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March 25th 2013

March 25th 2013

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Published by Harry
Am epistolary.
Am epistolary.

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Published by: Harry on Mar 26, 2013
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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An Open Letter to No One in Particular: March 25th 2013An Epistolary by Harry J. ChongI'm sitting in my underwear. My dark blue, half ripped underwear, in front my $300 sub-laptop. Myhair, or what remains of it, is greasy and slick. I probably smell from being too lethargic to shower. I'mtyping, trying to think, and I can hear my father's boisterous voice from downstairs, reverberatingthrough the house. It is causing me a psychosomatic headache. I'm trying to suppress my annoyance, because what else can I do when I'm living under someone else's roof for free? I appreciate what he'sdone for me, but he talks non-stop about nothing important to the point you imagine yourself putting agun to head and pulling the trigger. Even having earbuds in my ears, and listening to the Beatles, musicwhich I acquired through means of piracy, is not drowning it out. I do not condone stealing, if you canconsider piracy stealing, but I do not have enough money to spare to actually buy any music. I knowthat I'm wrong, but I reason with myself that the Beatles have made more money than anyone can ever need. As I check the internet, I see that Paul McCartney, possibly my most preferred Beatle has anetworth of $800,000,000. If he goes bankrupt because some loser downloaded his music, then I justdon't know what the world has come to.Anyways, I'm sorry about going off on a tangent. I should explain what this document is about.It is my attempt, maybe an experiment, to truly, and at least for once, capture my feelings -- in earnest,without censorship, and complete honesty. Of course when I say "without censorship" it does not meanI am going to be thoughtless, and swear, and bash everyone that I know of. I'm going to try to be as fair as possible, but there are some things that I need to get off my chest.I don't know who you are, or where you are from, but you might be wondering why I am doingthis, why I've uploaded this to the internet, and why I felt the need to share my stories or any thoughtsabout my life when I am utterly nobody of importance. Well, I guess every human being has the desireto share, and be heard, and I am no exception. Not that I would ever want this to reach a wide audience, but I like the idea that someone out there, that I've never met, is going to read what I've written and perhaps understand who I am as a human being.But I hope that my "open letter" doesn't come off as narcissistic or Holden Caulfied-like here, because after watching a 2 hour long video from the USC Shoah Foundation, which was about a ladynamed Renee Firestone who survived the Holocaust, I do no want to come back to this document andsee what a self-absorbed prick I've been. I need to maintain perspective and realize that my troublesaren't the worst in the world, but nonetheless they do seem like the worst troubles in the world becausein fact they are my troubles, and I have no other true perspective from which I can compare.That said, I would like to tell you that I am depressed. Incredibly depressed. I bet I'vementioned this before, but I'll repeat it again: I am depressed. And I'm not talking about being a bit sador being blue, or lacking enthusiasm for life, I am talking about a great, profound, deep sadness.Sadness, and to a large degree anger and bitterness, that has been with me for all my teenage and adultyears. I am sad enough that the idea of dying right now is something I would consider bitter-sweet. Ihave a great desire to die, and am frequently thinking about it, thinking about jumping off a building,running into traffic, cutting my wrists, or shooting myself in the head. I actually do not like the idea of self-poisoning, because I hear it can be incredibly painful. I want to go quick and painlessly. However,though I do desire to die, I am reluctant, because I am afraid, and I do not want to hurt anyone.I do not want to hurt my mom, and above all, I am fearful. I am at an age, where I am notarrogant enough to believe that what my religion has presented me can be true. I am not sure whether there is an after life, and if there is, it would probably not be what I imagine. What if I came back? As a bug? No one really knows, and despite my outer-body experiences (which were probably just dreams),I cannot have full confidence that there is anything there at all.So that is the real reason why I'm still here, because I am a coward... Could that be consideredironic? A trait that almost all of us regard as negative has kept me alive. I would of course prefer to be
heroic. Sometimes I imagine myself saving the world, and being brave, and confident, and savoringlife. But that has yet to come true and I remain a mouse. My fears keep me from achieving any type of goals I have, other than writing. I am afraid of failure, I am afraid of the dark, I am afraid of cars, I amafraid of pretty women, I am afraid of losing, I am afraid of never having any money, I am afraid of  being embarrassed, I am afraid of traveling and getting lost (a fear I acquired when I was a 3 or 4 yearsold and my parents lost me in Eaton Center), and I am afraid of hurting other people.Hurting other people is something I genuinely do fear. I think about it a lot. My depression hadmade me into a cynical, angry, bitter person, and intrusive thoughts constantly run rampant through myhead. I think about the most sickening things. I think about rape, and violence, and murder. Notintentionally. I truly do not want to do any of that, but those thoughts can be overwhelming. Especiallywith my parents. They support my bum-ass, but they have a tendency to irritate and hurt meemotionally.I know they mean well, but that's the truth. I remember one time I was washing the dishes, probably my dad's dishes because he seldom cleans up after himself, and my mom was eating anorange in the most irritating way. She was standing by the sink, chewing like some sort of creaturefrom the muck, and I had a knife in my hand that I was scrubbing. Out of nowhere a whole series of thoughts flashed in my mind. I saw myself stabbing my mom in the head, and being arrested, andhaving my life ruined. Needless to say, I said "fuck the dishes" (in my head), and bailed. I'm not sure why the idea of murdering my mom into my brain, like some sort of a psychotic parasite, but I think it might be because I have some sort of residual resentment toward her. Even though, out of everyone in myfamily, my mom is the nicest, she does drive me up the wall. I appreciate and am thankful that she letsme be some sort of bump on the log who writes, but she never says anything nice