So my dad isn't talking to me anymore because I've been snapping at him almost every time I'm with him. You can call it anger, but really, it's been a long-time coming. Growing up, he intimidated and scared me. Standing up to him, though, and saying the truth, he seems cower and just be a big wimp. Growing up, he was an alcoholic and was very mean and abusive to me and my mother. He's done terrible things he can't remember (his brain oddly refuses to remember the truth), so of course he won't apologize for it.
I saw him recently and we saw some Chinese people taking way too long to back into a car space. My dad's often made racial remarks; I used to think it was funny. Not anymore.
I told him, "I drive like that now... I actually think it's their culture. They would rather drive mindfully than recklessly."
My dad said, "They drive that way because in their own countries, they don't have cars. They ride bicycles." It was so ignorant. Similarly, he seems to think the entire Middle East is stuck in the stone age; that all Arabs are impoverished and nomadic sheep-farmers. So I called him a bigot.
The other day, he called and was stressing me out, because he was helping us get the house fixed up. But he treats me like an idiot. He called three times to check to make sure the work was being done right. I asked him during his first two calls, "Do you want me to call you when it's done?" He said no. But then he called a third time! The third time I called, I told him I didn't want to hear it; I had to go. I hung up. He called back. We argued. He got on the phone with my mom and started to be nasty to her, saying all sorts of bad things about me. He also said he's going to move back to Scotland (something he's said for years while drunk, but never did).
So I took the phone and said, "You don't talk to your girlfriend like this, so why do you talk to us like this? Please stop it."
Then he said, "You know, I'll tell you what. I'm never going to call again and..." then I said, "OK", and hung up the phone. He hasn't called since. And I'm content!
It's not that weird. He's gone for weeks and months without calling before, because he treats me like a possession than a human being. He was drunk when my mom gave birth to me in the hospital. And after I was born, he wanted to name me after himself -- William Howieson Young Jr. -- what a horrible name, what an egotistical idiot! He doesn't like to be friendly with me over casual stuff; he seems to have a special hatred for religion, even though he apparently showed great interest in it when he was younger. So good to be rid of him. Not gonna say, "I hope he dies," because I don't wish that -- I hope he lives happily and stops being trouble for himself and other people.
Umm... I was working on a poem... I forget the specifics, but I could roughly re-create it from memory...
In the process of writing this poem I got snagged by one of those damn traffic cameras for a speeding ticket.Yellow
It doesn't mean stop or go,
It means caution, warning,
And take it slow.
Like fields of wheat,
Beneath the yellow-orange glow,
Of beautiful sunshine,
Let seeds of wisdom grow!
...And finally... tonight, I had to drive my mom to the ER. She was complaining of various issues, and I've been living kinda like I should've been years ago, treating my mother well and doing whatever makes me happy. I've come to realize that my father has been a bit like Satan all these years, while my mom has been like the Dalai Lama. I told her the other day, "Mom, you're so nice to people but not that smart. You're like the Dalai Lama with a low IQ." That was mean and hurtful, and false. The truth: My mom is GREATER than the Dalai Lama!!
So, I drove her to the ER... expecting she had nothing wrong with her... And it turns out she has a UTI. While in the hospital, her heart-rate dipped a little low (not too low, but at a low enough thresh-hold that it set off beeps for the nurses' station and they decided to keep her overnight).
I feel kind of guilty. Because I've taken my mom to the hospital before, and she seemed neurotic about it, like it was a mental issue. Because I've taken her there so many times, like every 3-6 months... and in the past, it's pretty much just been the same... She's healthy, maybe with slightly bad nutrition, minor cases of cellulitis (skin irritation), etc., but over the years she's acted like a hypochondriac, always speculating that she might have this or that disease, and she's on a zillion pills. I get the feeling like it's the pills that have made her so sick. If her kidneys go, it will be because she's so loaded up with prescription drugs (the complex interactions which scientists don't really understand but prescribe anyway because statistically the drug BY ITSELF helps a certain statistical amount of people -- in studies that can later turn out to be messed up) and her kidneys have to keep filtering it all out.
A few days ago, my mom asked me to call 911 because she was having trouble breathing and thought she had a heart attack... I thought she was just having a panic attack and I felt like I've taken her to the hospital for nervous breakdowns so many times before; I don't want to be a burden to the ER, so that people who are GENUINELY sick have to wait to be attended to because of an old, crazy lady...
...Well, it turns out it might have been legitimate...
I won't ever doubt my mom ever again.
I felt like crying in the hospital... My mom told me not to. I told her I wanted to, though. So, I said I would wait until I got back into the car... I held it in, but I was a bit worried I'd lose the feeling. Crying is important because it keeps you warm, keeps you human, keeps REAL equanimity from being cold indifference. I waited until I got into the car... And for about 10 seconds or so, I started sobbing my eyes out, my nose stuffing up and tears streaming down my cheeks. Then, I suddenly stopped completely, like turning the faucet off of a sink, thinking, "I can't cry now. It would take up too much energy. It's late. I'm tired. And I need to go home." So, I stopped crying and went home.
And some you folks have the nerve to question my capacity for mental self-control! You think you're practicing dhamma, but sometimes reading Pali texts and talking to bald people wearing orange robes can be a form of devil-worship; that is, service to Mara rather than Buddha.
But I'm not too worried about that anymore. I know there's the demon and he still messes with me from time-to-time, I think, but it's OK because I'm mindful and I know that there are powers much higher than him who are there to help -- if the intentions are pure.