The Year of the Tiger

 Happy New Year, lads!

Normally, the tradition was that I would write a blog post on the last day of the year and reminisce about the horrors of the previous twelve months... but I am at a point in my life where what I believe to be my ADHD is so bad that I can barely keep it together--this blog post is more shocking to me, the writer, than to you, dear reader... because I am baffled I have even gathered enough mental focus to write it (and I might be calling that prematurely... after all, what are only four lines of ramblings). 

On the surface, it would appear that 2022 was a very good year for me, and in many, many ways it was. I finished my hellish ride through nursing school, moved out of my parents' house, and finally started making some much-needed income (and spending it like there is no tomorrow). But the reality is that 2022 was one of the most brutal years when it comes to my mental and physical health. I do not know if it is the result of the nursing school trauma (I daresay it is), or the years of suffering that have finally taken their toll on me. All I know is that I am deeply sick--in my body, in my mind, and in my soul. 

Sometimes I look in the mirror and I do not recognize myself at all. I no longer see beauty, zest, vibrance. The extra weight, the wrinkles, the saggy bits, the even more receding hairline, the flatness of my once abundant mane. The absolute hurt in almost every joint. The lack of flexibility and mobility. The mental fog. The sheer exhaustion that doesn't seem to be healed with hours upon hours of sleep. The now dimmed spark.

Where did I go? Who did this to me? And why did I let them?

The first half of the year was hard because school had pushed me to the brink, and I had one particular professor who seemed hell-bent on getting rid of me. The summer was grueling with its overstimulation, its pre and post-NCLEX stress, its COVID perfect storm that ravished my body, and its share of novelty. At some point during the summer, I was convinced that the insomnia and the restlessness meant I had finally cracked and gone insane. Then the last part of the year was a sobering wake up call to the realities of nursing--including the cruelty of seasoned nurses who cannot care less whether you sink or swim. Then came deaths of patients... and my heart cracked more and more. 

My sister got married, my brother made fun of me during the toast at the wedding.
Then my brother got married (to the Church), and everyone around me was the happiest they've ever been.
Then I realized, at long last, that I ain't going to be marrying a man or the Church (or, in my case, as a woman, be a bride of Christ). I finally got the message, in 2022, that God has not intended for me to be a nun, or a wife, or a mother. Because a God who loves me wouldn't be withholding on any of those things until I learned a valuable lesson or became a better person (I've seen people who are much worse than me go on and find love, after all). So if I am going to go on believing that God exists and loves me and has a plan for my life, I must conclude that--for whatever reason--that plan does not include a family or a religious community. I can't realistically keep saying I just need to be patient until God sends me a husband. I am 35 years old. If God wanted to send me a husband, He would have sent me one by now. 

So, here's to a sobering 2022, to mind-numbing 2022, to record-breaking 2022, to heart-bursting-with-pride 2022. A year equal parts haunting and beautiful, challenging and rewarding, heartbreaking and life-changing. 

And here's to 2023. My only hope is that I might find the pieces of myself that I lost along the way and figure out a way to put them back together. Thank you for being here, reader. You are, as always, the realest. 

Sorry, Mom

 

“I will be 60 years old in 14 days, and I have no grandchildren,” she sighed—

Not as a reproach,

But as a fact,

Pregnant with disappointment.

I shot her hurt down 

With a classic “Me” remark—

“Good. Who wants to bring children into this sad world, to have difficult lives?”

I shook my head, knowing damn well 

that I do, 

‘Tis I.

‘Tis I who has a password-protected note on my phone with a list of curated names.

‘Tis I who made a puddle of tears on the floor at church when I saw a little girl who looked like what my mind had crafted as my first (always a girl).

I’m sorry, Mom,

For yet again falling short of the bar,

For being unable to entice,

For building a fortress of fear around my heart 

when I realized that all those infantile loves wouldn’t pan out,

when I realized that my true loves could only bleed me dry.

