isx:

isx:

for every single person that reblogs this, i will personally creep your blog and leave 1 word that i feel describes you

still doing this !

               As the scorching heat of the summer’s day gently cooled into a deep blue breeze, my mother bid me come inside.  I slowly meandered back towards my patio from the fantastical realm of my backyard, guiding my favorite red wagon to its special spot right next to the water-stained square on the cracked concrete where the garden-hose used to be.  Quite spent from a long afternoon of playing, I quickly succumbed to the appealing offer of a tall glass of iced water, just waiting for me inside.  I sucked it down as quickly as I could before joining my mom on our bristly and worn grey couch. “How was your day today?” my mother asked, as was her custom. I replied with some overly-enthusiastic ranting about my adventures of the day. “What do you think you want to be when you grow up, Ryan?” she asked.  I thought long and hard, scratching my golden blonde ringlets of hair. “I dunno. Something fun, I guess.” She smiled her big smile; I knew that whatever she was about to say was going to be completely genuine. “Well, whatever you want to do, your Mommy loves you and supports you in doing it.”

                For the next week or so, I simply could not stop thinking about what I wanted to be when I grew up. “There are so many fun things I could do!” I spoke aloud to myself. “I could be a firefighter, or a superhero, or maybe even play music like Dad!” As my coolest Hotwheel car flew off the new ramp I had just made for it, I wondered if I would drive a sweet car like that one. Red, maybe—definitely a convertible! I ran through my house, singing one of the countless spontaneous songs I had written in my head that morning. Whatever I was going to be as a grown-up, it would be awesome—I just knew it.

                “Congratulations, 8th grade class of 2007!” my dad cheered into the microphone. I stood alongside my classmates—all 12 of them—and smiled, sort of genuinely. This “8th Grade Promotion Ceremony” was really entirely unnecessary. It was not like we had won anything. I mean, for God’s sake, we still had four years of high school to go! “Cheer for me then!” I told my dad, who had helped officiate the event.  My folks just insisted that it was something “I would be glad I celebrated later.” I awkwardly wedged myself in a corner of the small school’s gym where my friends stood around the snack table. The chocolate thin mints I brought were almost completely gone; I snatched one of the last ones, and listened to the conversation. “Well, I think I might try something with teaching. Ya know, maybe elementary school kids or something.” “I hear they don’t get paid much…” “Yeah, that’s why I am already taking advanced math classes! I’m going to be an engineer! They make bank!” “Good luck getting that degree, man…” “What do you want to do, Ryan?”

                I decided to let the truth out. “Haha, I dunno. I still don’t know what I want to do.” To my relief, practically every one of my classmates simultaneously agreed, in a chorus of “yeah’s,” “I know, right’s,” and “me neither’s!” Apparently no one really knew what they wanted to do. That was “all okay,” said our parents. “You have plenty of time to figure what you want to study. They’ll even help you choose your major in high school!” I couldn’t handle the conversation anymore. Didn’t anyone think about anything else? After all, it was our night to celebrate!  I managed to find another friend of mine, who was hanging out with his father. His dad was a really strange fellow, but it didn’t matter. He was a veterinarian. He made enough money, so what did his personality really count for anyway? “Hello, sir,” I politely spit out at him. He proceeded to fill the room with his special scent of arrogance, insuring that I knew—along with everyone else in the gym—how important it was to get a higher education. And “not only that,” but to make it our “utmost priority” to obtain a major in a field of our deepest passions.  “After all, without a degree,” he said, “you just can’t make it here.”  Slowly, I crept out of sight as he honed in on another one of my peers.

                The cramped counselor’s office reeked of old person; yet, the woman I was meeting with could have been no older than in her mid-forties. “So, Ryan,” she said, pretending to know me, “by next semester you’ll have just about all of your General Ed units finished. It’s really time you start thinking about your major. Any ideas of what you’d like to do?” I sighed as I told her the same answer I’d given my classmates in 8th grade, the same answer I’d given my mother as a child. “I dunno.”

                “You’ve got lots of options, fortunately for you. You know, you’re an excellent writer; your English grades are excellent. You could try something with that. You’ve also got a lot of public speaking experience. Maybe something in PR? Or, you’ve taken all the American Sign Language courses our college offers anymore; have you thought about interpreting?” I rattled back my trained responses: “Too impractical and idealistic, I don’t want to spend my life lying to people and BS’ing to them, and getting a high-enough-to-be-seriously-considered-in-the-Deaf-community certificate takes years upon years of study. Sooo…not really feelin’ those ones.”

