Jessica Wildfire's Blog, page 418

Great advice.

Great advice. There’s a lot of noise that masquerades as activism. At some point, social media attention and attention has to translate into concrete steps.

Yeah, the curse of the writer. Life is how we distract ourselves from our work. :)

Yeah, the curse of the writer. Life is how we distract ourselves from our work. :)

I think you’re right. Timing as a lot to do with almost everything, it seems.

I think you’re right. Timing as a lot to do with almost everything, it seems.

Exactly! So far, the backing off strategy has worked well.

Exactly! So far, the backing off strategy has worked well. I just try to talk to him about his new job, girlfriend, etc, and lay off the advice….

“And could you give me a remote, so I could watch something I actually want instead of Fox News or…

“And could you give me a remote, so I could watch something I actually want instead of Fox News or House Hunters?”

Treat your siblings like casual friends

Source: Roman Samborskyi

My brother never cleans his bathroom. A thick crust of toothpaste encases the sink. Whiskers from his razor sprinkle the faucet. An inch of standing water encircles the shower drain, and mold dots the tile grout. I’ve stopped bathing when I visit my family.

It’s the kind of bathroom where you flush the toilet with a pen.

And then you throw away the cap.

This year, I decided to forego my attempts to right my brother’s ship. Hardly anyone ever listens to their older brothers and sisters. I’ve learned that the hard way. In fact, giving them advice can make things worse. Siblings have a way of doing the opposite of what you want, and vice versa.

The less I try to intervene, the happier our visits have become. We exchange presents on holidays and birthdays now. We actually kind of like each other. He picks out great gifts, like booze. Also, he’s easy to buy for — games, books, art, the kind of stuff we both appreciate.

My brother will never see me as a role model. It’s just not his style. He doesn’t want role models. Every now and then someone I know talks about an older sibling as a positive influence. But they almost always follow their example. Not their advice. There’s a difference.

Older siblings like me make a huge mistake when we try to act like authority figures or mentors. Younger siblings hate it when big sis talks down to them. Even if they happen to be right. Study your friends who have older siblings. You may find that I’m onto something.

Mine’s never followed my example, or my advice. In fact, younger siblings like mine seem determined to do life the opposite way. If I took AP classes in high school and made a 4.1 GPA, then he took non-honors and tried hard for Fs. He skipped so many days that our principal forced him to attend summer school just to graduate.

While I went to college, my brother started a band. Because I moved out, he decided to spend the rest of his life in my old bedroom.

My trips home used to end in disaster. Throughout my 20s, I tried to give my brother life tips. Lectured him on the importance of college, determination, curiosity. It only pissed him off.

One Christmas he shouted at me, “You think you’re so fucking smart. Like you know everything? Your life sucks. Look at all your student debt. Guys dump you all the time. Seriously, fuck off. I’m sick of it.”

These fights always happened around the holidays. But last time, things went much better. Why? Because I stopped picking on his faults. After all it’s not my bathroom. As much as it irritates me, nobody can tell a grown man in his 20s to scrub his sink or plunge the shower drain.

You can buy a man a toilet brush. Good luck getting him to use it.

Nobody can teach a grown man how to find a job if he’s not willing to listen. So I’ve stopped badgering him about resumes and job interview protocols. There’s nothing I know that he can’t find on the Internet.

I’ll never teach him how to organize a refrigerator or a cupboard. Sure, it sucks when I open the door and an unopened, expired tub of cool whip falls out. I’m not sure why he keeps five jars of the same hot mustard. Or why a thin film of dried orange juice covers one of the shelves.

Blood relatives often feel entitled to berate and lecture each other. It’s primal instinct. I’ve tried to stop in person, but look at me now. Blogging about it. I’m so pathetic. But the indigence must go somewhere.

Without my blog, I’d probably explode in fireworks of indignation.

You have no idea how close I came to screaming at my brother on Christmas Eve. Something like, “For the love of God, don’t you recycle?! You’re killing the godamm planet.”

But I didn’t. Yes, I did start reorganizing the fridge and pantry. My brother came up behind me and started throwing glass and plastic containers straight into the trash. “Don’t,” I started. “I was going to wash those out.”

He kept on chucking half-empty, expired jars into the bin. “You’re so naive,” he said. “Recycling’s a myth.”

