My Life: The Unspoken Monologue

As a school assignment, we were to give a presentation about the reasons why we wanted to be a therapist. I, of course, decided to write a monologue about my life and how it led to me being in a classroom learning skills to become one. However, as the weeks progressed and my monologue became more personal, I decided that I was not ready to share. Instead I gave a presentation using family photos that showed a glimpse into my personal life. I concluded by saying that I wanted to be a therapist for my family. Funny, how I almost convinced myself that this was the truth.

Through the process of looking at my childhood, adolescence, and adult life, I discovered just how much of my past I had been running from. I do hope everything makes sense. Thank you.

In order to understand why I want to be therapist, I had to reflect back.

I thought of when I was a kid and how I constantly heard my mom get yelled at by my dad.

I remember how she just stood there, took it all, and begged him to stop drinking.

I thought about when my dad drank, his anger, and the pain I felt when he hit me and my older brothers.

I remember my older brothers, the drugs they took, them getting locked up, and taken away.

I thought about how alone I felt, the bad thoughts in my head, and how scared I was of someone finding out.

As a child, I wanted to escape my family.

But those thoughts of hanging and drowning myself became unbearable.

Instead, I decided to separate myself from my family. That way their problems were no longer mine.

My older brother wasn’t schizophrenic. He faked all the voices he heard in his head. And just for attention, he lost those twenty pounds. Barely slept. Never showered. He stunk so bad from not cleaning himself after going to the restroom that my dad forced him into the bathtub, yelled at him, and threw water on him until he was clean. Slowly his screams faded. He never learned his lesson.

My other brother, I hated him. His promises and his lies. The last real conversation I had with him was when we were both outside staring at the clouds and he turned to me and told me that things were only going to get worse from there on. This was before the meth. Before he got locked up for breaking into an empty house to sleep in when my dad finally decided to kick him out. Before the drugs messed with his head so much that he could barely speak in complete sentences.

At the age of fourteen, I convinced myself that they deserved it. We stopped talking soon after.

Years later when both were deported, I was too focused on school to care. And when one of them went missing, I was too concerned with moving to San Francisco to pursue a degree in a field that helps people that he never crossed my mind. And when I graduated, I was too obsessed with finding the right job that I had forgotten to visit the remaining one. And when I got the job, I was too stressed out to notice that he needed my help.

At the group home, I worked most days and long hours. Heard all these tragic stories by clients. I thought I was making a difference.

Then one day, a client ran away and I ran after her. I didn’t mind her cursing at me or the fact that I was running into traffic. I needed to save her. We ran far until she eventually got tired and decided to lie on the grass. She turned to me and asked why I didn’t just leave her. Nobody wanted her and nobody cared. I stood there silently. As she began to cry, I thought about how alone she felt. Her life full of pain. How much she reminded me of my older brothers. All her life she struggled with abuse. At the age of eleven she started using drugs. At thirteen she was arrested. And at fourteen she was sent to the group home. Before she ran away, she was told that she needed to stay there a few months longer because she was caught using drugs again. She told me she felt stuck and just wanted to be home and see her family. As I looked back at her, I finally said that I cared for her and the only thing that mattered in that moment was her. She began to cry again, but a few minutes later she stopped. A staff came and we were able to get her to return back. The next day she thanked me for running after her and to let me know that I was fast as hell. I smiled. Weeks later she relapsed and months later she ran away again. I will never know what happened to her or if I ever made an impact.

So why do I want to become a therapist?

Because of the guilt. Because I convinced myself that if I help others, it will ease the pain of not helping my older brother’s. But it won’t. And I will continue to search for that missing void in my life. And it will hurt. But in time, I will learn to let go. Learn that not all the things I experienced were my fault. I know that’s not the healthiest reason. Or a good one. But that’s the truth. And perhaps, that’s what that assignment was all about.

 

Here’s a link to the audio version of my post. Thank you for all the support.

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My Life: Becoming a freelance writer

Hello? Is this thing on?