                She rolled her eyes at me, as if I was somehow discrediting her effort, or shooting down some brilliant plan that had just come to her in a vision. Truth was, I’d heard those suggestions with countless others already. Dozens of times. Probably hundreds of times. It was funny that no matter what I said to her, I could not give a satisfactory answer. It was as if my choice of major was meant to please her. It was as if my future career—which, I needn’t be reminded, was hinged solely on this piece of paper (which I could obtain after years of studying books and ideas) that would give me a couple extra letters at the end of my name—had to be chosen in that moment, all for this confusingly-old-smelling middle-aged woman who pretended to know me. It was strange. Something just felt off.

                Over the remaining days in that semester I spent my scarce time contemplating what I wanted to do with my life. My family would support me. And I had such potential.  Yet, the more I thought of it, the more dumbfounded I became. Slowly, I realized I was not battling myself; this was not a matter of personal choice, passion, logic, or preference.  I realized that I was a part of a cycle. A piece of a puzzle. A cog in a machine. The culture I was a part of was not designed to help me, the individual, make a decent living and maintain a contented life.  No, that could not have been farther from the truth.   In reality, I was designed to fit into the grand master plan of a corporation.  In reality, I was designed to be a number, to increase profit, to benefit economical growth, to be a “contributing member of society.”  My entire worldview—that I could do “anything I chose” with hard work—was shattered.

                I leaned against the back wall of my English 5 class. It was tough to stay awake; I hadn’t been sleeping well for months.  My depression was kicking back in, and hard this time.  No matter how focused I attempted to be, I could not help but write out my train of thought into my notebook:
                “The world is grey, though it sparkles in its own sight. Potential is relative, entirely dependent on this broken system rather than upon genuine ability, aspiration, and drive. All options are doomed to end in the same place: Forced to work in whatever career one can secure, at the expense of one’s identity, passion, time, and life. I do not want to be bound by this fate. I shall do all that I can to direct my life against this current. Yet it seems that all roads end in the same place. It seems that this is unavoidable.”

                I dropped my pen and stared off into space, glazed with overwhelming torrents of stress and despair. As I reached up to scratch the back of my head, the professor gestured at me, as though to give me permission to speak. “Oh, sorry! Just an itch,” I stumbled out. We were discussing how lucky we were to not have wires in the walls. To not have bombs exploding in the streets.* To not have “Thought Police” sneaking around in plain sight, watching and waiting for us to make the slightest mistake.* We were exploring the countless possibilities given to us, considering our “Brave New World” system, contrasted to that of a totalitarian “1984” system.  I could not help but chuckle at the cruel irony of the situation. Sure, we are free here, learning how to “critically think” in a college course, required by the state. The professor seemed to read my mind, as she began to point out the irony that she, a well-learned college instructor, was teaching us that our system forces us to go to college, and to obtain higher education.  “Yet here we are,” I whispered to my friend sitting next to me. “Here we are…”

                I now sit at my desk, with a stack of paperwork on the right. Paperwork that will hopefully help me ultimately discover what is wrong with me. Perhaps this paperwork will allow the mental health professionals to truly examine me, do their tests.  Perhaps this paperwork will help me find an explanation for the endless nights of restless sleep, for the years of battling depression. Perhaps this paperwork will help me get in touch with a better therapist than the last one; perhaps I will be able to discover the root of my absolute hopelessness and apathy. Perhaps this paperwork will lead to a diagnosis, to a better understanding of an elusive anxiety disorder. Perhaps this paperwork will connect me to a psychiatrist, who will prescribe me medication to help me function in society.

                I now sit at my desk, with an essay prompt on my left, reminding me of the world I am in. Reminding me that no matter what I do, no matter where the paperwork leads me, I will be stuck here, in this system. Reminding me that no matter how I may resist it, no matter how much everything in me revolts against it, the system will remain. Reminding me that without playing the game, and giving in to the machine, I can have no hopes of becoming that which I want to be.  Whatever that is.

                Or perhaps I have it all backwards. Maybe I am the one human being on the face of the earth who sees clearly.  Maybe I am utterly ruined and in constant misery because I have been conditioned to want and expect more. Maybe I am hopeless and depressed because somewhere along the lines I was convinced that I deserve to be constantly happy.  I was convinced that there is more in life for me. I was convinced there is something to hope for. Perhaps I seek medical treatment because, well, isn’t that what you do? Have a problem? Feel sad? Are you slightly uncomfortable? You’re not happy? Get a pill!

                My mother and father will support me in whatever I choose to do. And I have such great potential. There are so many things I could do. So many degrees I could get.  This Land of Opportunity I live in lends me so many options, and so many of them seem almost bearable. Yet, when it all comes down to it—when it comes to reality, and choosing whether or not I can handle playing this game, living in this system—when it comes down to choosing right here and now what I am doing with my life, well,
                “I dunno.”

It’s an overwhelming feeling.