I’m sorry, Mom,

For turning out so selfish,

So rough around the edges,

So hard to love 

That I’ve become a shadow in a dark corner no one procures.

I’m sorry, Mom,

That those prayers I uttered in the silence of the night,

Those letters I wrote for him who’d win my heart,

Were a waste of time.

I’m sorry, Mom, 

For driving him away 

With my loudness,

My temper,

My body,

My ways.

I’m sorry, Mom,

That I deprived you of the joy

Of your old age,

By my stubborn obsession 

With being myself.

I’m sorry, Mom,

For not being “Mom.”

NURSING SCHOOL VLOG

 Yes, I am making you come to find the video here in the hopes that you will also read the posts. You're welcome:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Ob_jtuU-a8

Done. Deal.

 

I actually cannot believe that I get to write this. Me. The dumb-dumb, the class clown, the person who had to be reminded of deadlines constantly and who didn't update her calendar and who was always struggling in skills lab, the chick who still cannot get a grip on the pharmacology...

Somehow, mostly by the grace of God, I have arrived at the end of my nursing school journey successfully, after going through literally all the stages of grief, plunging into the depths of my mental illness, feeling the weight of loneliness, despair, and powerlessness, and suffering through the trauma of a degree that strips you of your confidence and makes you question your every move (I might be exploring the depths of my educational trauma for months and years to come). 

Either way, whether I had anything to do with it or not, I am enthralled by the miraculous fact that I made it, despite these two years being probably the hardest years of my life. And all I can say is how at a loss of words I am to express my gratitude to God and anyone who has made this journey possible. But then, a part of me is also in complete awe of myself.

What a lass.

What an absolute display of stubborn resilience. It's the stuff of heroines. And if I were a little bit less angry and whinny, it would be the stuff of Saints. 

I'm sorry if this sounds so braggy but I truly am in awe of myself. I walked away from a stable job, a well-paid job, a life of comforts and travel and treating myself. I walked away from much of my social life. I plunged into an unknown field at the age of 33, when most people are buying houses and having kids, and building their little empires... I walked away from everything I knew and started from scratch. 

Then the storms of life came: I was homeless for a month and taking turns between friends' houses. I got sick. I opened my humble home to people who walked in and out of my life (and then back in, and so forth). I lost my dear godfather to Covid. I took the blows of my autistic brother when he had meltdowns, and I bear the scars on my body. I cried myself to sleep many nights. I worked a horrid retail job, then a hectic office job, then a crazy hospital job. I failed exams and got kicked out of clinical and got yelled at by difficult professors. I lived off the food pantry and my parents' generosity. I moved three times in two years (or was it four?). I went to the gym at least once every week. I practiced my piano skills. I did amazing projects and presentations and got to lead some incredible people through our nursing school work. I went to mass almost every single day of those two years. I got mad at God then I got un-mad then mad again, only as I know how to do. I crossed half of the world to go see my best friend marry Jesus. 

All this added to nursing things like, oh, I don't know... your first patient EVER dying within the first two hours of your first clinical, or getting vomited on the face. Or all. the. poo.

There isn't a chance I did all of this on my own. No way. I am not that strong. I am not that good. I am not much of anything other than a needy mess. I wrote "Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam" at the top of every exam scratch paper and prayed for a miracle. And when things looked really bad, I begged Mama Mary and Papa Joe to hook it up with Jesus (and they sure did). Even when I wasn't aware of it, God's grace sustained me, his Saints interceded for me, my guardian angel stood by me, and my grandmas (and godfather) did a heck of a lot of pleading on my behalf up there in heaven. 

And even when I was furious with God about something or other, even when I doubted (Him and me), He sent his little human minions to help me: Lauren and Lou and Joanne and Rachel and Claire and Monica and my aunties and my parents. And the literal 60 or so people who bought tickets to my raffle so that I could afford to pay my rent and bills one month. 

