Proud LAtino (he/him) motivated to make the world a better place, one word and one visual at a time. Producer/Interviewer/Writer – Owner of Visual Grammar, Inc.
I started this post in 2020 but left it hanging in the balance when I lost the purpose of this narrative.
Initially, I wanted to comment on cancel culture, asking, “Do we cancel out all art because it doesn’t reflect the oppressed? What do we do about nostalgia and romanticized images of the past? Do they no longer hold value because entire groups were oppressed or subjugated? Without context, how can we not continue to discuss certain works intelligently? How can these individuals not serve as lessons of evolving mores and ideologies? What does cancel culture do to those artists who helped realize a specific vision, particularly in the filmed arts?”
What prompted this post? I don’t even remember. I initially found inspiration from one of the final duets from War Paint, a 2017 musical with music by Scott Frankel and lyrics by Michael Korie. This ballad, sung by Tony-winning powerhouses Patti LuPone (as Helena Rubinstein) and Christine Ebersole (as Elizabeth Arden) as the legendary beauty complex magnates and fierce rivals, imagines a meeting between both women. The song “Beauty in the World” is a poignant lament on changing times as they see their life’s work and influence diminishing, perhaps even fading away. Following is a portion of the song’s lyrics:
Christine Ebersole as Elizabeth Arden (L) and Patti LuPone as Helena Rubinstein (R) in War Paint. Photo: Sara Krulwich/The New York Times
Helena Back when there was beauty in the world Women had such elegance and grace Fashion came and fashion went Inner style was permanent At least When there was beauty in the world
Elizabeth Long before the circus came to town Every woman’s drama was her face Eyes that glittered like a gem The lovers we bewitched with them Back then When there was beauty in the world
Helena Taste and poise Were universal
Elizabeth Now it’s noise
Helena A dress rehearsal
Both Gone the past The age of everlasting beauty in the world
Deciding to flex my synapses this rainy day in March, I began thinking about this shelved post as I walked around my neighborhood, ignoring the light, steady drizzle. Three years ago, we went into lockdown mode as the COVID pandemic took over our lives. Three years later, we can never ignore the tally of one million American deaths as a result of the virus, a figure that includes my uncle, my mother’s last surviving relative in the United States.
Since the pandemic, our collective outrage has grown exponentially on all platforms. In addition to a wildly polarized voting population, our collective rage gave birth to “outage content,” further muddying the waters with a steady, roiling atmospheric river of toxicity and negativity.
In 2019, NPR featured this report, “How Outrage is Hijacking Our Culture and Our Minds.” Host Steve Inskeep said, “Anger draws Internet clicks, which is to say that many people now have a motive or even a business model for getting you mad.” We’re beyond the brush of rage now- thick into the woods without an exit plan beyond monetizing our anger and fear. It’s beyond cynical and reproach.
Instead, I will find new ground to build something more substantial and calmer.
As for the beauty in the world, if you’re on the same path to restoring mental wellness as I am, it is essential to first find the beauty in yourself. Step away from the platforms trading on outrage and vanity, which continue to cloud your sense of stability. Romanticizing the past is not the answer, but its glow can be therapeutic. Pick the parts that apply to our present reality. But we need to cancel the constant stream of outrage. We’re out of dress rehearsal time – the curtain is up. Make it count.
Photo: Balenciaga: Shaping Fashion, V&A Museum, South Kensington, London, 2017
Being a child of the 80s, the message of having it all seemed so easy to process. You went to school. You received a degree. You landed that dream job. Life was set. Easy peasy. Right?
Sort of?
I went to three schools, no degree. I did land a dream job, several. Life has been rather complicated thanks to my lack of financial restraint and other demons I have yet to truly conquer. But I’m trying, dammit. I’m trying.
I made a comment to my boss about making it only to “the middle.” Of course, he was annoyed that I am inferring that all of my hard work as a producer since 1999 only carried me as far as his company. That’s not why I meant. Not in the least. I’ve never felt more creative or expressed myself as well as I do as an interviewer these days. Hell, I tend to get a hug after every interview these days. Even from the men.
So what the fuck? Why do I feel like the sky is falling every damn day?
I’m single. Who isn’t?
I’m fat. Who isn’t?
My dad is dying.
Is it too late to change careers? Am I lying to myself thinking I can set up shop at the Vogue offices of London or Mexico City?
Can I go back to school and finish that damned degree once and for all?
My dad is dying.
And no one in my family has been able to think about life after Dad yet. Not even me, but the task is something I am grappling with now. I have questions, too. Is it going to feel like a house of bricks crashing all over us? Will it be followed by a sense of relief? Will it be followed by the sound of siblings running to the four corners of the world? Will we finally be able to be civil with each other and not let our toxicity spoil the soup? Is it all too late for that to happen?
I hear their not so hidden anger in the constant stream of critiques and judgments that dominate our dinner table. I sit and marvel these days, thinking, “These are the people that have my back?” Still, how can we shield ourselves from any sort of attacks when most are happening from within our own house? Dad wouldn’t want to see us this way. Mom doesn’t like it either, but she’s ground zero at times.
Our entire narrative has been penned with our Dad as the central figure. We do our duty, giving Mom a much-needed break where we can. Yet, how is it possible that I feel guilty for not wanting to be around any of them, that I am kind of hanging on to a thread of sanity right now. I should go back into therapy, something to diffuse the atom bomb that I carry in my brain right now. I am eating to stay silent, but I feel my body is in full revolt right now. It is literally slowing down. Every move, every reaction, it’s life in forced perspective.
And that’s not supposed to be the Mexican way. Oh no, we’re supposed to that warm, united front of good humor and great food. Allow me to dispel that concept. It is total BULLSHIT. You had to be that group when the family lived in the hacienda, where great swaths of land dividing us from other families and communities. You know what makes the Mexican family survive? A lot of us drink and eat… to forget the lives we can’t seem to leave. While it feels great to see that sentence, yes, it is followed by a strong wave of guilt.