Sleeping. Not physically, but emotionally. People can go on without physically sleeping, but what man can go on without resting his heart, his mind, his soul? 

Perhaps this is why I deprive myself of sleep with such intensity.
Perhaps it is a subconscious thing. 
Perhaps it really isn’t my fault, as everyone seems to suggest.

Perhaps I truly am at a loss here. 
Perhaps it isn’t all my own error. 
Perhaps I am genuinely ruined. 
Perhaps I am actually broken.
Perhaps this is why I cannot sleep.
Perhaps this is why I am unhappy.
Perhaps this is why I sit and do all I can to block out the image of tomorrow in my head.

It is beyond my realm of control.
It is beyond that which I can handle.

Simply put, I cannot handle it.


And so I must sleep.
And so I must rest my weak body, and my frail mind—

Yet here the writer sits, straining.

Santa Rosa, California.

This is my home.
I am the fourth generation of Carrillo’s to live in this lovely place. 

You can hear it coming, a roaring wind on the bare horizon, ripping its way towards you. With it comes the havoc and destruction of all of your uprooted thoughts. The buildings of your established processes crash and tumble onwards, faster and faster, gaining momentum and speed as they violently approach. This wall of overthrown concepts and shattered trajectories hurdles itself across the landscape of your mind, surrounding the bleak world around you. A tsunami of tumultuous emotion, it causes the ground upon which you stand to tremble and quake with anticipation. This torrential wave of chaos towers horrifyingly over the plain of your consciousness, as an all encompassing force. Larger and larger it grows, and you can see the debris and wreckage of your shattered thoughts flooding the infinite space inside your head. You brace for the impact; it is all you can do to prepare for the sandstorm, the wave, the wall.

                It gets closer, and closer. Closer
                You twitch and shake. You start to sweat.
                You are breaking down. You cannot handle it.
                But.
                It.
                Never.
                                Hits. 

The cool summer wind bit briskly at my neck, as I hobbled down the sidewalk behind my father, mother, and younger sister. They walked at a normal pace through the yellowish hue which dimly emanated from the somber street lights. It was no easy task to keep up with them. My lower back and stomach ached with a continuous throbbing, and with every step I took, my gut wrenched in indescribable pain. Shivering, I pulled the sleeves of my sweatshirt down over my hands, and folded my arms over my torso. Maybe this false security would heal me.

                It was a special night: August 30th, 2006, my first day of being a teenager. To celebrate, my folks were taking me to one of their favorite Mexican restaurants, “The Cantina—” I had never been there before. Normally, the prospect of a sizzling, spicy, and scrumptious shredded chicken burrito would instantly overwhelm all other thoughts in my mind, but not tonight. Tonight, nothing could quell this excruciating misery. Sharp twisting pain, pulsating from behind my ribcage down to below my waist, wrapping around to my back*; it was as if my organs had decided to slice themselves open from the inside all at once, then twist themselves around into coils bound so tightly they had no choice to but to tear and burst, sending unimaginable torrents of pain throughout my entire body. I had little desire to go anywhere, yet my pride would not allow me to bail out of this long-anticipated birthday dinner.

                The large wooden doors swung open in front of us as we stepped into the dark lobby of what would soon become my most loathed place. Thick aromas of wet tortillas and spices wafted through the air, enchanting my parents and sibling. I could not help but wince at the very thought of eating. We were quickly seated in a far corner of the restaurant, away from the cool night air sneaking in through the cracks of the windows. The heavy chair upon which I sat was absolutely unyielding. “There is no damn way I am going to be able to sit comfortably,” I realized as the pain in my back became even more noticeable. A grimace overtook my face as I tried my best to maintain composure. My parents saw my suffering, and did what they could to help. Embracing her instincts, my mother quickly left the table and called an advice nurse, to get a professional opinion. Once she had left, my father leaned in and hopefully asked, “How are ya doin’, man?” Shifting my weight uneasily in my seat, I managed to mutter back some irrelevant response. They all knew I was doing my utmost to simply hold on, keep it together, and get through the night. This was my birthday, my first night as a teenager! I was not going to ruin it. Despite their courageous attempts to make my special dinner wonderful, my parents could ultimately do nothing but pray. It was plain to see that the night was only going to get worse.