But I didn’t throw anything at him or shout. Someone give this bitch a cookie for good behavior.

Of course, I had trouble sleeping. My mind kept picturing literal tons of his garbage piled up in a landfill.

Finally I snuck downstairs around 1 am to organize the fridge and pantry. For example, I condensed the pop tart collection to one box. Put the cereal in a neat row. Finally, I pulled the containers and jars from the trash and washed them, stuffed them in my luggage. Nobody would never know.

Quietly, I crept back upstairs and fell into a blissful Christmas slumber.

But I left the dried orange juice. It took a great amount of restraint. Aren’t you proud of me?

My brother and I have one thing in common. We can’t stand unsolicited advice. I’ve offered less and less each year. On his own, he seems to be figuring things out. It’s going to take him a lot longer to find his happiness than it could. Sometimes I just wish he would follow some of my advice. Just one thing. Like maybe he could keep a list of good and bad decisions I’ve made above his desk. Cleaning your work area? Good. Instead, he wants to slash forward on his own, get lost, double back. Start again.

I’ve spent hours trying to convince him on the importance of lists, spreadsheets, little plastic tubs for your pencils, folders, cloud storage. He won’t have it. And then his computer crashes. Or he loses things.

Sometimes, I’ve tried to coach him on interview techniques. For example, when a gaming store manager asks why you want to work for them, you shouldn’t list off all the games you’ve beaten. But he rolled his eyes. “Nobody really cares what answers you give them,” he said. “They just want to see that you can speak English, and you’re not crazy.”

He didn’t get the job.

Despite all that, my brother has an intellect. He reads lots of books, and even more discussion forms. He knows a lot of miscellaneous information about current events and Internet trends. In that sense, I’ve learned over the past couple of years that he’s good at conversation. As long as I treat him more like a friend, less like a younger brother, we’re fine. That’s better than I ever hoped for — the fact that we can hang out sometimes.

But nuclear war will be great for ratings!

But nuclear war will be great for ratings!

I’ll take one Ellie Guzman over 10 MAGA pawns any day!

I’ll take one Ellie Guzman over 10 MAGA pawns any day!

Great advice.

Great advice. It’s true. Probably half the people that enjoy an article don’t write a comment because they can’t think of anything to say. They don’t hit the “fav” or “clap” button because they don’t see it. So you just appreciate the ones that come in and keep writing.

Self-reliance actually works

Source: Tuzemka

My best friend once walked up to me at a coffee shop and asked why I looked so down. When I told her my mom was going nuts again, she rolled her eyes. “Nobody likes their mom,” she said. “Get over it. So anyway, wanna grab some Chipotle?” I declined.

Don’t hate my friend. That’s not the point. She thought I was using the term “nuts” figuratively. Most people do.

At the time, I’d never told anyone about my mom’s mental health problems. So the misunderstanding was my fault. I should’ve used the more precise term, schizophrenic episode.

For a snap, part of me wanted the comfort of a friend. But the other part knew the truth. Nobody can make you feel better about something like that. You’re on your own. You have to manage your emotions.

A therapist or counselor can help. But in the end, you’ve got to own them. Only you can solve your riddles.

So I sipped my coffee and stared through a window for an hour, and then cracked open my Econ textbook. That’s exactly what I needed. Solitude. Caffeine. A painfully dull read to take my mind off things.

I’d just watched my mom escorted onto an ambulance by two police officers. I love the word “escort.” It makes everything sound so civil. People who get escorted places don’t lose a shoe in the process.

In fact, I’d literally followed the ambulance to my parents’ house from the highway. By accident. No joke. I was driving that way, when I saw an ambulance rush past me, and onto my exit.

I remember thinking, “Wouldn’t that be weird if the ambulance were driving to my house? And I was right. It felt pretty fucking weird, following a random ambulance that happens to pull up to your old driveway. That made the twelfth time my mom won a trip to the mental health institution. So the weird part boils down to the timing. I’d arrived at the exact same moment as the ambulance. Weird.

Around that time, I asked another friend to let me stay with her a few days. Living at home to save money on tuition and fees hadn’t worked out the way I’d planned. It’s hard to study when your mom spends half the day screaming at your dad, and then your dad in turn spends the other half screaming at your brother.

