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One angry man's resolution to change his life. |
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AN APOLOGY I experienced a revelation. I will change my life. I will shine, as my wife told me to. I will have my revenge. |
| I am so tired of this balancing act, and it has only been a month. I walk a tightrope high between the tops of two towers, the wind threatening to throw me into a plummet of hundreds of feet into the spectators below. Instead of a pole to balance, I hold two balls, one in each hand. One ball is lead: the anger, depression and attendant lethargy that con-fuse about the core thoughts of my situation. The other ball is cotton: the peace that settles upon me whenever I forget my situation, staunching my anger and clouding my focus. I feel like I've been walking this tightrope for years, but in truth not so long now, since I decided to bury my feelings. I used to complain all the time, to whoever would listen. Pathetic. I realized I didn't want to be seen that way anymore. Last Wednesday, I hugged the school nurse. I came into her room quietly, came up behind her, tapped her on the shoulder so she turned. I gave her a moment to take in who I was. Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth to say something--at which I almost lost my nerve and backed off. And then she leaned into me. It lasted all of five seconds, but felt...well, I can't describe it. The thrill, the pleasure of human contact, the fear, the sense of comfort, all blended together to make my head swim. I have no idea what she felt, but when she did move to back away, there was a smile on her face. "Thank you," she said, in English, and moved back around her desk, out of reach. My smile lasted through the day. And that was, and is, the danger. That pleasure made me forget my purpose, and my reason. It wasn't until later that evening, in the 42 degree bath my wife insists is not quite hot enough, but which sends my heart racing while my mind stewed over another night of the silent treatment from my wife, that I remembered--and, remembering, sank deeper into the steaming water, until the water covered my ears, and the sounds of son and wife talking in the room beyond the wall, hitherto mute, became magnified in the water's medium, everything becoming magnified by the heat and the thick atmosphere. I struggled to stay under for almost two minutes (there's a clock on our bathroom wall), and came up gasping, but refreshed. I am not sure how much more of this I can take. I am exhausted. These negative feelings pervade everything I do--at work, at home, on the train-dragging the corners of my mouth down and shading the brittle light in my eyes, threatening my revenge, dulling my shine. So close to whine. So close. |
| Got the call back from an old acquaintance. It seems that once I get my permanent resident visa, I'll be eligible to work as a priest. Yes, you read that correctly: a priest. I did it before, and it seems I can do it again. I did it three time before, until the company realized I did not have a proper visa, and had to terminate our relationship. And I was sorry to see that job go: 15,000 yen a service (about 150 U.S. dollars), taking about one and a half hours of my time. I know a guy who does about four or five per day, three days a week. The money adds up quick, especially for a part time job. (Sorry if you read this earlier, but I had to save it and close the window due to writing at work and the staff member being in a rather foul mood with me today. Not sure why :) ) "You can't be a priest!" Oh, yes I can. Well, not the ordained type anyway. I once considered it, given my background and mindset, but never felt a calling. But in Japan, I can officiate in a priest's costume at wedding ceremonies (emphasis on ceremonies), and get paid good money for it. I am Caucasian, I speak passable Japanese, and I was able to throw in a bit of honest-to-God Latin during my interview that seemed to impress the company. Yes, company. This is all run by a company. Wedding ceremonies have nothing to do with actually getting married. That happens at the courthouse. I don't have to do shit in the eyes of God; no one cares. Most of the population of this country are not Christian, but they sure do like the pomp of Western weddings--and they pay damn good money for it, money I would like to be getting in my pocket. All I have to do is fit the stereotype and smile at the right times during the ceremony. The only problem will be finding a time to do it: most ceremonies are held on the weekends, and I already work on the weekends. Thinking must happen..... |