                A bite or so into my meal, I gave in; the pain was simply too great. It felt as though something like a brick dropped from my lower left ribs and smashed violently into my waistline. I could no longer endure. My skin was paling, as I broke out into a cold sweat. The throbbing in my gut grew more intense, spreading across to all of my senses; my hearing slowly faded out, and I found it increasingly difficult to focus, as my peripheral vision gently disappeared. I glanced over to my mom, as she anxiously paced back and forth in front of an ancient looking stone fireplace. Suddenly she began sobbing, unaware that I was watching her. My body writhed. Everything around me became disconnected, and I felt the distance between myself and every person and object around me. Just as I was about to stand up and make for the exit, the world snapped itself into a sort of cinematic slow-motion scene, from some dramatic film that nobody would ever want to see. My hearing dropped even lower, and I could just barely make out the rhythmic chanting of “happy, happy birthday!” as a half dozen employees half-heartedly swarmed the table, shoving some Mexican dessert in my face while crowning me with an oversized sombrero. It was as if they were hailing me in sympathy, though they surely could not have known my indescribable torment. Their unrecognizable faces sang for much longer than any birthday song could ever possibly be, then just as suddenly as they appeared, the traumatic figures vanished. Before being rushed to the ER, I remember insisting that my father make sure to take my burrito home in a box; I needed to finish it. It was just something that I had to do.

                Two and half weeks later, after a myriad of herbal methodologies in vain attempts to lessen my indescribable pain, I awoke, garbed in nothing but a hospital gown, to a friendly Chinese woman in scrubs. She enthusiastically greeted me, “procedure went well!” in much too happy of a tone. I had been examined at a special facility in San Francisco. A colonoscopy with a biopsy would be able to provide the professionals with some sort of answer to give me. As if anyone could ever change what had happened the night of my thirteenth birthday.

                I was made to wait a few a days, until the results came back. The “few days” soon transformed in several agonizingly long days, in which time blurred together. My existence as I knew it hung in the balance. With a few words of the doctor, my whole world would change. Everything was on hold for this. I remember vainly trying to eat the rest of that stupid burrito. I got it down, but it was bitterly disappointing. The beginning of a feeling I would come to know quite well. After a life-time of terrified anticipation, I was made aware of my life-long condition: left-sided ulcerative Colitis. A disease. A piece of me I would have to learn to live with for the rest of my life.

                They spit facts at me. They taught me all about “inflammatory bowel diseases,” and “flare ups.” I learned the in’s and out’s of my broken large intestine and colon. “Stress-related,” they called it. “Hereditary,” they said, attempting to make my genetic inferiority seem less pathetic. “35-100 people for 100,000 people in the United states” have been diagnosed, I found out. I suppose that makes me special, being part of less than 0.1% of the population who are plagued with this incurable disease.

                Of all of the trauma, of all of the psychological damage, of all of the medical expenditures, the weeks of school sacrificed, and the countless hours of sleep lost, the most horrid undeniable truth I have to face is simply that my body is broken. I was born broken, and I will always be broken. There is nothing that any doctor can tell me, no drugs that I can take, that will ever cure me of this disease. Although my physical symptoms more or less stopped years ago, and I am lucky enough to be counted among the few that fully recover into “remission” from a flare-up, I will always be diseased. Colitis has ceased to be simply a physical malady with which I must cope. It has grown into a more powerful and undying monster—a thought, a concept, an emotion. Colitis has developed into a part of who I am, a piece of me.

                Though through my experiences I have gained significant insight into my person and a nearly disconcerting high pain tolerance, the hard and honest truth is that I have been crippled by this illness. Though I have overcome my plight and soared above and beyond what I could have ever imagined myself doing, the reality is that I am forever haunted by the night of my thirteenth birthday. Though I have become thicker-skinned and more calloused to both physical and emotional pain, I cannot ever overcome the insurmountable fear that was emblazoned into my heart that night—a fear that is so much more than merely being frightened. Fear is so much more than dreading the unknown. Fear is so much more than facing pain.

It is the acceptance that no matter what I can ever do, I am literally and utterly broken, and that nothing in the world will change that.

I now recognize the page tacked on the wall.
I now see that stark shape, blatantly defying the immense power of nameless wall. 
I now understand the essence of paper, the meaning of words.
I now understand the creation of the tack, to fasten and secure this revolutionary piece down.

Do not resist the page tacked on the wall.
For we too are books, readers, authors, playwrights.
We too have our pages, bound into chapters, meshed into books, filed into series, housed in massive libraries to collect dust forever, save but for the one eager student which might pull us down from our shelves to swallow us up, dying to quench his thirst for knowledge.

Though, do not neglect this page tacked to this wall. For among the countless pages, the thousands upon millions—

This one, this solitary page remains here—alone, isolated—with a message.
A story. A context.

What are we?

               Solid Books. Pages. Unbound.

Liv Tyler 

wtf arwen

byyyy whatt graceee is given meee, lett it pass to himmmmm

…………

(Source: oldschoolspirit)

I don’t know what that title means, where it came from, or why I chose to write it.
I don’t have any particular intent in writing this post.

It simply is.

As we are.

As things shall ever be.

Simple. 

Open Your Mind #2 

Just checkin’ Tumblr around Halloween time. ;)