Properly Instilled Discipline

is necessary for good structure in the future. It must be steadily enforced throughout childhood, in all ways -- including set dinner times, following through on threats, and consistent authoritative presence (NOT militant).

The pattern in our family is that we lacked it severely. There was punishment, oh no question about it. There were both warranted and unwarranted beatings, threats, etc. I still have memories that make me wince, my artwork ripped into shreds, canvas hanging limply from broken easels, bruises that went away a lot faster than I wanted them to sometimes -- proof, that it wasn't my fault I was crazy. But they always shied away, after barely making an appearance.

My mother voiced her frustrations to me tonight, and initially I defended myself with dropped eyebrows and a hot voice, turning it into an all out fight. But I had to stop and open my mind -- I realized she was right. I realized that what she was saying was nothing I haven't heard before: from angry friends, from well-intended teachers, and even from myself, directed at my younger brother or father after countless reminders and requests. She's right, man.

I understand. And I'm sorry.

I told her (and this is when the realization hit) that you can complain all you want, you can point out all our flaws with the hopes that we will grasp them and change -- but without discipline, those urgent pleads go nowhere. I feel it's too late. As much as we want to change ourselves, we can't, because it's so hard to hold on to a string of motivation. It's hard for us to follow through with the prerequisite steps, so we keep failing. And that keeps us anchored to this goddamned cycle. It frustrates us, almost enrages us, when outsiders -- as well-intended as they are -- fume at us for failing because we KNOW. We KNOW everything you're telling us; we KNOW because we TRY. It just doesn't look that way to anyone else.

We TRY, ladies and gentlemen. And we FAIL.

I am -- we are -- sorry for the things we do... or rather, don't do. We are sorry for our attempts at success, and sorry for failing so many times. For "giving up." For straying from the goals we so enthusiastically set. Don't you understand?

Trying to apply discipline into our lives at a later age is like trying to combine two pieces of metal with Elmer's glue. It just won't stick. The bond has to be applied during creation, welded during formation, for it to have any hold on us as adults.

Parents: please remember this when you are raising your children. Please start early, and please stick it through. But don't forget to love us in the process, punishment isn't everything. Don't be afraid to support us. We need that more than you can imagine.

Friends: please consider this the next time you are this close to giving up on us. Please remember that we're not doing it to offend you. We're not trying to disrespect you. It's not like we don't want to learn, to remember, to progress. It looks easy to you because you have no idea, NO IDEA how hard it is, if it's something you already have. By the time you are an adult, it's as second nature as breathing.

And please, of all things, understand that we are truly unhappy on the inside. We don't like the way we are. We remember all our failures, we just try not to because we can't change them.

It hurts us when you go.
But we don't know how to fix it, so what can we do?

If you can't accept us for who we are, what else can you do but walk away?

If we can't promise drastic changes, if we can't offer you what you need and deserve, what else can we fucking do but nod our goodbyes, and let you leave?

Well, I'm sorry.
Thank you for staying with me as long as you have.

I'm trying my best.

Parking Lot Post:

What do you do when your coworker walks up to you stinking of pussy? And not just pussy pussy, which trust me, is a lot less intrusive -- it's pussy that has a darker undertone of ballsack and orgasm, you know exactly what I'm talking about. It doesn't help that I have a really sensitive nose.

Do you ignore it? Do you ask her if she just finished having sex in the stairwell with a security guard, and would she like a tissue? Or do you just pretend like she didnt just make your whole cubicle fragrant with the juices of NASTY, to linger thicker than musk after she leaves? Maybe she simply had a messy bathroom experience? Oh God, it's in my clothes.

I don't know. Somethings fishy around here. No pun intended.

A revisit to the NYC Manifesto

40-Something Year Old Woman in Elevator: "That was my first two-week vacation in seven years."

A corner of my heart crumpled when I realized that nobody in that morning-rush pause was surprised to hear this woman's statement. Her friend stared into her eyes and nodded, smiling widely. She cradled her coffee to her chest like a life source. That woman's two-week vacation was a reclamation worthy of triumph, of congratulations -- I was standing behind her but damn it if her cheeks didn't flush in pleasure. None of us standing there have had a 2 week vacation in the past (counts on both hands) years. I can't even wrap my arms around the idea of a true sabbatical. It almost scares me.

