh. A lot. Sometimes, I might laugh in situations where it may surprise people that I did so. Others still, will assume that when I laugh at seemingly inappropriate times, I’m hiding on an emotional level and not willing to let out what’s truly there. In truth, I laugh (different degrees of laughing, right? There’s the chuckle, the giggle, etc) because it helps me see “the happy” in many different situations, even if it doesn’t seem obvious to others at first.

I didn’t really grow up like most girls. I didn’t have Barbies. I didn’t have many toys. Actually, now that I think about it, I had a whole lot of nothing. I had some classic children’s books like the Dr. Seuss collections (Sneetches!) or Rip Van Winkle and Snow White. My favourite thing about them was that they were accompanied by an audio tape. I loved it because, even though I knew the books by heart, I could fall asleep to the voice on that tape.

As a little one, I had bad migraines. As a teen, they paralyzed either side of my body. I got taken to the ER once where I was told to walk in a straight line while the migraine was kickin’ around in my head. I couldn’t do it. The only thing, besides large doses of Naproxyn, that cured them: Leonard Cohen’s The Future, Pink Floyd’s The Division Bell and three Springsteen songs: Atlantic City, The River, and Thunder Road. I tried to make Sonic Youth and Pavement help but they amplified the pain (I’ve yet to forgive them for that).

In my early 20s, a health practitioner asked “Do your migraines wake you up at night?” I nodded an emphatic “YES!” She quickly scribbled on a piece of paper, handed to me, and told me to give to Dr. ____ at the hospital. I put the note in my pocket with the thought that I didn’t want to know anything about what was knocking around in there.

The health practitioner was a woman at Planned Parenthood asking routine questions about why I was not on birth control. Every question was followed by: “Can’t. Migraines. Hurts. Don’t really like that kind of pain.”

In my 30s, the migraines persist but not as frequent nor as painful. I still haven’t followed up with that scribbled note.

This site, in one form or another, has been around for at least a decade (my goodness!) and was Espiritu. Bad, bad blogger and a hatred for Your-Site.com as a hosting company, led me to this name and this space. So far, it seems to agree with me and I, it.

When I was younger, I used to get teased a lot about my arms. If I turn them palm-facing-up, they look kinda like boomerangs. Difficult to explain so imagination here is a must. Nothing visible and nothing one would see unless you look really closely.

But the heckling got old.

Later on, I found I have a bone disorder that occurs at almost every joint I have (big toes, elbows, knees, etc) where there’s just a little too much bone. At the joint of my big toe, I have extra bone growth that is NOW becoming a hellish problem requiring surgery. It gives me a lot of pain to stand and walk. Starting Nov. 10 2006, I’ll start feeling much better. (Edit: 3 years later: Right foot: much better. Left foot: needs surgery soon.)

I love to read. I started to be able to read about 300 pages in a couple of hours. It impresses people. But mostly, I just wanted to finish assignments in high school faster. It got really handy in college as a multi-liberal arts major. I wrote a lotta fucking essays.

Neil Gaiman sits at the very top of “my favourite authors” mountain. Well, he might share the spot with Will Christopher Baer. I don’t want either of them to be lonely up there.

I try to be a creative person. This means I have a lot of different things I’m capable of. I do all of them well but perhaps excel at only a few of them. I started playing guitar when I was 8. I liked to play live. Until one day, I fell off the rooftop of a high building and into a pool. I was playing Radiohead’s Creep during my “how high can I fly” performance.

I don’t twitch anymore when I hear it on the radio.

I had an accident with one of the fretting fingers on my left hand. Actually, I cut the tip of my ring finger right off. Its reattached now. But I couldn’t play for years without wincing. About 8 years later, I found a guitar technician that customized my Martin for me. I can play again for hours on end now. I met the guy very briefly but he did more for me than he realizes.

I used to play the piano as a kid and have been itching to get back into it for the last couple of years. I teeter between wanting an old, big piano that goes out of tune frequently (which I find charming) or one of those newer electric ones that weigh less and have a headphone jack. The latter was only to be polite to neighbours late at night. But then got to thinking that music is good for everyone (I’m all about helping).

I have fairly stable relationships with people. I have a very close circle of friends I can count on one hand. It might seem sad for some but for me, its ideal and I cherish it. I’d rather have just a few close friends I can always count on rather than 10 friends that are flaky and not really there.

These friendships will last my entire lifetime.

I used to think a place I could call home would be impossible. What does “home” mean? Is it a place you wish you lived in? A mental state?The place you’ve spent most of your life in?

I grew up on an island in the middle of the Caribbean. If you ask me what that was like, I would likely stutter and stare at you. I’ve never known how to answer that question. I didn’t grow up anywhere else so how would I know? Instead, maybe you should ask me what you’d like to hear me say – seems to make the question more accurate.

I never thought anything in America could compare to Puerto Rico. Then, I recently realized “home” is a time and place that continually changes shape as one grows. A place that grows with you whether physically or emotionally.

In October 2006, I found “home” in the most unlikely place in America. Ever since then, I tend to sit back and let things pick me.

I think of myself as a generally happy person. What helps is recognizing life as an experience. I wouldn’t change any part of that timeline, which doesn’t mean all the experiences were enjoyed. It just means life is ever-changing. Some things that happen can’t be foreseen but reactions and the process of dealing can be chosen. Is there a right way? Maybe. Maybe not. Make a mistake. Learn. And that’s just fine.