Are you feeling uncomfortable? Let's hear my joke aka my life.
Last Thursday night, after hanging out with our designer and manager, I came home and found the worst nightmare ever happened in this family's history. Hedi, my cat, shit all over my blanket. LITERALLY SHIT ALL OVER IT. It was bad. It was really bad. His stomach was ill. I could tell by the color and the smell of his shit. My whole room smelled like a kingdom of shit. I took off the blanket cover in disgust and terror. I had to detect every corner of my bed for any sight of shit with MY NOSE. Even when it was done, my room still smelled a lot like shit. My window was wide open, my fan was working hard. I thought it would be a terrible idea to turn on the air-conditioner in that situation. If any machines in my room had feelings, they'd never forgive me for that night. I was sleeping in fear. The fear of sleeping in a bed full of shit. Next day's morning was slightly covered in the same smell and I also found a shit mark on the floor near the door.
The worst part is, I kicked Hedi twice that night. I was really angry and shocked. I felt so disgusted. I don't think that shit machine will ever know guilt. But take a look at it again, it was my fault. Hedi was ill indeed. That was on me, my responsibility. It makes me feel even worse. It's the same thing that happens over and over in my life: I fuck up and blame the world for it. Hedi is normal now and I gave him a petting earlier. I still feel I owe him an apology and a better attitude of me being his care taker. Maybe it wasn't me sleeping in the bed of shit. Maybe it was me being the shit.
Talking of fucking up, I've been thinking of my father lately. Most of my life, I have never fully trusted him. He always fucks something up. He wasn't a good husband to my mother. He is a careless dad. It's one of the reasons for who I am today. Of course, he's taught me things. But it would take a ridiculously strong person to be his daughter and the price would not come cheap. I paid that price and at times, I wish I had a better father. Because I think I would be a happier person, I'd smile more and open up more. My life wouldn't be so closed and difficult. When my mother died, everything changed. The only person that held the warmth of the house was gone. My father never spent a minute discussing about it with me. He never made that effort. After two weeks, I broke down. Bad things take time to kick in and for me, it took two weeks, There was one time I thought I could find some of my mother's pills in her wardrobe. To do what, I wasn't sure. But I was thrown into that idea deeply. I don't think I have the guts for suicide. Does it even take guts? Killing oneself is not a brave thing. Whatever happened, I knew I had to move on and live well. Strangely though, I was thinking I really needed to have that presence of pills near my bed.
I never found any pills. In fact, I never actually did it. For a while, whenever bad things happened, there was this thing that kept coming up in my mind: "What do you mean? My mother died!" Like "What do you mean this doesn't work / it's not good enough / I can't do this? I no longer have a mother. Isn't that bad enough?" It's silly. It is.
I also learn that bad things are blessings. Yes, I'm angry at my father. But I love him more. And the first thing everyone should do to their family is to protect them, for better or worse. In the end, he lets me do my things and doesn't get disappointed when I fail. I have learned two greatest things from my father:
1. Never stop learning. If there has to be a person nominated for biggest love of learning, I'll suggest my father.
2. Love animals. He's the start of my love for cats and the one that agreed we could have a dog. Because of A-chim, my dog, I was saved.
He taught me how to read maps. I was good at remembering capitals of countries in the the world. Overall, my memory was impressive. He encouraged my interest in astronomy, taught me how to meditate and always made me watch Discovery though I hated it sometimes. Because my father never had a childhood, he never knew any fairy tales. When I was little, he had to make up a story about a bear and two rabbits to tell me before bed. Over and over again. He had no idea about children's stories. His version was something that goes like this:
In a stormy and cold night, an old bear's house was torn down. The destruction was terrible and the bear had to get out to find a shelter. He ran to the White Rabbit's door and knocked:
- Dear White Rabbit, please let me in. I'm soaking wet.
The rabbit looked at him through the window and said:
- No no. You're so big. You'll tear my house down.
The bear looked down sadly. He ran again to the Black Rabbit's door and knocked:
- Dear Black Rabbit, please let me in. I'm soaking wet.
The Black Rabbit rushed to the door and opened it. He welcomed the bear:
- My dear, please come in. Hurry.
Inside, the bear was offered fire and food. When the storm went out, the Black Rabbit helped the bear rebuild his house. The White Rabbit saw that and felt bad. He came towards the bear and apologized for not letting him in during the storm. The bear said:
- It's ok, dear.
They smiled at each other and together, the three of them built a house.
That's the story. The learning value of it is: always help people in need and how people look doesn't define their quality. Because at that time, I found black animals ugly.
So that's about it. Have a good night and we'll see each other again in next post.