Our culture is a working one, isn't it. Underneath the glamour and the dreamcatching and the lights that coat our city like a too-sweet icing, what makes New York New York -- from its history to its future -- is the working class. Our blood, our sweat, our tears fuel the heat rising out of the pavement. WE dance in the twists of neon, caged behind glass tubes and company logos. WE flash our offerings hard into your vision, burning ourselves into the forgotten parts of your mind. And, I bet, this is the reason why almost all New Yorkers are pure assholes to face.

I read somewhere that to embrace this working culture is to be a true New Yorker. You may not be American, but the acceptance -- and love -- of this lifestyle stamps the back of your hand with our brand, our welcome, our Manifesto. Its bloodstream consists of people like her, people like me, who work day after day after day for the rest of their lives, who in the end cannot afford a vacation somewhere far away from home (and by far, we probably mean Florida) for more than 3, 4 days a year.

I mean, this is our life. We have to spend our money taking care of our parents who are dying from the NYC air and buckling under rising oil and energy costs, our aint-shit kids who are neglected and acting out because we work too much just to feed them, and ourselves, because we carve out our bank accounts desperately chasing peace, hoping to fatten our free time with as many good memories as possible. To give ourselves a purpose. To remind ourselves of what happiness is supposed to feel like.

Have we fallen into a trap?

The Signs:
Yesterday afternoon, a friend and I wandered into the cutest cafe uptown. It was tucked in between Harlem and Central Park West, and a meal of a sandwhich and iced coffee came out to about twelve dollars. No, we shouldn't have spent the money, but we were tired of the bodega turkey sandwhiches that cost $3, yet tasted like blank. That $12 meal was absolutely delicious. And frankly, I couldn't resist the wide-open storefront, the scarred wooden furniture, and the determined breeze that blew right into my hair as I sat down. It was a perfect punctuation to a peaceful day.

Wait, where was I going with this?

So my eyes settled upon the cute boy behind the register, and we flirted for a while through air. When he went outside for a cigarette break, I joined him and we struck up a conversation. Come to find out, he'd just come moved in from Ontario, and hasn't been living in NY for more than a week. His uncle owned the spot, and he's been working there since he landed. I was surprised, I didn't read "FORNER!" in any of his mannerisms. I nodded when he told me he lived on the Upper East Side (where the numbers are still 2 digits, and the people are very well-off) because it fit into my instincts, yet I would have believed him if he told me that he grew up on the park steps of Union Square, leaning against the railings with his ankles crossed, laughing as if it was home. I wondered why I placed this image with his personality.

"How do you like New York so far?" I asked, nudging the conversation along.

"Well, I don't know, actually," he said, his thick eyebrows dropping towards his smile. "I haven't gotten a chance to really live it yet, because I'm working like, every day."

He works all 7 days of the week, and sometimes stays the night shifts to run the bar. It's harder on him, I suppose, because he's still new at it. He fumbled sheepishly through our orders when we first approached him (though I'd like to think it was because of our breezy gear and just-sunned-glow). I was reminded of the book that spoke of New York's working culture, and tucked it away for further contemplation.

Hearing that woman on the elevator this morning brought it out of the parking lot and into my driveway. The car's still running, its exhaust is filling my lungs.

Shit, guys. It made me think about the bitterness that's been stirring under my heart for quite some time now, like a dirty draft, spinning under the pressure of my thumb. It made me remember the thoughts I pushed away, the fact that I did not start relying so heavily on my one vacation a year until I started working at a corporate 9-5 (with overtime, delish). It reminded me that I would not be able to afford a vacation this year, and most likely the year after that. And ultimately, it reinforced my decision to consider the next plane ticket I purchase to be a good-bye kiss to the City, and all that it's pushed into my pores.

I'm tired.

I'm so tired, and I want out.

The Retreat:
I think that I'm falling into the audience of Belle's manifesto, the ones she is crossing her arms against, the ones who weren't strong enough to stay. New York is too fast for me, at least for this period in my life. I need to step back and re-evaluate my shit, my self, and my future, but the streets don't slow down for anybody. Fuck around and you'll get hit.