If so, I would like to say hi and welcome you to my blog. And for those who have not heard from me in years, I would like to apologize. My life these past two years have been chaotic (and that’s keeping it simple). I went from home to home trying to find a place to call my own, changed job positions, and invested a significant amount of time and money on pursuing a Masters degree.

However, life happened and I am no longer in the right circumstances to continue.

I hope to share with you, in time, that chapter of my life. You’ll understand all of my struggles, my joys, and my pains. But for now, I would like to share something that I have not told my family. I am trying to find meaning in my life and in the process, I have decided to become a freelance writer. To tell you the truth, I don’t have a clue about what I am getting myself into, but that has never stopped me before.

When my guidance counselor told me that I would not go to a four-year college, I ended up graduating from San Francisco State University with a B.A. in Psychology and minor in Counseling. When all my other brother’s dropped out of school, I applied to a Masters program and got in. And I will continue to move forward regardless.

My stories aren’t too sophisticated (trust me, I know). Nor are they grammatically perfect (that is a creative choice). But they are honest (I promise). And that’s why I want to write and make a living out of it. I want to share my story and help at least one person get through the day. Or to make them laugh. Or cry. Or make them not feel alone.

And with that announcement, I would like some help from you.

I know this may alienate the people who read my blog, but I would appreciate any leads that can help in me becoming a freelance writer or at least a place where I can make a living sharing my stories.

Here is a list of some stories that show off my writing skills. I hope you all enjoy them! 🙂

Life: A Message To My Future Daughter

The Night My Life Changed: An Introduction

The Brother Who Left My Life

The First Sexual Encounter Of My Life

I know it’s a long shot, but it’s an attempt. Hopefully someone out there can hear me. Thank you.

 

Sincerely,

EDDY

 

 

My Life: Please Don’t Judge My Weirdness

I made it to Post #25 ya’ll!

Instead of writing something new, I thought of going back to the past. When I first started this blog and writing random posts. These posts were more simple and short. Kind of like me. They were before I had an audience who seemed to care about my life. Before I started writing more meaningful and longer posts. Not that there is anything wrong with that (Seinfeld reference). But I think it is fun to look back and read all of my randomness. So here are a few of my favorite posts that just didn’t garner much views. I hope you give them a try. And please, don’t judge my weirdness! 😛

My Life Through Daft Punk: All Time Views: 22

I guess people just don’t like the French. Haha. Just kidding of course. This post was inspired when I was going through a rough breakdown in the summer of 2013 and the only thing that seemed to help was listening to a song titled, “Fresh” by Daft Punk. The post describes the images that go through my head when I hear that song. I will admit that the writing is a bit choppy, but I was just starting to write! Geeze, I said not to judge. Anyways, if you like Daft Punk and pictures of the beach, you will definitely like this post.

https://eddybcruz.wordpress.com/2013/07/31/my-life-through-daft-punk/

My Life In Story: All Time Views: 46

Okay now, I’m quite proud of this post right here. Not because I spent a month putting pieces of my interests together, but because the finished story feels perfect to me. I think this was when I decided that writing could be…like you know…fun! I hope you can spot all the references.

Music: Daft Punk, LCD Soundsystem, No Doubt. Deadmu5, Les Miserables. Macklemore & Ryan Lewis Books: The Catcher In The Rye, The Virgin Suicides, The Perks Of Being A Wallflower, Fun Home. T.V. Shows: Arrested Development, HIMYM Movies: The Dark Knight, The Matrix, Up. Places: San Francisco, Orange County, LA.

https://eddybcruz.wordpress.com/2013/08/01/my-life-in-story/

My Life Through My Thoughts: All Time Views: 44

This post gives you some insight into what I thought about when I was younger. The post reads more like a diary entry, but I like the fact that it also let’s you know what I was thinking about before I had a breakdown. It’s short and honest.

https://eddybcruz.wordpress.com/2013/07/22/my-life-through-my-thoughts/

BONUS: The First Relationship Of My Life: All Time Views: 62

Okay, I have no idea why this post didn’t get many views. This was the start of when I started to write long and meaningful stories. And to be honest, this was a deeper reveal into my personal life. This post tells the story of when I was young and in love (as cheesy as it sounds). If you ever wanted to know about my relationships, then this will definitely give you a glimpse.

https://eddybcruz.wordpress.com/2013/07/27/the-first-relationship-of-my-life/

Anyways, I hope you give these posts a try and enjoy reading them as much as I loved writing them. Until next time my fellow bloggers. Let’s see what Post #50 brings.