I think about putting such distance between me and my LA life a lot now. It seems like I want to pioneer a life that doesn’t require facing the past or a present that only makes me wince.
So, what’s going to be the narrative of my Act II? It starts when the lead character, Me, reaches out for help. That’s what I am doing, reaching out for help and guidance. I can’t do this alone. No one can. The time does arrive when you have to release the side of yourself that stops you from harming yourself and others in the wake of the blast of an emotional bomb.
Forty is the old age of youth; fifty is the youth of old age. – Victor Hugo
Nature gives you the face you have at twenty; it is up to you to merit the face you have at fifty. – Coco Chanel
Just remember, once you’re over the hill you begin to pick up speed. – Charles M. Schulz
“Youth has many glories, but judgment is not one of them and no amount of electronic amplification can turn a belch into an aria.” — Alan Jay Lerner, “The Street Where I Live”
Age ain’t nothing but a number – Aaliyah
Todo lo he hecho a sabiendas y no me arrepiento de nada. Ni de lo bueno ni de lo mano ni de los momentos felices ni de las tristezas. Al final, tengo el alma llena de paz y de tranquilidad. — Chavela Vargas
Holy fu*k! I’m 50! – Everyone else
I turned 50 today. I figure all that’s left for me now is getting an AARP membership and let those discounts begin! Hahaha. Nah. That’s not how I started my countdown to turning 50 earlier this week. It began by my pondering how I would look with the new Chanel Gabrielle bag in black lambskin. I mean, if it works for Pharrell Williams, who is an elder fashionista statesman of 44, it should look amazing on me!
Masculine. Feminine. It doesn’t matter anymore to me. I am finally settling into loving me as I am today after years of thinking happiness could only be found in constant reinvention or letting perception dictate who I was as a man. Capes. Open-toed shoes. Painted toenails. And that’s just cosmetics, an expression of my evolving style. It’s on the inside where I am discovering where real beauty lies and I think I can safely say “I am beautiful” now. Maybe not at the top of my lungs, but I can say it, dammit.
Helen says this classic ad for the fragrance named Charlie, starring that golden blonde Shelley Hack and New York cafe society crooner Bobby Short, summed up my 40s. I’d have to concur. It was a decade filled with high-end glamor and high street drama. As I venture into the next 10 years, I think I’m gonna favor a life like a Chavela Vargas song.
I think about where I was 10 years ago. I was preparing for my 40th birthday party in my patio, complete with taco cart, a wide assortment of boozy drinks and a lot of fun people, family, friends, co-workers. I’d reached a personal peak. I was vice president of a content agency. I had a boyfriend that I loved so much. My duplex apartment was the first dwelling of mine to feel like home. The night of the party was soupy warm and full of expectations for the decade ahead. My worlds were colliding again, but I felt confident that it would be a night to remember. And it was.
That was 2007.
It is 2017. The company I worked for at that time went bankrupt, leading its charismatic owners to an acrimonious and shocking divorce. Most of that crew went their separate ways, starting families, moving abroad or across the country. I love that they are all living exciting new lives today.
I broke up – twice — with my musician BF. In 2010, we stayed apart for good. While communication between us is now sporadic, it is still better than it was during the volatile early years of our split. However, I have yet to be able to call anyone a partner since, much less a steady date.
My duplex remains my chosen sanctuary, complete with pictures on the wall and other examples of a life less ordinary. The occasional screech of wild parrots still makes me smile as they break through the tree-lined quiet that makes this stretch of South Pasadena wonderful.
My family remains a unified front, even though some of us are starting to rebel as we finally make awkward attempts to curate lives on our own. Dad’s struggle with Alzheimer’s has run its inevitable course. While he is still very much with us, the realities of his age (92) and the illness have shrunk his capacity to stay in the moment. His dependency on my mom and sister is at a critical mass and I wonder how much more they can endure. Now I am starting to think about what will THEY need once he longer requires their selfless care.
I am three years in with the most extraordinary – and award-winning – agency. Career remains at a peak and I am surrounded by a constant source of creativity and inspiration. Yes, my political incorrectness does get me into trouble from time to time. However, is altering my unique voice a good thing or is it a means of being oppressed by those who can’t dominate me? Either way, the struggle keeps me alive and bristling with an energy I still possess, no matter how hard I try to obfuscate it.
But the journey since 40 has not been easy and I worked hard at making it unnecessarily complicated, which may be my biggest achievement today. It can’t be explained away through depression, family loss and a voracious need to be liked anymore, although I continue a mighty battle with them all. What I discovered in the last decade is that I am my own worst enemy and we have reached a moment of “high noon.”
I gave turning 50 a lot of thought and my taking this milestone to Mexico City was the answer. I wanted to step away from all that has given me pause these last few years. I wanted not to worry about my weight, my lack of romantic pursuits, my stagnating friendships, the visits to the nutritionist, the shrink, the anti-depressants, the meds for diabetes and high blood pressure, all of it. I wanted to pay homage to my identity as an American born of Mexican parents. That I remain proud to be parte del mundo hispanohablante. I wanted my parents to know I owed all that I was, more, I wouldn’t be able to even stand before them if it wasn’t for their bringing me into this world. I wanted my siblings to know that they mattered, despite this surprise round of growing pains we are experiencing now.
2017 has been a watershed year for friends. Weeks on the road brought the most wonderful energy to my life, taking me out of my self-imposed inertia because of my forging these new friendships. And the effects, which started out as confusing and frustrating, have evolved into a refreshed perspective on the roles my close circle of friends plays in my life. Loyalty was never an issue here. They are the epitome of tough love and I need them for that alone. More, it was high time for them to know how they still make me try to BE a better person. Period.