My friend said no. And so did my other one. So I got a job and saved up some cash for my own place. A cheap little dump run by a weed dealer. The irony? The weed dealer didn’t own the property. His dad, a prominent local businessman, had given it to him.

After moving, I fell in love with a guy and gave up my virginity. For a while, it felt like we could talk about anything. He supported my decision to cut ties with my family and move out.

A couple of months later, he vanished. No breakup. No messages. Just dust. Later, I heard he’d moved to Canada.

So I went to class, worked at dive bars, and slept on a mattress in an empty room, rented by a drug dealing trust fund baby. It wasn’t all bad. He gave me discounts on weed. And he paid for the coffee.

The appearance of friendship helped. No matter how raw you feel, you can always listen to people and take an interest in them. Or at least try. I’m pretty sure I sucked at it, but my efforts earned some rewards. My work friends took me drinking with them and got me into bars, even though I was barely 20. Bartenders gave me free drinks. And I didn’t even have to say anything.

If you fake stability long enough, it becomes real.

Eventually, I started looking to the future. Having my own quiet nook felt nice. A routine. Small goals like publishing a short story in some no-name journal. An A on a paper. Rent money. Taking care of my basics helped me tune out the noise of sadness. Sure, most people want parents who listen to them bitch about stuff and give them hugs when they feel bad, insecure, or scared. Parents that give advice, either seriously or facetiously like in a CBS comedy. But you don’t really need that in order to survive.

Here’s what you need to survive: a decent memory. Arguably, eyes and limbs. But some people manage surprisingly well without them. A brain helps. So do typing skills. Most people have what they need to manage their lives. Sympathy and understanding doesn’t pay your bills, or get you any kind of promotion that means anything.

So finally I remembered that I was smart, good looking, and determined. If you’ve got one out of three, nothing else matters. And if you have all three, then why the fuck are you looking for sympathy? You don’t need it. No matter what bad shit ever happened to you, you’ll help yourself more than anybody else. Because nobody cares more about your success and well-being than you do. You can be your own best friend. You must.

Sympathy’s lethal to people with real problems. Thankfully, I sought little. No matter how bad I wanted it, I resisted. All around me, people talked about their problems. Little ones. Sympathy helps with small stuff. With big stuff, nobody can help you.

Take random crying spells. Like you’re driving somewhere, and all of a sudden you start sobbing because of something on the radio. At 19, you don’t understand what’s happening or why. But a year of that taught me that it just happens sometimes.

You might think that sympathy and comfort can help with random crying. How nice it sounds for a friend to hug you and listen to your problems. But that doesn’t help.

Sometimes I’d have to cut conversations short to lock myself in a bathroom stall and calm down.

Or mild panic attacks. Let’s say you go to a party, like a hundred others. But somehow this one feels different. Everyone’s smiling and laughing way too much. One little word or gesture makes you hyper-aware. So you leave. You spend ten minutes in your car breathing, and you drive home.

A year of that taught me something profound. The crying and random panics meant nothing. They were vestigial trauma from things that had happened a long time ago. I didn’t need a shoulder to cry on, just time and distance. Like any thunderstorm, they would pass and leave chirping crickets in their wake. What a great feeling. One minute, you think you might die. The next, you feel completely normal.

The panic attacks hardly ever happen now. Why? Because every year, I built part of a life for myself. Crawled a little closer to my goals. Master’s degree. Publications. PhD. Real job. Spouse.

Each step made me realize something important. It didn’t matter what had happened to me earlier in life.

Nobody ever gives you anything of value. You always have to earn your place in the world.

Gradually, I learned that nobody was going to give me a book deal because of my abusive, neglectful upbringing. Abused children are a dime a dozen. My childhood made me different, but not special. The knowledge and abilities I acquired over time did. Abused children who go on to accomplish great things, now those are special people.

Unfortunately, you can’t tell the entire world to go fuck itself. People still matter. We all need friends, coworkers, mentors, and dare I say…fans. But you shouldn’t burden them too much. Mentors look for pupils who show potential. Fans support artists they admire. Most relationships hinge on mutual benefit. Most of the time, there’s no excuse for becoming an emotional paper weight. Maybe your mom beat you every night with an empty bottle of Jack Daniels. Sounds like a great story. But if you let that become the reason why you never went to art school, then that’s on you. All kinds of people can control your past, but they’ve got nothing on tomorrow.