My Life: The Cousin I Almost Lost

I love my cousins. All of them.

Growing up, my older brothers and I were complete opposites. They were social, fun, and rebellious while I was shy, boring, and compliant. So much in fact, that my aunts and uncles would ask me to baby sit my cousins while they went out to run errands. I didn’t mind. I was happy that someone trusted me enough to let me take care of their children. I made sure my cousins watched appropriate shows on T.V., ate enough food, and stayed out of trouble. I was only five years older, but I felt like an adult. They would tell me when they were having a bad day and I would try my best to let them know that everything would be okay. I made sure they felt protected under my watch. I was with them during the good times and the bad. They became the brothers that I never had as a child. They grew into responsible teenagers in front of my eyes, and that’s something I’m very proud of witnessing.

But this post is dedicated to a very special cousin of mine. Miguel.

Ever since I can remember, this cousin of mine has had a very difficult life. His mom passed away when he was around eight years old. I remember that day. And how everyone in my house cried. And mourned. And cried some more. I can’t imagine the feeling of losing a mother. But he continued on. He got retained from the third grade because he stayed a little longer in Mexico for his mother’s funeral. He had to make new friends and watched his other cousins celebrate school achievements a year ahead of him. Although he always struggled with school, he kept on trying. At the age of fifteen, his dad got deported back to Mexico. I can’t imagine what was going through his head when he found out, but again he kept going. He kept going after his two surgeries for his bad ankles, when he stayed in the hospital for weeks because he was malnourished, or when people constantly teased him because they never considered to be smart.

I doubt he even cares. See, my cousin has family that loves him. And I think that’s what keeps him going. During family events he shares his stories and tells jokes that make everybody in the room laugh. He is as care free as can be and everyone loves him. So we were surprised when we heard what happened a few months ago.

I was with my best friend in San Francisco when my little brother called me. I thought it was strange. My brother never called me. He asked if I was sitting down and I assured him that I was. His voice sounded different. As if he had just finished crying. He told me that he didn’t want to worry me, but that he was at the hospital with the family. I was confused, so I asked what was wrong. He didn’t say anything. He began crying. I had never heard my little brother cry so hard before. It was painful. Again, I asked what was wrong. A few seconds went by then I heard him say, “they shot Miguel.” I don’t remember much after that. I remember my best friend walking me out to the car because I couldn’t stop crying. I remember talking to my family on my phone, asking how my cousin was doing, and crying some more. I remember crying myself to sleep around three in the morning.

I went to visit him when I returned from San Francisco around midnight. There were around ten or so people in the room visiting him. My cousins said that the night before around twenty people showed up. He was lying there on his bed. He couldn’t talk and he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. Finally, he looked up and saw me. I didn’t know what to say to him. He stared, smiled, and gave me a thumps up. I tried my best not to cry. I smiled and gave a thumps up as well.

The doctor told us the bullet hit near his spine. A few centimeters in a different direction and my cousin could have been paralyzed.

Over the next few weeks, my family visited him at the hospital. A few of my cousins slept over on their days off work. He was able to go home three weeks later, but had a hard time walking and talking. He lost fifteen pounds from all the surgeries and had to drop out of school for the semester. He stopped working also. His life completely changed, but his personality stayed the same.

A few weeks ago, I took him out to eat. He couldn’t remember getting shot, but he did remember waking up in the hospital and seeing his family. He was thankful and happy to see us. We continued talking about life and his future. And all of a sudden I saw him as the five year old kid that I used to baby sit. And just like that, I was taking care of him again. And I realized just how short our lives can really be.