The weekend’s wine-soaked dinners, and there were two, truly became the stuff of a dream. The theme of “Details of Diego and Frida” that was taken too literally by my cousins who drove three hours from Tlalnepantla to reach the first dinner. The all-female salsa band that played a theme as I entered the antro at the Sheraton María Isabel. The post-dinner mariachi performance as the “final-final.”
Perhaps the greatest moment was seeing Dad literally bolt from his seat at the table at Balcón when he laid eyes on his nieces, that sonorous blast of color and love I’ve grown to cherish so much more in the last decade. Dad KNEW who they were in an instant, Alzheimer’s be damned. The hugs and kisses and tears were a harbinger of things to come, too. Annie G captured the moment, broken ankle y todo, the sweetest gift preserved by one of my best friends, herself a purveyor of honest sentiment and great care.
At each stop that weekend, I offered my thanks to everyone, triggering a series of testimonials that were better than any AFI tribute I’d ever seen. As I faced my family, my friends at the Saturday night dinner at Rosetta in the colonia Roma, I was overcome with such emotion. I felt nothing when we dined at the Balcón del Zócalo on Friday night. I was too worried about having enough seats for everyone. Yet, after a day’s cultural excursion to the Museum of Anthropology and the visit to see the art of Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo at the Museo Dolores Olmedo in Xochimilco, I was in a fight to keep the buzz of happy from dissipated too soon. It was all going so fast! I just let the emotion take over. I couldn’t keep it in and I didn’t want to anyway. The hot tears I let fall were wonderful on my skin.
This was the unification of the two Jorges, the American and the Mexican, and it was ultimately an out of body experience. I looked around the family-style dinner table at this grouping of family, friends, co-workers and more. I could see and feel the presence of those family members and friends no longer with us. Tío Ernesto and Tía Tayde. Aunt Susanna. Melissa Duke. I know they enjoyed a trago conmigo, that was the source of my emotion.
I was reunited with esteemed Mexican film journalist Daniela Michel, herself now a major figure in world cinema. It may have been an absence of 10 years, but the distance in time was quickly shored up the minute I saw her. We spoke at length that night, sharing the details of our lives in the effortless manner that belied the reason we became friends in the first place. Her influence on my life goes without compare and how I’ve missed our epic conversations. She’s a lot like Alan in that she brings out the best in people she trusts in friendship. Walking her through the colonia Roma streets, sitting down with her husband Jim and friends for a quick drink after the dinner encapsulated what I envisioned my life to be as I enter this fifth decade. It’s about the power of community, of creating a family that is made of strong ideals, true conversation, and absolute joy.
The next Sunday morning, we staggered through Reforma for an oh-so-necessary pozole brunch at La Casa de Toño in the Zona Rosa, I was determined not to cry again. I had to keep some sense of strength and avoid the calling of the chillón. But then I looked over at my Dad, and his face was one of such love that his tears gave the order to allow for my own to march again. I’ll never forget that image, swiftly banishing all that we said and did so wrong to each other as father and son when I was growing up. In it is place was a recharged soul, one that I had let become airless and dull. My father. My mother. My family. My friends. They all brought me back to life. Having them in Mexico City was an affirmation of the following:
I am alive.
I am getting better.
I am looking forward, even as things change anew.
I wanted to wax lyrical in this post. Perhaps the flourish is steeped in the hyperbole that is the curse of being a former publicist, yet it’s something I’ve done since I first penned my first paragraph. Ego dictated that I write the sort of essay that gets quoted and/or added to some basic DIY Pinterest wall with a deep thoughts pic. Instead, I am happier with keeping 50 closer to my heart. The intimacy and emotion of the entire weekend were the culmination of a journey that’s never failed me, even as I failed myself in the process. What I’ve discovered as I start this chapter is that everything changes for the better in an instant when you finally let love take its rightful place within yourself. Once people see that emanate forth, nothing will stop another person’s love from being returned in kind. That’s the gift we are so lacking these days of acrimony and confusion. And we need to fight like hell to restore its place in us all.
“Everything changes
My heart’s at the wheel now
And all my mistakes
They make sense when I turn them around
Everything changes
What I thought was so permanent fades”
— From “Watiress,” score written by Sara Bareilles
The gifted singer-songwriter Sara Bareilles is the Carole King of our moment. I am drawn to her music for its honesty and poignancy. Like Ms. King, she is so cognizant of the universal emotions we experience at any age, at any moment, in life and in love. Her score for the musical adaptation of the film “Waitress” represents some of her best work as a songwriter. Near the end of the second act, the character of Jenna sings about how her view on life has changed because of the birth of her daughter, Lulu. That song, titled “Everything Changes,” resonated like a thunderbolt as I penned this essay. I may not never know the wonderful sense of achievement of being a parent. However, I do understand the importance of being reborn when we begin to shake loose from the torpor of our discontent and fear. Because, as Bareilles writes:
“Everything changes. My heart’s at the wheel now and all my mistakes, they make sense when I turn them around. Everything changes. What I thought was so permanent fades.”
I don’t want my past mistakes to fade, but I know they will not represent me, either. And if it takes another half-century to right these many wrongs, so be it. Most people forget you 10 minutes after you’ve gone. We don’t own this time on Earth, we pay rent. Don’t you want it to count, to know you were the best you could possibly be while you’re here? Don’t you want to cast aside the standard of mediocrity and narcissism we’ve let define our time? We need to deserve each other again so when the time comes for our departures, all that remains is what was felt with truth and love. That’s my goal for the next 50 years or however many years are left in my narrative.
There ain’t nothin’ more powerful than the odor of mendacity…You can smell it. It smells like death.
— From “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof” by Tennessee Williams
Weight: 248.3 lbs.
Glucose Reading: 129
I’ve always been a really good liar. Not #45 good, but close enough. I’ve been carrying this guilt about lying for most of my adult life. Time to dump it all into the cosmic landfill once and for all.