So yes, I've done a very remarkable thing. I am infinitely proud of myself. I will stand tomorrow in front of 300 plus people and hopefully give a speech in which I won't throw up or have an anxiety-induced Mexican accent. But the reality of it all is that I wouldn't have been able to make it without you, reader. Because more than likely, you, who are reading this, are one of the people who just got me through this program, in whatever way large or small. So thank you. 

May I be worthy of the title "nurse."

2020, part 2

 

Ya'll, we can't keep saying it, but man... can I just say: I want off this ride, sir. Please. 

What a shitshow. I started the year grieving the loss of two of my uncles, who were crucial father figures to me during my formative years and whom I loved dearly. I end the year mourning the loss of my health, my apartment, and of friendships I thought were secure. Plus a bunch of family drama surrounding my dad's health. If there's a top three list of the worst years of my life, this one might make the cut, reader. Like, I freaking got into a car accident for the first time in my life. OH AND--freaking Betty White just died today... as if that wasn't enough, 2021!! 

Overall, I leave this year behind exhausted and I begin 2022 with extremely low expectations in regards to my happiness (though the stakes for 2022 might be higher than ever and the changes are going to be huge). 

Yet, I didn't want to put a lid on it without thinking about the small moments of utter magnificence that happened this year and the people that made them so:

10. Blessed is She Retreat in Phoenix, Arizona.
CACTI ARE ART. 

9. Passing semester 2 of nursing school!
SOMEHOW, ANYWAY.

8. My summer job at the YMCA International.
EMPANADAS COLOMBIANAS. CHISME. NEW FRIENDSHIPS. HELPING PEOPLE.

7. Starting my healthcare career at St. Luke's.
NEVER HAVE I EVER LOVED AND HATED A JOB SO MUCH AS THIS.

6. My Rachel coming to visit me in Texas!
AND MADE ME REMEMBER THAT I AM NOT COMPLETELY UNLOVABLE. 

5. Someone goes here that shall remain nameless, but THANK YOU.

4. My parents stepping up to help me.
AND IN DOING SO, A CHUNK OF MY CHILDHOOD TRAUMA HEALING. 

3. Passing semester 3 of nursing school! 
AGAIN, HOW EVEN?

2. Going back to Mexico after three years!
PARTY WITH PEOPLE WHO SEEM TO GENUINELY LIKE ME.
ALSO, ALL THE JERICALLAS AND TEJUINO. 

1. Seeing my Elena again.
I mean... enough said.

Happy New Year, ya'll!

Tired

 

My senior year in high school was probably the worst year of my life. A lot of things happened to me that would qualify as earth-shattering by teenage standards. My boyfriend and I broke up. That sucked. My life was about to change. And I didn't know what to do with myself--yes, college, but where? what major? You know, normal teenage angst. But I was holding it all in just fine because I still had the one pillar of my life that just kept me from falling apart... and no, I am not speaking about my family here.

My best friends.

I was a teenager, and that's what teenagers do: they think their parents hate them and they worship the ground their best friends walk on. But one day during my senior year, I saw something. I was on the bus, on my way home, on a regular Wednesday afternoon. And, from the bus window, I saw them: my best friends, and my other friends, all getting in someone's car, without me. I watched them talking and laughing, almost in slow motion, and getting in the car, a car ride to which I wasn't invited. And I knew. I knew that the nagging feeling I had been getting the past few months wasn't just me being paranoid or insecure. I knew that they were purposely not including me. I knew that this car wasn't just a ride somewhere, but a metaphorical departure in which I had been left behind. That day, when I got home, I went up to my bedroom, curled up in a ball, and cried--no, sobbed--myself to sleep. 

And I wasn't wrong. Things deteriorated quickly after that. By the time I was a freshman in my local community college, my former best friends were now hanging out with my turd ex-boyfriend on the regular. How do I know this? Because, even though none of them were actual faithful Catholics, they all showed up to Sunday mass one day, together. Knowing I would be there. Showing no respect for the mass. Just there so I could see them all together, without me. 

I cried the whole mass. The lady next to me tried to console me, even though she didn't know what was happening.