| Been busy making travel arrangements. Without going into detail, let's just say it is taking longer to reserve tickets at a useful time than I would like. I am worried that too much delay, in the pursuit of the "best" deal, will cost us the chance to go. Other parties to this decision do not seem to share my concerns. Suffice to say, this shopping around is consuming too much of my time; but I do it, because not to would carry far worse consequences. My last blog entry sucked. Self-pitying bullshit. Fuck this. I am not doing this, not again. What was the message of my last entry? Oh, yes: woe is me, I am so lonely. So, I called up Meiku. She was hesitant to talk to me, and asked me what I wanted. I lied. I told her I loved her, and that I had since I first met her, and I had to see her. We are meeting again this Thursday, somewhere more private. I am damn tired of being alone, of feeling resentment when I see other couples smiling together. And I am worried about what this loneliness is doing to our son. Wife cuddles him during TV, not me. Son asks me how work was, and expresses concern when I say it was not so good, not my wife. Too much bullshit for the kid. I don't want him getting all fucked from this emotional bullshit his parents are playing. So I've got to shine, I've got to hide this. The only way to truly hide the inner demons is to get close to someone, to get their affection. Meiku, despite being beautiful and intelligent, just happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Second train pass forged. I have contacted an old acquaintance about a possible part-time job that could earn me some serious money. More later. |
| I just don't want to feel like this anymore. So damn tired of living a life without affection, without kindness. Why do I, a man who chooses to do the right thing by his family, to stay with them to support them, forced to live in loneliness, else choose to leave to pursue love but sacrifice those he vowed to protect? This is not fair, and I am not alone in this situation. How many millions of others stay in loveless marriages for any of a hundred reasons? I have a friend, a well-known professor in the U.S., and we bat back and forth the issue of the pursuit of happiness. He, of course, urges me to extricate myself from the situation as soon as possible, and to find someone who can love me. But to do that is to abandon my son, quite possibly, to the sole machinations of his mother, and her to his. Plus, as an immigrant, even after I get the permanent resident visa, to leave means to risk losing son, because there are no dual custody rights. When all is said and done, when all the petty excuses, justifications, and rationalizations are laid out on the table an vivisected, their various insufficiencies, like tumors, on display to the gallery, myself standing beside the corpse lecturing on the frail beauty and weakness of humanity, why must I do this? I hear my friend asking me this. And to him I have but one reply: Because I choose to. Because I take responsibility for this. Why, then, revenge? Because you, dear wife, never chose to take responsibility for yourself, for your actions and your mistakes in this, but instead put the blame, always, on my shoulders. I see these happy couples. I see them smiling together. I remember how that felt--the memory is distant, but like so many of my memories, it comes back shockingly clear at unexpected times, and then I become depressed in ways you, dear wife, cannot seem to understand. Your friend, Meiku, has decided to remain your friend. She will not mention to you our brief flirtations. She will keep that secret from you. But should I do the same? Why shouldn't I tell you what your friends are willing to do behind your back? Why shouldn't I tell them what you say about them? Why do I have to be the good guy? I don't. That's the point. |
| "You should talk to someone." This was the advice my wife gave me on a few occasions, when I'd confronted her with my depression about the absence of anything like a personal relationship in my life: no love, no signs of affection, no friends, no family. Of course, she gave me this advice without thinking that she usually loses her mind whenever she imagines I might be talking to someone outside the family about problems in the family. But who to talk to? This is a relatively small town in Japan, and the number of native English speakers is very limited. In fact, I only know three passing for acquaintances, and of those, only one, T., has been here long enough to have an inkling of the problems I might be having. His wife is Japanese, and they have a son about the same age as mine. "Why don't you talk to T?" she suggested. So I did. On a few occasions. As it turned out, he and his wife had not had intimacy in about nine years, though they continued to be amicable and work well together. No major fights like my family. Talking to him did help, but there were a couple of hangups: T. is a conservative and a Christian, and most of his conversations tend towards money and his dislike of liberals in America. Hates the way things are going in the States. For example, he can't make peace with the fact that an apartment owner can establish a no-smoking rule in an apartment, but gay people can get married. He has a very established sense of right and wrong. But talking to him did make me feel a bit better, because here was a guy suffering through years of celibacy just like me. I felt T. could understand what it was like to live with a beautiful woman that wanted nothing to do with him intimately. Not like all the other guys I'd met, who'd started cheating on their wives at the first sign of trouble, or just cheated for no reason other than to please themselves. T. helped a little--that is, until a few weeks ago. He'd been in a funk. I asked him what was wrong. "My girlfriend dumped me. Nine years we'd been together. And then she says to me the other day, This isn't moral. Dumps me just like that, after everything I've done for her." Nine years. Doesn't take a math wiz to figure out how long he waited after his wife stopped being intimate with him for him to hop into bed with another woman. And he's the biggest, loudest Christian in town. Me, I'm the atheist artist writer guy, presumably without morals, to hear the evangelical Mormons go on about it. |