really. She is a blunt person, and can at times be cruel. Not intentionally. Never. I don't believe she ever intentionally desiresto be mean to her children, but there it is.Just as an example, I one time complained about the fat free yogurt she bought. I know Ishouldn't have been an ingrate like that, but I really just said it didn't taste so good, and what does shesay? She gets angry, points at me, and tells me that I need it, because of my weight, and she says in amenacing tone, "LOOK AT YOU." Look at me, like I should stare in the mirror, and regret how I look.That's what she meant really.My mom has that temper that can flare up from time to time, and sometimes she seemsincredibly uncaring. I remember once fainting, as a teenager, and I knocked one of her plants over.While I was passed out on the floor, she never asked if I was okay, she simply yelled at me for being anidiot and knocking over her plant. She didn't call me an idiot, but it was strongly implied.She would routinely discipline me for being a fuck-up, and she would kick me in the shin,knock me with a broom, as I recall, or slap me. She loved to slap. (How can she slap?!) I remember onetime, on my birthday, maybe I was nine years old, she slapped me in the face. We were taking a family photo and my older sister was teasing me. Because I was squealing she gave my five fingers to mycheek. The odd thing is she took a picture!But you know what? I'm okay that I was slapped on the face on my birthday. In retrospect itkind of make me snigger. I'm not really too angry about it. After all, my mom was the person who bought my cake, and literally the only person that remembered my birthday on the day of. To this day, Ican't recall anyone, including family and close friends, remembering when I was born. That's the thingabout my mom, she can both punish and reward. To tell the truth, more rewards than punishment, butdon't we all remember the bad stuff most?I remember one time my mom bought me an electronic organizer. It was something I wantedreally badly, and my mom who only had a minimum wage job, bought me this $100 piece of unnecessary technology. Was I grateful at the time? Sort of. Again I wasn't immune to being a spoilt,little shit. I think the problem was that, and this might make me sound like an asshole, the problem was
that though I got a lot of things from my mom, presents, gifts, et-cetera, it always involved a lot of  begging.For you see, I was never the family favorite. I was the black sheep. My mom told me in noterms uncertain that I was an accident. (This partially explains why I was born in Jamaica, and my brother and sister were both born in Canada.) Well, thankfully abortions weren't too popular back then,otherwise I wouldn't be here. Yes, I know that's contradictory to what I said earlier, having noted that Iam suicidal, but I do like the idea of existing. I just don't like the idea of existing...here.I realize how whiny and "emo" I sound, and I don't think my mom deserves an vitriol that Imight unintentionally be throwing her way, but honesty also requires annoyance. That's why HoldenCaulfield is loved as much as he is equally hated. (For me it's hate.) He is an honest character, but at thesame time he embodies the annoying qualities of the self-absorbed, selfish, narcissistic, young, white,American male.I guess in a way I'm like that, except I'm way too old for this shit. (I'm 28.) I wish I had myemotions settled and would not be like this. Yet there's always an inner conflict in me. I feel a certainway, but I invalidate my own feelings by saying it's stupid, and by putting myself in someone else'sshoes, and seeing myself as others might. It's probably not a good thing for anyone' sanity. Either youshould accept it, and ride it out, until you gain a new perspective, or just forget about it.But no, that's not for me, much to my annoyance. I must be this person who feels and thinks toomuch about everything. I'm chucking a portion of shit on my mom's good name. She has taken care of me from age zero to now, and has cooked and cleaned everyday, and done all these things for me, and Isound like a twat. She is currently in poor health, she has terrible vision, crippling tendonitis, and grayhairs. I try to help out, by washing up, sometimes cooking, something vacuuming, and taking out thegarbage, and massaging oils into her joints, but I'm afraid she might kick the bucket early. And her lifehas been somewhat of a shame.Once she revealed to me that she only stayed with my dad for the kids. And that if she had thechance to be with someone else, anyone of her choosing, she would not have stayed. No, she'd prefer to be with someone like Brad Pitt. And that scared/scarred me, and I felt sorry for my dad, because he is a poor sucker like that, who has no idea what she's thinking, and no idea that he's inadequate as a lover (and I don't mean that in the erotic sense). It worries me sometimes, because sometimes I eavesdrop onher phone conversations, and it seems like she's flirting with the next door neighbor.It makes me want to cry, not because of the actual situation, which is a lot of speculation, but because I think of how affected children of divorce are. Here I am getting worried about lightly phoneconversations, meanwhile a child in the midst of a separation is having to watch their beloved mother or father play tonsil hockey with someone they have absolutely no connection to.But I can't say that my dad wouldn't deserve a divorce. I hate to say that. He has been arelatively obedient, loyal husband, who has worked all his life, but damn...sometimes he's as dense as arock. He's not stupid, let's be clear about that, I'm just saying that when it comes to his wife he is quitedense. He doesn't remember her birthday, or anniversaries, or any special dates. He doesn't bother withanything slightly romantic. I mean how about some flowers once a year? Or how about a couple wordslike, "Your hair looks nice today." It doesn't take much, but that's what my mom is dealing with. A manwho only does stuff if he is told. If she said "buy my flowers" he'd probably do it, but only if shereminded him, and is that really the same? It's pretty much getting it for yourself.Yet my dad has not been worthless. He has in fact done a lot for my mom. He always, and I saywithout exception, welcomed her sometimes terrible band of relatives into his home. (For financialconsiderations it was his home.) Many, many people have passed through this house I am living in, andI'm not talking about a couple days or weeks here, I am talking about relatives, even cousins, stayingfor months, and months, and years. It actually drove me up the wall, because it meant that I didn't get a bedroom. And it also meant that I would get extra presents, and an extra does of smackings.My uncles had quite bad tempers, and they would yell at us to go to bed, and they would slap us

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