So, yes, when my two best friends suddenly decided I was no longer required, my pillar fell apart, and my life crumbled. And I was very angry and very sad for a long time. The heartbreak of losing them was ten times worse than the heartbreak I had felt over my boyfriend (who I thought had been the "love of my life" up to that point *scoffs*). 

And my heart was so wounded for such a long time that I forgot how to love friends--how to truly love them. I put up walls around my heart, and I writhed in my misery and my depression. For a long, long time.

Until I decided, years later, to give it all up to the Lord. To let Him take care of that heartbreak. And He did, of course. Time was my best ally, as well. My heart slowly healed and I allowed people back in, first as a trickle, and then as a stream. Some people stayed, some people left, but overall I seemed more or less okay, even when people disappointed me or abandoned me. Because my core was still left untouched, and the people who decided to stay made a dwelling in that core and protected it.

That is, of course, until now. I never thought I'd go through that again. Moreover, I would have never imagined that my response to a friend-breakup would be identical to what it was 17 years ago. It's crazy. Just when you think you've grown so much over the years and matured in your relationship with God, yourself, and others, you find yourself being a total devastated adolescent who cannot cope with the loss of two friends who meant to the world but who no longer want to associate with you. It's brutal. I let these people in... very deep. I thought they'd be part of those loves who dwell around my core and protect it. But they infiltrated the inside just to destroy it, to break me from within. I watched them interact with each other--these two people whom I introduced and forced into a friendship by virtue of always having them around each other since they were my friends-- watched them become the best of friends, watched them ignore me, disregard me, avoid my gaze, walk in front of me, never think about me, not have a shred of consideration toward me, never pick up my phone calls, never answer my messages, use any and every excuse available to not be around me. I watched them text each other in front of me when they interacted with me, and giggle, probably at my expense. I watched them in disbelief, almost as if I was having an out-of-body experience,  because my heart can't bear the pain. I watched them be unnecessarily cruel toward me, when just a few months ago they were part of "my all."

And suddenly I am in high school again. I am that girl, on her bedroom floor, sobbing, feeling her heart being ripped to shreds. Because two people whom I thought would be a part of my life forever won't be. Because two people who I've given all my love to do not love me back. At all. In the least. I'm a nuisance to them. I am a bother. Someone to avoid. Someone who prevents them from having a good time. One of them, in fact, only has a disdainful look for me, as if I'm the one who's mortally wounded her. And I sit here and I wonder what I've done wrong, and come to the conclusion that calling people out on their shit and inviting them to be a better person must be a crime because that is the only way in which I think I've "failed" them. That's what I get for trying to be a damn moral guide and not coddle and love everyone "just as they are," right? 

I can't do anything. I can't study. I can't focus. I can't clean or cook. All I can do is sit here and nurse this pain, hold the pieces of my shattered heart in my arms because there's no one else to do it. I can't believe this is happening and I can't believe I don't have the gumption or determination or self-love to just get over it. It's broken me. I'm broken, I'm not me anymore. Just a basket case. Over two people I met a year ago. Sad and pathetic, indeed. Why can't I just let it go? Yes, it's unfair, but I daresay it won't be the last time something unfair happens to me, right? So what, Lord God, needs to happen so that I can let this go and not hurt this way anymore?

I'm so tired. 

My brothers

If you know me well enough, you know that I'm not the type of person whose faith waivers... except for one instance. There is one thing in my life, so deeply intertwined with my innermost being, so fundamentally a part of who I am, so devastatingly gut-wrenching and heartbreaking that has the power to turn me into an atheist: Daniel. 

Daniel was born into this world to a family that deeply, deeply wanted and loved him. He was the gift, the fruit of our new life in America, being born a little over a year after we had made the move across the border. He was the perfect baby--sweet, happy, beautiful, full of life. He was going to be the baby of the family, he was going to be Ceci's little best friend, and JP's buddy (now there were going to be two girls and two boys in our family!). I'm sure we all had great hopes and dreams of what our lives were going to be like with this little bundle of joy with enormous cheeks and a gummy smile. And there's been joy, of course, especially the first few years. 