From a very young age, I’ve quite adept in manipulating the truth to my will. It’s this choir boy face of mine, the one that disarms people with a sly twinkle in my eye. It’s the face that says “Confess to me” when I am in an interview situation. Perhaps you won’t even hear me judge you when we speak, but sometimes my will to speak is too great. Other times, it is silent and deadly with a force that even makes me feel shame.
I’ve always been a really good liar to my parents, to my family, to my friends, to anyone that dares enter my world of vivid stories and colorful novela-esque drama. Like the time I told people when I was in junior high that our Thanksgiving dinner was a failure because the turkey blew out of the oven. When that tale made the rounds to my older sister, I was oh-so busted! But it didn’t matter, it wasn’t until the end of the school day that the truth was revealed.
Truth.
I know the truth about my lies. I’ve never possessed a great poker face. I may think my lies achieve their assigned tasks, but my inner truth is always on display. It’s one of the many walking contradictions I possess. For those who are attuned, and maybe even those who are recklessly dense, you will most likely be able to read me like an alternate selection from the Book of the Month Club. I have never been able to truly hide the panoply of insecurities that motivates me to skirt the truth:
Fear of not being accepted.
Fear of being unloved.
Fear of being left behind.
Fear of being invisible.
Fear of being ordinary.
Fear. Just plain fear.
This slow journey to better health has some real pitfalls. Shedding layers of my physical self is revealing a lot of what I’ve attempted to keep buried. Facing these truths also means having to apologize to a lot of people for the litany of untruths and manipulations I’ve spun better than Charlotte on her web for much of my life. I say to you all, “I’m not proud of being duplicitous, but I am glad you have stuck by me no matter what.” However, of all the lies I’ve told, the worst are the ones I tell to myself.
Lying is on par with keeping a secret or withholding information. The stupid truth is that no matter how hard you try to keep things hidden, the more certain they are to be revealed in the end. Yet, so many of us keep making that decision, certain the consequences will never materialize. That we’re untouchable. And no one will get hurt. But it’s wrong. Someone always gets hurt. Sometimes it is whoever is closest to the blast zone when it detonates. It could be someone you love, but really, the biggest damage is done to yourself.
The lies I’ve told to myself vary in size, from tiny to epic. Thinking about it now, the size really doesn’t matter. A lie is a lie. I think about how I’ve lied to myself every day:
I’ll diet tomorrow.
I’ll exercise this weekend.
I’ll go to King Taco one last time.
I’ll eat these nachos one last time before getting serious about eating better.
I do love myself.
I do care about my life.
I do matter.
These last two days have been tough. I’m fuckin’ tired. I’m tired of carrying all of this weight around, literally and figuratively. This eternal struggle of constantly having to find new spaces for the pounds I keep gaining and losing is getting to me. I feel the struggle in a much different way and it’s a feeling that not even the Lexapro can quell. I just can’t spin any more lies.
At one point today, I just let my feelings spill out in front of my boss. I just had enough: The drive to Lindora, the drive to work, racing to get from one point to another. The sad drop of just .3 of a pound, despite the booster shot. The copious handfuls of walnuts I couldn’t stop shoveling into my mouth last night. The guys I’ve met on Scruff and Growlr who don’t seem to want to respond back to texts or DMs on the apps anymore, despite their initial interest. The shit show in DC that is giving lying a whole new allure to a country that refuses to acknowledge how the weight of an idealized, racist past is NOT the way to go.
Sigh. A run on sentence of emotion. A purge. Truth. Real truth. I know I will get through this intact. I took a walk after my sensible lunch. I started to write this post, to get these feelings out into the open before their toxicity triggered the mania that makes me reach for food I don’t need. And so far, I’ve held it together.
Man, at some point, I know I am going to like myself enough to not punish myself with these thoughts anymore, that I won’t punish my body with these mad lapses in greasy, salty and fatty foods. It’s ironic, being this people pleaser, always striving to make the rest of the room feel great. I have never been able to do that for myself. Worse, I’d invent false personas with which to keep people around happy and engaged enough to keep me as their friend. Really, I just wanted to hide the deficiencies I saw in my physical self.
Food never judged me, which is why I consumed so much of it since I was kid. Shoes and all the other material goods didn’t judge me, which is why I spent so much money I didn’t have amassing so many things. It’s amazing what we tell ourselves to feign the feeling or project the image of happiness. And for what? I’ve made myself sick in ways I thought would never happen to me. But they did. I want to get better. I want to be well. I want to be no longer afraid. I want to be honest with not only the world, but myself.
I knew this return to Lindora would be different than my previous experiences. What I didn’t anticipate was such introspection as a result of what would be dredged up in the process. I’ve never lost weight this slow before. Then again, I’ve never been so affected by the necessity of no longer being under this tyranny of food.
Driving home tonight from work, my iPod shuffled to play Sara Bareilles’s “The King of Anything.” At one point she sings, “Waitin’ for someone to tell me it’s my turn to decide.” The decision to be healthy and strong has been made. What needs to happen next is to accept a vow of truth and stop the lies that have resulted in nothing but pain and fear.
All my life
I’ve tried
To make everybody happy while I
Just hurt
And hide
Waitin’ for someone to tell me it’s my turn
To decide. — From “King of Anything” by Sara Bareilles
Despite booking first class, luxury passage on the Love Train yesterday, I was a bit reluctant to get out of bed this morning. Maybe it is the fear of knowing what democratic pillar #President Babyhands was going to decimate next. Perhaps it is the effects of four protein days messing with my head. I wanted to write some pithy little riff on how Lindora protein days are a privileged, overfed person’s descent into hell, but I lost the desire. Instead, I’ll let this little clip of an otter happily chowing down take its place. That’s going to be me tomorrow when I get to switch back to a regular menu of poultry, fish, vegetables and fruits again.