| Sorry it's been so long, but a few emergencies had to be addressed. We'd been planning a visit to the U.S. for the end of July to the middle of August. That plan had to be changed because son's handball team (not unexpectedly) qualified for the all-Japan national tournament. This was a major achievement for him, especially as he'd just moved in a regular team member status, and the team is rather counting on him, not the least because he was chosen as MVP of the last tournament they played in, his first game as a regular member. The national tournament is held in Kyoto, July 31 to August 3. So, that kind of nixed our vacation plans. Oh, we could've gone. We considered it: fly to the U.S. on the 19th with our current reservations, return to Japan on the 29th. Son could play in the tournament, and then fly out again on the 5th and return on the 15th or so. Yeah, we could've done that--if we rolling in money. We're already sucking up 2,000 dollars in cancellation charges. It would've got another 3,000 dollars to fly just two of us back to the States after the tournament--and that doesn't even include domestic flights, food, lodging, etc. You get the picture. So, we decided (just last night, really) to keep the kid out of school for three weeks and go in September. We miss the family reunion and the demolition derby (just wanting the kid to experience some real 'Mericana), but I think we'll survive. It's been seven years since our last visit. Too damn long. And the kid is part of the reason I am doing this shine, part of the reason I don't just walk out. He's incredible. In sports, he's a star. In scholastics, he's top of the school. His essays win awards. His science projects get put on statewide display. He's even written a poem that is...well, it's okay for a first poem. I'm not trying to brag, just to say that he's doing well, and I want to keep it that way. Part of the reason he does so well is him mother's there to push him. If it was just me, he'd probably only accomplish half of what he does now. But if it was just his mother there, she'd probably drive him over the brink with pressure and madness. Other news: I am depressed. It is difficult to smile. Meiku and I had coffee, but it seemed a bit awkward. I asked when we could meet again, but she said she was pretty busy for a few weeks. I sent her a couple of message; her replies were polite. Filled out the permanent resident application and submitted. Hopefully have an answer before heading to the U.S. Still no problems with the fake train pass. Time to make a new one for July. |
| Meiku has agreed to meet me again this Friday. I am happy, but worried, too: she wants to meet at a coffee shop in this town A very popular ramen shop, not far from our condo. I would, of course, prefer somewhere more private, if only to have a chance to get closer to her, but also to avoid being seen by someone who knows me and my wife--and there's a lot of those in this town. Still, I will take the chance and meet her there, because just looking forward to seeing her again is making me feel happy in ways I haven't in so long. Gave copy of (fake) train pass to work today. They accepted it without question. Yes! An extra 14,000 yen per month is going to come in handy. I might even be able to go out once a moth or so for a drink. Taking a week off from the gym to recover. The tendons around my elbow are screaming in pain if touched. My wrist watch is now biting into my wrist and needs to be taken to the jewelers for loosening. That's weird. Everyone in my family has narrow wrists, so I thought this would be the case with me until I died. Turns out I was wrong. Work sucks today. Staff, no longer flirtatious, is demanding, not asking, me to do various tedious tasks she has decided would be good for sales. For example, she wanted me to "chat" with a ten year-old boy for 20 minutes, in English. The kid was obviously nervous, and had only a 10-word vocabulary. How the hell can I stretch that out for 20 minutes? And to what purpose? His mother was sitting there, translating my questions for him, sometimes to completely different meanings. Of course, I would not spend the 20 minutes working for the good of the branch, but writing this blog. And that is what I am doing: being just a bit more selfish. |
| Some progress on the Permanent Resident Visa application. Scanning the instructions into the computer, and then copying and pasting these into Google Translate, produces a series of English words that, when taken together, present a deplorable diction that is nonetheless comprehensible with a little patience and hell of a lot of imagination. Lucky for me, language is my forte. Now, I have a list of documents I will need from the city office and materials I will need to present to the immigration office. The staff there said it will take six to eight weeks for the application to be reviewed by the regional office in Hiroshima. “And after that, how long will it take to be approved?” I asked. “About five minutes. I’ve got the stamp here,” he said, showing me said rubber stamp. “You’ve been coming here for years. I know who you are.” And that, ladies and gentleman, is how you produce a genuine smile. |
