April 3, 2013

It has been three months and thirteen days since mom died. Things aren’t doing well. Every day I feel like I’m becoming more and more unwell. I start to imagine that maybe I am the reason my mother died; she worked hard so much, going through all those hardships for me, and didn’t do it for anything else—fucking none at all. Now, she’s gone, and I’m still a shut-in—I have no idea what to do.

I’m still lucky, though. I may be orphaned now that my mom is gone, but I still have some loving family members. My uncle doted on me a lot; he says that he saw a lot of himself when he was young to me. He must have been a fucking messed up kid, then. I told him that, and he just laughed at me. I really like my uncle. He didn’t ask for anything more, and he didn’t impose things that I should do when he took me under his wing and made me live in his house with his family. I didn’t like my uncle’s family, though. I absolutely detest his wife. But I’m just freeloading right now, and to be honest, my uncle’s family isn’t even that bad. They have this pompous attitude, which makes all of them look like a bunch of assholes with inflated egos. Generally speaking, they’re all still decent human beings.

Lately, I have been doing a lot of chores in my uncle’s house. I might have been a shut-in before who relied so much on my mother’s income, but since she was always gone from the house to work, I learned how to do many tasks at home alone. I wanted my mom to find a clean house and food on the table when she returns from her jobs. It became my sworn duty to make sure that my mom’s clothes are clean and her sheets smell great, and her room is sparkling, so I wouldn’t need to worry about her when she’s at home.

When my uncle’s wife saw me doing the chores in their house, she started yapping about how well I am doing and how proud she was that I know “my place.” She even told me she’s delighted that I’m doing all the chores voluntarily because she would have hated it if she had to impose things on me. After all, I have been a “sheltered boy,” she said. Sheltered? Sure. Boy? Not at all, I’m already 20, but I guess I understand where she’s coming from. This is the least I can do for the people giving me a roof to live in and meals to eat.

My uncle found out about how I voluntarily helped their family with their chores; instantly, upon hearing this, he fought with his wife and blamed her for allowing me to do all of that, but I told him I am happy to do this. He was very dissatisfied with my answer and even accused his wife of threatening me of saying these things. Again, I protected his wife. She wasn’t a terrible person, and I would hate to see them fight because of a freeloader.

Yesterday, my uncle insisted that I should meet this psychiatrist that he, apparently, knew closely. I agreed to do it, but to be honest, I would rather not do it. I don’t want my uncle to bleed more money just for me. I hated the thought of that. Then again, my uncle really, really insisted that I should do it, almost begging. I hated to see him like that, so I reluctantly agreed. He was elated when he heard this.

I met the psychiatrist today. A woman named Genevieve Carrion, she’s Latina. I like her, even though she’s only making me feel better about myself because my uncle is paying her to do that, she’s still gentle to me, very understanding too. She’s a pro.

She listened to all of my ramblings: I told about how my mom died of a sudden heart attack; I recalled when I almost committed suicide shortly after hearing the news of her death, and I confided to her about how happy I was that I was allowed to have a second chance of being alive. Dr. Carrion leaned towards me with a smile, and she told me she’s very proud of me for clinging to my life. I’m not sure if that’s something psychiatrists should do. I think she’s just a super kind person.

Dr. Carrion said she didn’t like using meds; she told me that, as much as possible, it should be used as a last resort treatment. I’m not sure if I agreed with her because I know many people who got better because of their meds, but she’s the pro. I just followed all of her instructions. One of them is having a hobby. She suggested that I make a daily journal, like a diary of some sort, to channel my emotions. I liked that idea a lot, so that’s why I’m doing this now. I want to write when I finally feel better and start writing about better things and a better life and a better me. I want to be well again; I’m so tired of being sick because I don’t know what exactly is wrong with me, but I know that THERE IS something wrong with me—I can feel it!

That’s why I started writing journals. This is my first one. I hope I’m doing well.

Oh, and her second instruction is to exercise. That’s why, right now, while writing this story, I am readying myself to jog. I’m so excited!