The notion of living in a parallel universe is starting to grow in my brain. I have these moments where the only thing I can do is shake my head. I joke to myself that all those years of reading post-apocalyptic fiction, watching nuclear war films and those dystopian epicsof yore like “Logan’s Run” and “Soylent Green” are actually going to pay off! I’m ready for whatever happens next! Then this fear grows in the pit of my slowly shrinking stomach. I have to remain and fight back the fear of letting it spread further so I don’t just lock the door and never leave the house again. .
Today, #PresidentBabyhands basically unleashed a round of “Mextortion,” proposing a 20% tax on all Mexican imports. Comedian that I am, one thought that flashed in my mind was, “Since I am in the process of losing weight, this could be a very good thing!” But really, it is not. Crushing an economy because they won’t fund your windmill from hell, Don Quixote, is tyranny at its worst.
Political cartoonist Lalo Alcaraz (of “La Cucaracha” fame) posted this image promoting a “California Resistance,” which is the lead photo of the diary entry. “Resist” is a powerful word for us all right now. It has taken root in my mind, from resisting the urges to consume things that can hurt me to resisting the urge to go full Howard Beale in public with rage. I can tell you this. I am losing one battle and it isn’t with food.
Restraint has never been a word I’ve been able to incorporate into my lexicon for living. Not as a kid, even less so as an adult. I am finally aware that “more” can kill. As we try to process the events of this week, more challenges will be brought to the American public in a way that will divide us and conquer other principles that must be defended to the bitter end. So, what does any of this have to do with a diet diary, you may ask? Plenty.
We are what we eat, people. And I am not going to subsist on a steady diet of lies and tyrannical chaos just because so many Americans hated having a black president for eight years. You ingest in trash food, you get toxic refuse that leaves your body in shock and prone to diseases that can kill you. The same applies to the Democratic process. We are what our elected officials represent. It is no coincidence that President Babyhands is an orange-colored menace. Cheetos are just as bad for me, too. Neither requires my attention to be healthy and strong, all the better to fight back.
“For a while she had a vague longing to be a psychologist. “Talking therapy is dead,” Gary said when she raised the idea. “It’s all pills now.”
― Rafael Yglesias, The Wisdom of Perversity
Better health through chemistry. I’m taking Lexapro because I have brought myself to a standstill.
Active ingredients are: escitalopram oxalate Inactive ingredients: talc, croscarmellose sodium, microcrystalline cellulose/colloidal silicon dioxide, and magnesium stearate. The film coating contains hypromellose, titanium dioxide, and polyethylene glycol.
According to a Google search, my depression can be be attributed to:
“…a combination of biological, psychological, and social sources of distress. Increasingly, research suggests these factors may cause problems in brain function, including abnormal activity of certain neural circuits in the brain.
The persistent feeling of sadness or loss of interest that characterizes major depression can lead to a range of behavioral and physical symptoms. These may include changes in sleep, appetite, energy level, concentration, daily behavior, or self-esteem. Depression can also be associated with thoughts of suicide.
The mainstay of treatment is usually medication, talk therapy, or a combination of the two. Increasingly, research suggests these treatments may normalize brain function associated with depression.”
Is this the Magic Bullet that will blast me out of this cycle of self-harm and despondency about myself, about the world I inhabit? We shall see. One tablet a day at a low dose. Then, a higher dose after seven days A Hail, Mary pass if there ever was one.
A new journey begins and while I don’t like the fact that several chemicals are coursing through my veins to keep me from falling into the mortal abyss, I do think this may finally restore my “Want.” That is my want to change, to my want to be healthy. My want to live.
Struck with the fever to clean my online house, I finally got around to deleting some files from my Drafts folder on MediaJor.com. These were unfinished essays that seemed like great ideas at the time but never really flourished for whatever reason. Imagine my utmost thrill to find one particularly glorious remembrance of days past. Oof. I guess I forgot about it or maybe I calmed down enough NOT to get involved in the escalating drama that inspired me to write something. It still makes me say, “Wow.” Reading it again made my skin crawl, particularly since it’s a fetid example of this Age of Rage we are living in.
This post harkens back to the Fall of 2014, which was when I had the brilliant idea of writing a coda to the now infamous “Hermanas Coraje” series. Coraje means “angry” in Spanish, itself a joke and a play on a famed Mexican telenovela known as “Los Hermano Coraje,” which I loved watching with Mom when I was a kid.
The essays were intended to be a means to an end, of dealing with the painful consequences stemming from my aunt’s battle and demise from cancer in 2014. It seemed to help to turn certain relatives into characters in a Mexican telenovela. Adding fuel to the fire was the endless back and forth of these covertly shared texts and Emails from the so-called Coraje sisters, exchanges my warring cousins that personified Latino Drama and then some. I wasn’t at a loss for inspiration to keep this serial going for a while. However, this entire exercise proved to be anything but a laughing matter in the end.
The essays I penned got angrier and angrier as my family’s situation deteriorated further and further. Each new text or Email was like a bomb going off and no one was spared from the shrapnel. Today, we’re still living with the injuries inflicted on both sides, which ultimately destroyed all of the tropes of the unified Latino family in the process.
The first coda I attempted to write was an attempt to get away from Ground Zero, one that was a direct result of what became the last secret Email I would receive. I say “last” because the contents of this particular letter filled me with such contempt, I asked to be taken off the CC list altogether. I also decided to end my imagined telenovela on MediaJor.
The real hermanas Coraje were at their conjoined peak of “But we’re real the victims here!,” which was quite a feat since we had already buried my aunt. Make no mistake. These women were the actual instigators, the lead stirrers of one big cosmic pot of rancid menudo. The elder Coraje sister saw it fit to fire off a truly evil Email to her soon to-be ex-sister in-law, a punch thrown so low it hit the family at its lowest point. Our collective grief was turned into absolute rage again.