| A bit of a heart attack on the train the other day: The conductor came into our car asking everyone to show their tickets and passes. Up to then, I had passed by the ticket agents no problem. No one had batted an eye or given me a second glance. For the first time in all the years I’d been riding trains in Japan, I noticed how the conductor picked up the pass and peered at it. Satisfied, he’d return it to its owner with a “Thank you,” and move on. Would he extend me the same courtesy, or would he have me taken into custody at the next station (making me late for work, bringing attention to this whole scheme to my wife, and thus scrambling, before they’d hatched, all my plans)? “Pass, please,” he requested, in Japanese, towering over me, one of the younger breed of Japanese men, raised on red meat, cheese and plenty of milk, though his pasty complexion and black-rimmed spectacles betrayed too many years hunched over textbooks illuminated humming fluorescent lights pursuing that stable, reliable job. Handing over the plastic encased forgery, I gave him a nervous smile—I couldn’t help it. Maybe I shouldn’t have smiled at all, but everything that could go wrong was flashing across my caffeinated cranium, and if he’d looked a bit closer, he would have seen it all. He inspected it, handed it back. “Thank you.” Moved on. I slipped the sheath back into my wallet, breathing easier. Maybe danger, like affection, was something that'd been missing from my life, but I'd convinced myself I hadn’t needed. For years, I’ve been shuffling through this middle class for my wife and son’s benefit, avoiding entanglements with the law, and convincing myself that I can live without human touch and affection. As self-deceptions go, it was pretty damn convincing. I'd willed myself to forget so much of my youth and upbringing. It is coming back to me. Case in point: When we moved into our new condominium, one of the first things I did was check the building for ways of scaling the walls to get into the upper floors of this “secure” building. And it only took me five minutes to figure a way of getting through the front security door: it is a pair of sliding glass doors, rigged with an alarm against forced entry, opened only by a pass key or by a resident pushing a button from their condo. However, anyone approaching from the inside of the building is automatically let through by a sensor. There’s a small gap at the bottom, where the doors meet when closed, through which someone so inclined could insert a cleaning cloth (one of those big, fluffy ones you can scrunch up real small) at the end of a straightened coat hanger. Once on the other side of the door, it would trip the door’s sensor, and the doors would slide open. Told my wife about this, and she assured me it wouldn’t work. The company had assured us this was a secure building. So I tried it. It worked. I haven’t told her. Let her have her middle class fantasy of security. I have to say that I am failing to smile as much as I’d planned. It’s so damned difficult! How the hell do these politicians and celebrities do it? Still, it is working, the little I do manage. Yesterday, I’d smiled quite well, and flirted a bit, with a mother and daughter at the mall. Ten minutes later, they were inside, getting a sales pitch from our staff. The mother was hot; the daughter, though nineteen, young enough to pale by comparison. Back to smiling: it is difficult. As I walk around, my mind fills with dark thoughts, many of them of the self-pitying variety, casting a pall over the shine I’m striving to achieve. One week off from the gym. My joints hurt, but my leg is almost 100%. If I start getting twitchy, I’ll know how addicted to the testosterone and adrenaline I’ve become. By the way: Did anyone else watching “The Edge of Tomorrow” feel they were watching a less entertaining, less imaginative, Hollywood Blockbuster version of “Groundhog’s Day”? I’d hate to think it was only me. And, yes, this is my way of saying: I do read your comments, and I do appreciate them. I am very interested in reactions to this blog. |
| I have a student I meet every Friday. He works at a large chemical company here, in the IT division. He's approaching sixty, which means mandatory retirement, and that weighs on his mind. "I feel like my life has no meaning," he told me over our customary coffee and sweets after work. "I feel like I've wasted my life." Part of my job as an English conversation teacher has always been to act as a sort of mental health counselor. "Well, you're a father, aren't you?" I started. "You were a good father, from what you told me. You helped your daughters in everything they needed. Unlike most other fathers in Japan, you went out of your way to spend time with your daughters when they were growing up. You supported your family. You worked really hard all these years, in a job you really didn't like, just so your wife could stay home and continue playing and teaching piano, even though she hasn't shown interest in you for years. And you were the top shogi player in Japan for twice. I don't consider those things nothing. You shouldn't either." "But what do I have to show for it?" (His English is quite good, if you can ignore the nervous stutter. Good point. He suffers from a variety of physical ailments whose sources the doctors can't find, despite years and years of testing. We both know they are psychological. His ankle and calf hurt all the time. He can't gain weight and is way too thin. He face is drawn from the weight loss. He can't speak clearly. He can't sleep more than a couple hours at a time. |
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