But as he grew older, the autism got more and more severe... and the joyful moments became more sparse. The pain--the absolutely profound sorrow--only grew with every birthday, with every missed milestone, with the sobering reality that his autism wasn't going to be the type they make movies about. The heartbreak when we realized he would never speak. The devastation when he started hurting himself. The sheer fear when we realized just how much he could physically hurt us during a crisis. 

And God's silence. God's silence for 16 years since Daniel's diagnosis. 

Autism is the type of cross you wouldn't wish upon your worst enemy. It's the nightmare in which you watch your loved one drown while you're unable to save him. We each watch Daniel suffer, imprisoned in his mind, unable to tell us what he needs, what's wrong, what hurts. I've heard it described by high-functioning autism patients as having your brain light up on fire due to overstimulation and wanting to distract yourself from the excruciating pain that causes by diverting your attention to a different source of pain (thus the brutal self-beatings). We've seen Daniel break through a wall with his head, with his torso. We've seen him punch himself until his face is bruised and his hands swollen. We've felt his nails digging into our skin. We've gone back to work or school the next day with bruises and cuts on our arms. We've watched him cry, utterly distraught, once his brain calms down and he realizes what he's done. Reader... it's very much a never-ending nightmare, especially for my parents.

This has been the cross God deemed fit for our family. And we do a very poor job dragging it around. It has unleashed a lifetime of sadness, mental illness, division, resentment, belligerence, and heartbreak upon our family. And God remains silent. The healing, the miracle, never came.

More often than not, I have to make the decision not to think about it. Because, when faced with God's strange indifference over this, I want to scream at Him and figuratively fist-fight Him. It makes me want to run away from Him, to want to punish Him with my disdain (as if a meager human being could punish the God of the universe). Because I don't understand it. I don't comprehend--I cannot fathom why He has allowed this to happen to our family. And the truth is that I never will--until (and only if) I get to heaven (the verdict still out on that one). 

So yes, reader... my coping mechanism is complete avoidance. I compartmentalize so hard that I can go a whole day or two without thinking about my family. And I know what this makes me... a selfish prick. Yes, I'll be the first one to admit it. It's the only way I've found to survive. It's also the only way I've found to preserve my faith because the reality is, I love God so deeply that the thought of Him ignoring our prayers and not helping us with this breaks my heart more than I can endure. 

But in the last several hours I've been thinking (and arguing with God) about all of this... and it seems that the most I'll get from Him is, "you don't understand now, but one day you will understand." And then, in his ever-gentle demeanor, He offers the consolation that is my other brother, Deacon Juan Pablo, a.k.a. the greatest pride of our family. Because what can be greater than to offer to God a son who will serve Him, whose heart will be configured to the heart of His own Son, Jesus Christ? What an honor! How many families have that privilege? How many families will have a son to give to the Church? We are blessed indeed. It is not lost on me the great source of consolation that my brother's vocation has been for our family. And, while I might not understand why God didn't want to help us with Daniel's autism (or at least in the way we wanted Him to), I am not unaware of the other countless ways in which He has helped us--has helped me. 

So, those are my brothers. One, the source of the greatest joy of our life, the other, the cause of our greatest sorrow. Neither one of them is fully in charge of that, I realize--and I'm sure neither want of them is super psyched of having that responsibility. It is significant, however, that Daniel's 18th birthday and Juan Pablo's diaconate ordination happened in the same week. That's a God-incidence for sure. 

In the midst of all that, I, once again, consistently fail to give my family much of anything--joy, consolation, support, etc. With so very little to contribute, I'm lucky they still call me to invite me over once in a while (though really that's just my mom). I often wonder if they would be better off if I'd just got lost, really... but I stick around for the sake of my mom. Maybe one day I'll be useful enough to actually alleviate the suffering of my family--or to be a source of consolation like JP is. 

In the meantime, I thank God for the gift of my brothers--even when it's harder to thank Him for one.