Given the way most families work, it was a matter of time before the contents of this destructive Email made their way around to the rest of us. We had an inkling as to the involvement of the sisters Coraje in wrecking their brother’s marriage. Their grotesque agenda of revenge and acrimony turned their brother’s wife into a member of our family. Yes, the family split and sides were taken. We sought to at least be a sounding board, but we turned into a means of emotional support as her marriage broke apart. Yet, we really had NO idea just how far the Sisters C were willing to go in ensuring her destruction.
Revisiting this letter, it was obvious that only making grammatical corrections would not be enough. Whether or not the entire family views this essay, it is just smart to only keep the emotional intent of the original note to protect the innocent and guilty and not retain any of the original text. So yes, I did rewrite the entire thing to best fit this essay. Also, note the “countersteps” have been fictionalized, too. While Hermano C’s ex-wife did offer her own rather pointed rebuttals, again, it would not prudent for me to air them out with the rest of the dirty laundry.
To read the original post was to almost hear the elder Coraje sister slamming the keys on her insidious PC. Each hit nailed a coffin shut, forever keeping out any light, love and all things human from a couple’s union. Vengeance would be mine if I left it as is to give readers a better sense of the epic pendejismo of it all. Trust me, this collection of twisted maneuvers was devised by someone who has been burned by life one too many times.
In the two years since we ceased all communication with the Corajes, I’ve realized theirs is a house built on a foundation of resentment. They’ve done nothing but shift the blame for their imagined woes onto other people. I have zero respect for those who prefer to exist within the Cult of Victimhood. All of this makes me want to subtitle this post as “Own Your Shit!” But, perhaps ours is a life lesson that can do us all some good, which is what led me to revisit this essay one more time…
They’re baaack. And not without leaving a few commandments behind for good measure. In fact, I should thank Las Hermanas Coraje for the wealth of material they’ve inspired me to compose. They’re web spinners and string pullers, the most cowardly roles to undertake when it comes to fucking shit up. These aren’t people who carry baseball bats to deal with shit. They prefer to do the side step as deftly as Charles Durning in “The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas!”
Regardless, no matter how you choose to meddle in people’s lives, wreckage will be left behind. A broken family will find the means with which to pull itself back together, but it is never really mended. The cracks are there to see forever, just like the words used to inflict the most damage possible in this digital age.
That said if you still want to know how YOU, too, can be a Hermana Coraje, follow their simple rules listed below. As for their ex-sister-in-law, bless her for having rebuttals at the ready, reminding us all that for every action you will experience an often equal or even stronger reaction:
Step 1: “Tell her to get back to work!”
Counterstep: I have NEVER stopped working. I am not sure what your brother, my husband, tells you. He’s probably — and conveniently — NOT telling you that I pay my share of thousands of dollars in household expenses, too. If either of you need a reminder, keep advising him in the manner you seem to think fit. I’ll show you the receipts.
Step 2: “Move your ass and starting talking to the lawyer and find out how you can protect yourself!”
Counterstep: That’s right, let someone else do the dirty work. As if no one will ever notice the stains on your hands.
Step 3: “DO NOT give her permission to exchange ANY information with the lawyer.”
Counterstep: What? Permission? Since you see fit to meddle in our marriage do you think I’m NOT going to know what crap advice you continue to give my husband? For the record, I’m reading this Email, too!
Step 4: “DO NOT reply to Isela’s email She’s either trying to flirt or dig up info!”
Counterstep: Isela is a friend, a real friend. She’s not part of the Vibora club like you and your sister. She’s just concerned about both of us as this entire situation goes from bad to worse. Honestly, why do you even care? Or is all of this really about YOU?
Step 5: “DO NOT go to the meeting with the realtor. And for the record, why are you even thinking about going?
Counterstep: We have to deal with the house as that’s OUR home to deal with and not yours. It’s the house where you were welcomed but are now both having to LEAVE because of you.
Step 6: “Stand up for yourself! Move on!”
Counterstep: How can he move on when you’re the one writing the map?
Step 7: “Be a man! Don’t be some little boy doing what mama tells him to do!”
Counterstep: And what is it that YOU’RE doing now with this awful Email?
Step 8: “Tell her you will respond that text from the ex-girlfriend. The one we liked.”
Counterstep: Oh, that’s being mature. As if his texting his Ex is going to cause real damage. YOU made this happen, dear. Not me. YOU. Remember that.
Step 9: “Remember that everyone we know and knows you think you’re awesome. Just not your wife!”
Counterstep: I never stopped believing he was awesome until you and your sister poisoned the well and ruined us.
Step 10: “The marriage counselor said most of the money from your remaining sessions can be refunded. You won’t face a loss!”
Counterstep: We’ll never know. You took away any real chance for us to find out if we could fix things. All you’ve done is make sure they stayed broken.
Step 11: “She only wants access to your financials to mess you up. Are you stupid enough to just hand this info over to her?”
Counterstep: Spoken like a woman who’s never been in a marriage. I have a secret: Spouses are SUPPOSED to know each other’s “financials.”
I really hope you’re pleased with yourself. You’ve prided yourself on being an actress, another lie the family believes. You’ve been nothing but a bit player all these years, always in the background. I never would have guessed the best role of your tiny “career” was to be the lead player in ruining my marriage. Was it worth it taking center stage this way? You always referred to yourself as the big Catholic. Let this weigh heavy on your soul because I believe you will be paid back in full when it’s your marriage. That’s my curse for you.
Since you took it upon yourself to write this list of “steps” for my husband, I will make sure to keep them on hand for the future in case you or anyone in the family needs a “reminder.” Better yet, I’ll keep them in a safe place for our kids so they can read them one day. After all, isn’t what family does best, sharing everything?
You’re welcome.