Like always, he keeps telling us jokes, makes us laugh, and continues to smile through every obstacle. I really don’t know how he does it. He’s got the spirit of a champ. But I guess that’s something nobody can take away from him.

 

My Boring Life

I always wanted my life to be fun. The type of fun others defined for me. The party life, the fun life. I used to daydream about having a life where I would party with friends all night and drink more than my body could handle. I would dance promiscuous in clubs, make out with many guys, and have plenty of crazy stories to tell the next morning. What a fun life. A life I lived.

To be honest, I have my share of crazy party stories. I’ve drank and thrown up in front of my friends several times. I’ve blacked out and woken up in random places. I’ve gotten in fights while drunk and woken up with bruises. I’ve grinded on many gay guys. I’ve done more sexual things in clubs than legally allowed. I’ve danced shirtless and on poles. I’ve flirted with straight guys. I’ve made out with straight girls. I’ve gotten home way past 5am on several occasions. I’ve been an angry drunk and a fun drunk. I’ve accidentally snorted coke and forgot the nights events. I was roofied once. I’ve been date raped, and refused to accept it. I’ve cried many times in the bathroom while my friends were outside drinking. I’ve fucked up plenty and there’s no denying I’ll fuck up again.

I’m not not regretting what I’ve done or say I will never party again. I just want you to know that I’ve cried a lot during those two years of partying, drinking, and having random sex. That type of life can really mess you up.

I tried to convince myself that drinking was fun. I tried to pretend the people I met in these clubs and bars were my friends. I tried to convince myself that I was in a “real” relationship. Most of all, I tried to convince myself that I was a fun person, but I’m not. I’m done with the party scene and I’m done lying to myself.

Truth is, I’m boring, but I like being boring.

I like watching a random movie at home with my family. I like going to the beach and listening to the sound of waves by myself. I like running alone at night and taking long walks during the day. I like admiring the view while my friends drive long-distances. I like watching people as I take the bus or train to my destination. I like listening to House music or love songs when I need to escape my reality. I like having small dinners and spending hours talking with my friends.

I like my life. No matter how boring it may be.

The Brother Who Left My Life

This is the one of the most honest and sensitive topics I will write about. I hope you read until the end before you judge. It will mean a lot to me. Thank you.

I want to tell you about my older brother. He was the second child in the family and only three years older than myself. I looked up to him as a kid because he took care of me, plain and simple. I remember how he used to come up with these crazy funny jokes that made everybody in the room laugh and he had a laugh that would make us laugh some more. He introduced me to new music, hairstyles, fashion trends, graffiti, cigarettes, youth gangs, and the way drugs worked. He was amazing.

But as much as I hate to think about him as a person with great potential who let drugs take over his life, I know that’s the truth. He started drinking and smoking weed in junior high and soon upgraded to doing heroin and cocaine while in high school. During his senior year, the drugs took over and he started to act paranoid. He stayed up during most nights, checked the windows, and insisted people were coming to harm the family. In his head, he was only trying protecting us just like he did when I was younger. But as a teen, I didn’t want any protection.

One night I was frustrated with the way he was behaving that I started yelling at him to act normal and stop pretending to be mentally ill (I will never assume someone is faking ever again). I don’t know how it happened, but I remember that suddenly my brother was on top of me and he started choking me. I couldn’t move. All I could do was stare at his face. He looked so  terrified. From there one, I just remember how cold his hands felt around my neck. That was the first and last time he ever laid his hands on me. My oldest brother came rushing downstairs, pulled my brother off, threw him to the ground, started hitting him, and told him to never hit me again. He kept his word.

After that incident, I convinced myself to never talk to my brother again. I gave him the silent treatment which did a lot more damage than I had ever anticipated. I ignored his jokes and pretended he wasn’t my brother. I would leave the room when he wanted to talk. He would beg for me to listen, but I looked the other way. Ignoring him was the easy part, but noticing the real problem was the hardest.

