It’s one thing to sweat: sweating is quite natural, and certain people tend to sweat more than others. I sweat like a candle melts – so I’m extremely sympathetic to anyone who is a sweater. I don’t really sweat in the usual places, like under the armpits. In fact, I never use deodorant – not there anyway. However, just a tiny bit a physical activity will cause me to sweat profusely on my face – extremely embarrassing (especially when wearing makeup) for dancing {and sex}.

It’s another thing to subject others to your sweat problem.  I once entered a ballroom dance competition. My dance partner was great, sweet, smart, nice, but there was just one problem: He  sweat a lot. Not only was this an ordeal for my nose, but he would use his hands to wipe the sweat off while we were dancing, then offer me his hand. I never wanted to say anything, so I bit the bullet and continued dancing with him, counting the seconds until practice was over. When I got back to my dorm, I washed my hands until I sang happy birthday fully at least five times.

Everyone was confused as to why I didn’t like my dance partner – and with good reason. Like I said, he was great in every aspect. But I couldn’t tell them the real reason.

Not controlling your sweating is extremely inconsiderate. Here are some ways to do so:

• Deodorant is not just for your underarms. I’ve found that applying deodorant around my hairline helps immensely with my problem. You can apply it to your thighs, face, shoulders, anywhere that sweats.
• If it’s your hands, wear gloves when dancing – or any other activity that requires you to hold others’ hands.
• Don’t feel ashamed to admit to others that you sweat a lot. Doing so will only show how considerate you are for taking measures (such as gloves), and at the very worst won’t make people think you are gross (hey, you warned them).

After a year. A whole year of caring for you, of feeling hurt when you didn’t care. A year of calling my friends when you rejected me, of forcibly casting you out of my memory, of failing to do so, of painful nostaglia when I uncovered a forgotten artifact of us.

I don’t love you anymore.

Maybe this is premature. But right now, I could care less what happened to you. I could throw away the CD you burned me for Christmas, and wrote “Merry X-mas =)” on,  without regret. I could pick up your call and tell you I’m too busy to talk to you because I have better things to do.

Remember I was trying to chronicle all my memories of you on my blog, so that I could finally forget about you without losing you forever?  Now, I don’t have any inclination to finish that project. You are a memory not even worth preserving, not even subconsciously.

I thought I loved you, or maybe it was a ghost of you. In all my brooding over my loss of you, I didn’t realize how much you had changed from the person I fell in love with at 16. When did you become so self-centered, incapable of caring about another person’s feelings? When did you lose perspective about the important things in the world? Why do you demand the world to change around you, when you are too stubborn to change for others? How could I ever have thought that the you I was in love with would return to me?

I am emotionally numb. I do not feel angry at you for hurting me to this point. I do not feel hurt because of what you did. I do not feel happy because I am finally liberated from this debilitating relationship. If anything, I feel sad, for you. Sad that that you who I loved is gone. I would say I hope you realize and change, but that would be a lie because (and I realize how incredibly selfish this is, but) I honestly don’t care if you live the rest of your life this way, and because I’m not hopeful; in fact, I’m rather dubious.

“because I don’t think that you are a good person.”

“But why?”

“You’re too petty.”

A little over a year later, I don’t know why, but we start talking again. a lot. For the past week, we’ve been talking on the phone for over three hours a night. You know that I still like you, that I still haven’t gotten over the idea of us. And you say that you care for me, but you still don’t like me because I’m ‘petty’. I know I’m petty, I tell you. I’m working on it, trying not to get pissed off over little things, trying to not hold grudges and stay mad for a long time. I really am getting better.

Last night you called me in the middle of a party. When I told you that I would call you later you replied, visibly (or audibly, in this case) frustrated, that you were going to sleep. I felt pretty bad after that and I wasn’t able to enjoy the party or go to sleep for hours.

Today when you called, I told you that the way you said those things hurt my feelings. You told me to stop being so sensitive. Am I just being petty again?

“So what does petty mean to you?” I ask.

“Making something that’s not a big deal a big deal.”

It wasn’t even that big a deal, but the fact that you just completely dismissed how I felt makes me wonder whether you really care about me, whether you really care about anyone’s feelings. You are not even listening to me.

Or maybe I should just let this slide. I am clearly getting more upset over this, while he is sleeping peacefully, ignorant of how he has made me feel. What is the use of getting mad?

Caught in between my desire to assert myself and the desire to prove to you that I’m not petty, I am paralyzed and hurt.

I try really hard to not be neurotic, but everything tends towards the state of lowest energy.

I pretend to not care about my grades. I pretend that I know there are more important things in life than the three digits of my GPA. But that’s only because I know I will be fine. It’s like the rich man claiming to not care about money.

I’m freaking out about taking the MCATs. I have to test in less than a month, and I really don’t know anything about chemistry. I also can’t motivate myself to study – after only studying for a few hours a day I stop and make excuses for myself about how I can’t possibly absorb anything more. And then I start to think about how if I don’t do well on this test, I will not get into a good school – scratch that – I will not getting into my top choice school. How if I don’t get a high score on the science section, the admissions panel will take one look at my Bachelor of Arts degree and recommend that I try across the street at their law school.

When was the last time I took a standardized test anyway – four years ago with the SAT? And remember how silly you thought it all was after the fact? Stop worrying…

And it is 4:35 am and I can’t sleep, which means that my stress-induced insomnia has returned yet again.