Your sister-in-law under God’s law forever…
Two years have passed. That note was the last we heard of Las Hermanas Coraje. In the end, this once star-crossed couple lost their house. No one earned a real dime from its sale, so the said “financials” were never improved. The ex Mrs. Coraje moved on with their kids to a new home and life. Meanwhile, the entire bitter lot of siblings are now existing under one deluded roof, just like when their dad lost their business and was forced to move them in with an uncle, the very family they would turn their back on in the most callous manner.
I am loathed to report that they’re still playing their pueblito games, too. So much for growth and maturity. But, I will never forget the elder Coraje‘s parting shot. I still can’t believe the nasty tone and manipulation found in that note. But the worst part? It’s just pathetic to know the Coraje brother’s balls are still being kept by his sisters.
Somehow, I don’t think this is the final chapter. The Resurrection of Las Hermana Coraje? After all, writers are encouraged to “write what they know.” Well, the author of this family’s narrative is God himself. I suspect even he would need major encouragement to pen a revision.
After nearly a year of stewing in my own emotional juices, all lacking flavor or color, I plotted a course back to the place that helped me flourish with a steady rain of words, images and clarity. Of course, that sense of nervous expectation whch has been my lifelong travel companion also made a point to book passage along with me. Yes, I am fretting about a lot of things on this trip. In fact, the most liberating moment of this vacation was the first 24 hours, when I had no real way of communicating on a phone. For that first travel day, I had zero compulsion to reach out and touch anyone. I uploaded one photo onto Instagram to show people that I cleared the first hurdle by getting to the American Airlines gate at the Tom Bradley International Terminal and that was it. I haven’t had much inspiration to write since arriving in my glorious Spain. But that changed when I finally arrived in Salamanca. It was here where I found a narrative point, a glimmer of an idea, something that I was hoping would happen.
Primer misterio: Making a beeline to the Plaza Mayor, it was hard not to hold my breath. We’re told we can’t always go back to the sites where we experience profundity and change. The first thing I noticed was how easy it was to fall into step with the city again. It was the hour prior to “La Cena.” Siesta was over and that familiar symphony of families, friends, students and other branches of humanity reverberated off the cobblestone streets. And then I saw it. La Plaza Mayor. While it wasn’t a clear path anymore, even the construction of a stage in the middle of this perfect storm of Spaniards and everyone else could not prevent the flow of tears I let loose.
No cliches about “being home again” need apply. It was a wave of relief and realization. My slow emotional suicide of depression, poor health and familial woe had not cocooned me entirely after all. I will admit that I had some misguided notion that what I was really trying to accomplish was a remix on the “Shirley Valentine” tip. That was painfully obvious in the first days, when my awkward attempts were greeted with a tender pat on the arm, as if saying, “Oh, you’re sweet” in that manner we reserve for a pet. It is Wednesday now. Raining. Early morning. And I think I am starting to piece together what the true meaning of this trip is meant to be. I’m older than Shirley now. She was in her early 40s. I’m staring at 50 from the other side. No, I am not traveling alone this time. Yet, I find that his “jolly holiday” is still a journey towards self-discovery. I am leaving a few things out for now as this entire chapter is really just a prologue, you see.
Spain, rather Salamanca, was a generous well of inspiration for me in 2014. I don’t know why I keep reaching for my damn phone, constantly scouring Facebook and Instagram, trolling for likes and comments because my ego is a bit compromised at the moment. Staring up at the ceiling in the dark, it just happened. “I am in fucking Spain! Joder, tío!” So, here I am, dipping my toe into these waters rather gingerly as I am not sure what makes sense to fit into this space right now. All I know is that I am compelled to start composing a few sentences because I felt the need to say something already.
Segundo misterio: I’ve been walking with purpose again. I feel purpose again. More, I am finding the joy in smiling in between the pockets of “OMFG, what am I doing here?” Maybe it was the agua de Valencia that made me drunk on a moonlit beach? Maybe it’s the jet laggy effects of all the planes, trains and automobiles it took to get me here?
Tercer misterio: The first image I took upon arriving in Salamanca was of a door, the entrance to the house of la señora Manoli, whose home was ground zero for the many epiphanies I composed for this diary. A lot of emotion detonated in that apartment during that summer of 2014. While I write today with this longing for a single kiss, I think about a quote I tripped across while idly perusing the internet on yesterday’s long train ride from Valencia to Salamanca: “Hay que ser un cabrón con buenos sentimientos.” Or “You need to be a bad ass motherfucker with good intentions or feelings.”
Yes, Spain has claimed me again, in all its brusque wonder. Could this introspection have happened anywhere else? Perhaps? But, where I’ve been standing of late, being that bad ass m’f’er with good feelings has been a Herculean task. I know I was that before. Somewhere along the way, like so many of us, I became afraid of that strong sense of focus. I confused it with being reckless. I made myself blind because I didn’t like what I was seeing on the daily. I can’t do that anymore. I can’t expect to have so many second chances anymore. As of this moment, I have loosened to tap to let “los buenos sentimientos” flow again. The pipe works are a little rusty, of course. Now, let’s see if I can throw the tarp off that old “cabrón” again and see what happens when I let him roam free for a spell.
Written and uploaded from Salamanca, Spain. Wednesday, October 19.
SALLY TOMATO: Some day, Mr. Fred, you take this book, turn it into a novel. Everything is there. Just fill in the blanks.
HOLLY GOLIGHTLY: Would be good for some laughs.
ST: No. No, I don’t think so. This is a book would break the heart. (READS ENTRIES) “Mr. Fitzsimmons, powder room, $50. Less $18, repair one black satin dress. Cat food, 27 cents.”
HOLLY: Sally, darling, you’re making me blush. But you’re right about Jack Fitzsimmons. He’s an absolute rat. but I guess, of course, I don’t know anybody but rats. Except, of course, Fred here…”
From the film “Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” adapted from the Truman Capote novella by George Axelrod
It is a story to break the heart, indeed.