I spent too much of my life matching this city's pace. A few years ago, I was way ahead of the race. I was a 19 year old with a salary, with a decent work history, with my own apartment, and a strong sense of self. I was a full time student and a full time worker. On a personal level, I was the mediator of uneasy situations, I was the shoulder to lean on, I was the admonishing mother. I was the girl that every man fell in love with, I was the master of my own domain, I bent rules as I saw fit, as long as they didn't dampen my morals, my values. I was the person I wanted to be, because I believed that I cheated the system; I had yet to get beaten down by life and responsibility, and yet here I was. The youngest one in the game.

Then, I don't know. Inevitably, the pressures got too overwhelming. I retreated. I fell into needing "the worst vice to have" -- Advice -- and began to concern myself with conforming in order to keep my job, my friends, my support systems. That cracked my spirit, because a lot of it required going against my own values.

Most importantly, I went broke. Painfully broke. I lost a lot of weight, I regularly fought off depression, I constantly searched for distractions. I stopped trying to change things, because I saw how much fire it stirred. I accepted my non-rewards, my bullshit pieces of paper for my dedication and hard work. Even in the realm of being a woman -- a powerful woman in charge of her own shit, who held her sexuality as one would a stolen credit card -- shit changed. An attack happened in the mouth of my home, so I closed up shop. I became scared of the dark. I became scared of New York. But I had no other choice, I lived here.

My whole viewpoint changed when I stopped having money. I'm still working as much as I did before -- if not longer hours, harder tasks -- and getting less than I ever could have imagined for it. I think I might have peaked too soon, because now I cannot recognize who I am. Now, I'm just a twenty something year old without a degree, because I couldn't -- no, didn't -- finish school in order to pay my bills. Let's be realistic, I had misplaced my faith. The same way dreamers believe that going to a good school and maintaining good grades was all you needed to get a 65k starting salary, I thought that way about staying in The Grind. School can wait, my resume needed thickening. Now, I'm a twenty something year old stuck in the syrup of a "bad economy," swimming harder and getting nowhere, self esteem wavering, ready to give up. I went from being breathless, to having completely run out of breath.

I
Am
Tired.

The Other Side of the Coin:
Earlier this weekend I touched base with FKN, a former best friend of mine from previous blogs, if you've followed me this far at all. We met up after years of disconnect, and chatted lightly over dinner. Our conversations were still scratching the surface of superficial, but she did say something that stuck with me on the long train ride home. After having left the City to be tucked into a university for 4 years, residing in a town that quite literally lived for the students of her campus, after being exposed to fresh air and real sunlight and linear paths and minimal obstacles, she came back to New York and hated what it offered. She traveled, first to New Zealand, picked up the thirst for international affairs, and then returned to her single-window cubicle of a bedroom in her parents' house to save more money for her next trip.

She interrupted herself in her rant against New York to wonder if maybe she glorified her trips because she spent so much money on them. She spent the money she saved freely, as one could only do in a world without consequences. New York was just her resting place, where she paused for her connecting flight to a bigger, fuller destination. Much like an airport, it was cramped, it was airless, it was waiting -- with a million other people doing the same thing. A different kind of waiting, without much hope. Waiting because it's just what you did, in a place like this.

She said, "I'm sure that if I spent the money I had here like I did in New Zealand or Greece, I'd be happy in NYC too."

The Debates:
Would leaving truly solve any problems?

Are those problems stemming from the lack of money, the difficulty of acquiring money, or am I genuinely unhappy in a city that I used to love?

Have I stopped loving the city the same way I stopped loving everything else, merely because the umbrella of passion collapsed, leaving everything vulnerable and exposed, to dampen in the storm of direction? I was passionate about this place, once.

If that was the case, then would leaving really accomplish anything? Shouldn't I see if I can fix the umbrella before I kick everything into the gutter?

Pause. Who cares? Why does a sabbatical have to have a purpose?
Answer: Because New Yorkers run their lives by the clock. We are always, always running out of time.

If I left, would I come crawling back to the dirty sidewalks of my home, glad for the anonymity, the sarcasm, the shedding of the weight of pretenses? Would the newness of another culture disorient me, or regenerate me?

Is happiness not a state of mind? So which comes first, the chicken (Outside: environment, opportunity) or the egg (Inside: optimism, perseverance)?

Shrug. Stay tuned.

And I wonder:

Why not leave?

I have all these journals I buy but haven't written in. I'm waiting for an adventure to fill them with. Oh, they're waiting.

But why am I so scared?

Obligations, maybe. I resent obligations.

Time will come.