He soon starting behaving more psychotic. He stayed in the room for hours and laughed hysterically when he was by himself. He refused to eat and lost a lot of weight in a short period of time. He refused to take showers or clean himself after going to the bathroom. He would make stories up and believed there were people who wanted to harm the family. He was suffering, but I didn’t care. I always thought he was pretending. My cousins suggested that I talk to him because that is what he really wanted. I’m not sure if talking to him would have prevented or prolonged his condition. I really don’t know.

He soon got arrested for being in a gang neighborhood that his probation terms prohibited him from entering. That was his third strike, so he got deported back to Mexico. He remained there while I graduated high school, received my AA degree, and moved to San Francisco. He called home on his birthdays, December 31st, and my family would take turns talking to him on the phone. They would wish him a happy birthday and say that they loved and missed him. I would get skipped whenever it would be my turn; my family knew that I didn’t want to talk to him. I now wished that I had.

You see, my brother was living in a place where there continues to be many kidnappings and murders, and my family lost contact with him almost a year ago. My mom prays that he will one day show up and we will be a family again. She has hope. I don’t now how. I can’t imagine the pain of not knowing if your son is dead or alive. I hope I never do. I visited my mom a few months ago, walked in her room, and saw a small shrine of my older brother with a photo of him that was taken before he lost weight. I couldn’t help, but get sad.

During that trip, I kept on thinking about how he didn’t see me graduate high school or wish me good luck before moving to San Francisco. I kept on thinking about how he missed out on my life. But then again I wasn’t there when he needed my help or when he got deported. I wasn’t there to wish him a happy birthday. I wasn’t there to tell him that everything would be okay and that we will soon be together. I wasn’t there to hug him when he needed it.

Then I think think of all the things he won’t get to see. He won’t get to see me when I get married. He won’t be there to wish me good luck when I get my first professional job. He won’t be here when I adopt a child. He won’t be here to protect me anymore or to tell me that everything will be okay and that we will be together soon; that makes me cry.

I often wonder if he ever thought of me during those nights in Mexico. I was a bad person to him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he stopped caring. Truth is, I really miss my older brother. He was a good person that just needed help. I can’t take back what I did (or didn’t do). It’s too late for that now. All I can do is hope that he’s in a good place right now, and to tell you that I love him.

My Life In Private

I’m a private person. I don’t mean the type of private where you keep to yourself and never let anyone know what you’re doing. I’m talking about the private where you don’t share your feelings, secrets, concerns, or let people in your life (the real life you live).

I can tell you about the time I went clubbing for the first time, got really drunk, made-out with a stranger in the cab, almost got roofied, had a panic attack, and arrived home around 5 in the morning. But it’s hard to tell you that I felt sad for being away from my family that I decided to drink in order to cope, but ended up drinking a bit too much. I’ts hard to tell you that I was scared of not fitting into the gay scene that I didn’t object when a guy came to me and kissed me. It’s especially hard to tell you how disappointed I felt at myself for letting all the bad things happen that I had to step outside to be alone, but I felt so overwhelmed and had my first panic attack. That’s too personal to tell.

I don’t mean to tell people the half-truth. I really don’t. I just don’t want people to judge the real me. If I tell you all about what goes on in my head or how I view the world, you’ll probably laugh. At times, I even laugh at myself for thinking the way I do. I once thought people in this world would not purposely want to harm me (emotionally or physically), but I was wrong. People lie and people have hurt me. I freak out and break down whenever that happens. I cry sometimes. I remember crying at night when I was alone in my room in San Francisco. I was crying so hard and loud that I had a hard time breathing, and I remember feeling exhausted after and fell asleep like a baby. I nearly freaked myself out. You’re probably right in assuming that I’m rambling, but I’m letting you in my head; the random part and the private part.

I hardly tell my family as much as I’m telling you today. They’re really private people. I can’t blame them. If you knew how much drama the family has gone through, you would want to keep private too. I tell my family that I’m going out with friends. I don’t tell them that I’m going to a gay club to drink, that my friends are gay, or that I’ll possibly hook up and sleep over at my “friends'” house. I don’t tell them how miserable I feel sometimes. I don’t tell them how unsure I am of my future or the random thoughts I have while I’m home. I don’t know why. I guess i’m just a really private person.