It Wasn't Me

It wasn't me.

Him on the beach, furious over me stopping to pet a dog. He said I didn't respect him. He said I was trying to flirt with the dog owner. Me with tears streaming on my face. I thought we were there because he felt bad for yelling at me the day before. Yet now this.

It wasn't me.

Standing in front of the ATM. Only have $20 in my bank account and home is 8,000 miles away. Strengthening myself to ask for cash to strangers. I need another $10 for a ticket back to my apartment in Orange County. I could be there by midnight, and I will just stay at the station until the break of dawn before going on a 3-5 hours walk home. It is better than going back with him in the car.

It wasn't me.

Saying the vow in front of the civil servant. Looking at him with a mixture of pain and fear from the lashing I received the night before, and with intense love that can move a mountain. It will be fine, I told myself. He looked at me and smiled lovingly, trembling as he said his vow. It will be better, I assured myself.     

It wasn't me.

My solo train trip to San Diego ripped me open again. The view of the beach in Oceanside. The place where I stop to get the ATM. The cliffside overlooking the beach that was similar to where we got married. "It will get better, right?" I ask my best friend over the phone as the train passed Encinitas. "It will," he assured me, pretending he didn't hear me trying to withhold my sobs.

The day before was a series of "You don't understand how hard it is for me," "I tried my utmost best for you," and "We're just not compatible," from another ex. I told him maybe I do understand and I care so much for him. I told him I only ask for what's important for me. I told him non-compatibility is a lazy excuse. 

That night I couldn't stop crying, even well into my sleep. The debate had been a repetition of my married life, minus the abuse and the lashing. I had brushed him off and end the debate by saying "I'm difficult." I keep telling myself that as he sat awkwardly beside me on the train home. I am just difficult.

Between the debate with my ex and the San Diego trip the next day, I feel like I am cut open and nasty, gooey pus is flowing out. It's good, I told myself, it is how the healing process work. Only then I realize how much I truly care for them, and how much I love them. Only then I realize how much pain I was in. Yet it doesn't feel like it's getting better soon.

"You just have to stop dating guys who are not as strong as you are," my best friend said. "Or I should stop being difficult," I replied. "That's because you have standard. There's nothing wrong with having a standard." He looked at me in my eyes, "You deserve to be happy. It wasn't you." I fixed my gaze on the floor to hide my tears. It wasn't me.

I am Home

I love my bed.

It's a crinkly old fold-up futon frame with second-hand mattress that gives me back pain on worst days, but I love it very much.

I love my apartment.

It's so small that it hardly fits for one and includes neverending battle against bugs and dust, but I love it very much.

I love my teddy bear.

It's a cheap mini bear with picture hoodie that I ordered on discount on Rite-aid. It's not soft at all and pretty ugly, but I love it very much.

I love my home.

By home, I mean my tiny buggy apartment with the crinkly futon bed and that ugly teddy bear. Can I do better? I can. It's just scary to leave 'home'. And yes, I love it very much.

I am not the same person that live with my family on my idyllic island. I am not the same person that live with my ex-husband and his kids. Those were 'home' too, but now they seemed so vague.

People change and people grow. Experiences and interactions mold and shaped us like the beating and heating on iron shaft to create a sword. Sometimes, it means new home.

My family will always be my home, as well as the people I love the most. That includes myself, too. Please excuse me as I need to give myself a hug and say: "I am home."

Good Morning, America

Good morning, America.

Good morning to the restaurant manager that sat next to me on the 6 am bus to Covina. Your eyes were still blurry, face puffy from the sleep. "What time the restaurant open?" I asked. "9 am," you said, "But I have to be there early to check if the restaurant is clean and ready, and balancing the book."

Good morning to sleepy passengers with all your possessions in the train and on the bus. The cold foggy morning offered the blissful protection against the impending heat of the day, and the subsequent beating on your pride from the judgemental eyes of passing strangers.

Good morning to the lady who sells tamales. You sat there under the tree, knitting something with a pink yarn, and casually advertise your fare: "Tamales, tamales! Champurrado!" It's a cheap, affordable breakfast to many, a warm reprise from the chilly Pomona morning.

Good morning to the senior who sat next to me on the bus. You had to leave at 4.30 to get to your job by 8.30 or earlier and won't be back home until after 8 pm. All for a job who won't even provide coffee for the office, let alone other amenities.

Good morning to the 70-year-old man who kindly greeted everyone at the stop with "Bless you, brother!" You asked me is it hard to operate that whatchamacallit smartphone, as you spent the last 10 years in prison and was way behind in technology.

Good morning, America. Good morning, I say, to these people with toils and hardship ahead of them. Neck deep in life's challenges, there's simply no time of dreaming. So much for the American Dream. So much for the feeling you got it good. So much for feeling, period. You just have to keep on swimming.

Yet you smiled. You chatted happily with me. You are alive. Your eyes full of gratitude that you make it to another day, or full of determination that you will make it another day. Some of you are the walking dead, though. For that, I wept for you. 

Good morning, America. I love you.