Last night, I had a coffee date with a real life Holly Golightly, author Truman Capote’s famed gamine immortalized by Audrey Hepburn in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” Although, as I wake up to write this recollection, I now see shades Lorelei Lee, the famed blonde mantrap vedette from “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.” Either way, I write this of two minds.
I admired his pluck and honesty when he hurled statements like, “I don’t want to work to sustain myself. I want someone else to take care of me. My mom did that. So did my grandmother. I guess it runs in the family.”
I am also saddened by the harsh reality of his worldview. It was disconcerting to see how a darker shade of self was hiding beneath those incredibly green eyes. Yet, moments occurred during our two hour conversation where it was apparent said eyes could turn icy blue with determination.
God, he was beautiful. He had this classic Pepsodent, that all-American, clean cut look reserved for those who are the physical manifestation of manifest destiny. He knew he had the power to pillage and conquer souls and grab all the riches of the land. It would happen without him ever having to do or give anything in return, a fact he made quite clear.
I was never one of those boys. I never had that power. I was the friend. The confidante. The one that went with you shopping. The one that would hold your hand and console you when you would cry or rage over the one you’d rather be with treated you wrong. I don’t know what it’s like to wield a sexual power so strong, that men would become automatic teller machines to sustain even the most tenuous of connections. I was never the boy who looked like a teenage dream.
During the course of our time together, I had visions, strong sexual ones. How could I not? I recognized the signs from day one. His careful banter, always appealing, almost demure, was seductive. But as our conversations, or rather marathon text narratives, evolved, an edge was starting to make itself known. Sitting with him at this Starbucks at Downtown Disney, it became apparent to me he knew what he had to say to draw a man in. Shrewd sincerity always wins in the conquering game.
It was fitting that our meet and greet happened at a place where artificial beauty runs rampant and costly dreams of fun and adventure are sold. This temple of cartoon consumerism only compounded my resolve not to engage with this boy again. Clarity hit as I drove by the 605 freeway on ramp. The role models provided by Holly Golightly and Lorelei Lee haven’t lost one iota of their potency.
But I shouldn’t be surprised.
Madonna’s seductive and telegenic anthem “Material Girl,” itself a variation and homage to these archetypes, has never been more resonant than today, where a generation refuses to do the hard work or take pride in making their own success. It’s about the instant gratification of it all, of getting and wanting all you desire.
Bartering with sex is nothing new. From the moment we learn to covet, we will find the right selfie angle with which to succeed of obtaining our heart’s desire. Yet something else is in the mix when you’re beautiful of face and body. I’d like to think a high cost exists to trade one’s souls to appease a hunger for Vuitton.
Lorelei Lee exalts near the end of “Gentleman Prefer Blondes” how “a man being rich is like a girl being pretty? You wouldn’t marry a girl just because she’s pretty, but my goodness, doesn’t it help?”
It does help, Miss Lee. But when all you can do is show your price tag like I was shown last night, I realized the cost would not just be a monetary one. I don’t have the funds to become a sugar daddy for someone who may just walk away when a fuller bank account comes into play. I would never want to pay to make someone love me. I want parity. I want equality. I want to share whatever I have with someone who understands the importance of giving back and not just in a financial way.
Want to know the greatest irony in all of this? He worked at a bank.
It took me a while to fight my way to the middle in this world. I am not going to be a rich man. I’ve pretty much squandered most of the riches of my perceived Hollywood life anyway in a lifetime of unbridled spending. That emotional void I’ve fought most of my life is no closer to being filled, although I recognize the danger of giving it power. It’s a hollow space. Period. What surrounds it, however, is something that keeps me from falling in.
I tire of this app fueled world, where you swipe by thumbnail portraits of the desperate and the damned. It’s a virtual Serengeti. Here, a generation of men, predators and game, roam the space in search of something that can stave off the inevitable, even it’s just for a moment. It’s a network for the anti-social, where you trade innuendo and salacious photos in acts that approximate connection and intimacy. No one ever really wants to go beyond the chat box. Somehow, that’s just inviting the danger and risk of having to actually relate to somebody. (Side note, maybe we ain’t talking, but a lot of us are still fucking the pain away. Which may account why STD and HIV infections are on the rise.)
For a moment, I thought, “Maybe. Just maybe.” He was softening a bit, opening up more and more about his family life, later showing me pictures of his mom and sister on Instagram, which was unexpected. It was the most real aspect of our conversation, the only time I didn’t hear cynicism and contempt. Calculated, perhaps. Yet, an urgency could be heard in his voice, which would fall to a whisper. “This man,” I thought, “is lonely.” Despite the romanticism of a fireworks show in the distance, it was the spark of an iPhone 6 Plus screen that illuminated the truth — and path for my exit strategy.
He joked that he couldn’t live without his phone, a trait that goes beyond generations at this point. And quite a bit of life was happening while we sat together. He’d text and talk, talk and text. I eventually had to sneak a look, only to be rewarded by the sight of a distinguished, smiling gentleman with a beard. Older, like me. Smiling that smile of “Notice me, please,” like me. It was obvious that the Teenage Dream was hedging his bets alright. I was one of a group.
One final boom filled the sky and we began our walk back to our cars. He said he always loses his car in the Disneyland parking lot. Once found, we hugged and he allowed for three tender kisses on the lips. As he turned away, he asked, “Text me” in a voice laden with promise of future heavenly delights. Or maybe it was just polite indifference, the voice we use when we know won’t ever speak again. Either way, I couldn’t really listen anymore.
This “date” cost me $29: $18, parking. $11 for two lattes, one with sugar and one without. But one thing is certain: his story will ultimately break his heart.
Mine won’t.
Written and posted from Wayne Avenue Manor on Sunday, December 13.
Written by Jorge Carreón 