My grandmother died last night at 6:20 pm at 69 years old. She had finally lost the six month battle against gall bladder cancer. I’m relieved and happy for her death. In life, she was in constant pain, hanging on by IVs and medication. Still, she was strong. She rejected pain medication until the end, and held on for longer than anyone had expected. My grandfather and the rest of my family was in limbo, staying with her while she skimmed the surface between life and death, waiting for the inevitable. Death was a release for her and for everyone in my family.

At first, I felt guilty that I didn’t feel more sad. In fact, it was almost as if nothing had really happened. But that is because in my mind, I had been preparing for this moment for the past few months. I had already said goodbye to her months before she actually died.

I never got to go back to China after spring break. I didn’t want to. I wanted to remember my grandmother as she was when she was still able to talk to me, still able to tell me to take care of myself.   When I last saw her, she was waving and smiling to me as the hospital elevator doors closed. Three months later, in the pictures that my mom brought home, she had shriveled into what I imagine one of those polyps from Ursala’s lair must look like in human form.

I was similar to her in a lot of ways; she always said that I was her favorite because we were both dragons and my middle name is her maiden name, Yuan. Her home is full of her random collections: a vase from Beijing, a painting of mine, a backpack from ten years ago. She must have been the inspiration for my love of stuff, and everytime my mom came back from China she would have a suitcase full of surprises my grandma bought for me. I found this old website I had made when I was first learning html — but it shows a lot of pictures of my room and my stuff.

I regret not asking her to teach me to knit. I always wanted to learn how to knit – I had heard as a child that it helped with surgical dexterity. When I found out I had gotten into college, I called my parents in China. My mom told my grandmother, who was living with them at the time in Beijing, that I was accepted into Stanford. My grandma asked what school that was, and my mom replied that it was the best school in the US. Then my grandma was so happy she didn’t stop knitting scarves. I still have all 11 of those scarves, each one a different color, shape, and size, and each one beautiful.

15 year old me wearing all the knitted goodies my grandma made me: scarf, socks, sweater

Before I left the hospital, she slipped the gold ring off her finger and slid it onto mine. It was too big for me, so I had to wrap red thread around it until it fit snugly. It is not in a perfect circle, so I  keep bending and contorting it in all directions – but I only make it worse. I think this was her way of passing the torch, asking me to take care of those who she was going to be leaving behind; my grandfather, my parents, my brothers. I will, don’t worry.

I will miss her. She was the most happy, genuinely kind person I had ever known. She filled her life with what she loved. She is a model of who I aspire to be.

On the day of China's Olympic Opening Ceremony, she brought us these to celebrate

A family portrait three months before she died

Here is a video of my grandmother that I had made as a present for Mother’s Day

a black hole is a region of space in which the gravitational field is so powerful that nothing, including light, can escape its pull.

-wikipedia

I love the night.  I just want to hide in it forever. I feel so safe, so peaceful. The darkness wraps around me like a blanket, protecting me from reality.  If only darkness were my lover then I wouldn’t need anyone else.

The first signs of dawn shine through the window, but I don’t want to face the day. Let me pull the covers over my head to extend my pretend world just a bit longer.

What is the reason to wake up? So I can go through this cycle again? I’ve already lost track of days. How many days have gone by? When was the last time I was awake when the sun was up?

I feel like I’m sinking and it’s getting harder and harder to break out.

—————-

I haven’t written a new post in about two weeks, since I left Oxford and arrived home. I once wrote that if I ever stopped blogging, then it meant that things in my life were going so well that I didn’t need to blog to vent my feelings. I realize now that the opposite is also true, that a long hiatus could indicate a relapse of depression. It’s amazing how strong a force your mood can play, how it can spill over into all areas of your life. How you start to make excuses for yourself, let things slide, until eventually, you lose all inertia to start anything anymore.

It started with needing a break from school, and then being so busy from my camp counselor job, then needing a break after than, until before I know it, it’s already the middle of summer and I still haven’t studied for the MCATS which are at the beginning of August. Today I woke up only because my brother needed a ride to the mall. That must’ve been a blessing in disguise, because I decided to pack my backpack and camp out at the mall bookstore to study.

Thank you to all my readers who have kept up with my blog, and especially to those who posted comments. I opened my inbox today to find occasional comments posted here and there. I could see the comments coming to life and asking me when was the next time I was going to post? It’s nice to know that there are people who care – even strangers.

I’m feeling quite better today, compared to my “waste of a person” attitude from yesterday. Not only did I just finish and email my final report, but I also managed to watch The Little Mermaid movie. It was suggested that perhaps the reason I was feeling bad was because I am dreading leaving Oxford. To deal with this, I am going to figure out exactly what I want to accomplish in my last two days here.

See more of Oxford

• Study in the famous Bodleian library. You cannot enter unless you are a student, meaning I will never again have an opportunity to do so.
• Visit other colleges. So far, I have only been into the three colleges that Stanford is associated with, meaning there are 35 others that I have never seen!
• Eat in the famous restaurants that I’ve been meaning to try.
• Visit the Ashmolean art gallery, Business School, and Botanic Gardens
• Eat lunch with traditional English tea at the Rose
• Try the famous Ben’s cookies
• Take more pictures of Oxford!

Spend time with the friends I’ve made here

• Go punting in the Thames River
• Play more squash
• Visit the college bar
• Go out on a night when college students actually go out (I’ve been going on weekends, which are apparently townspeople turf)
• Send out the postcards that have been lying around

This week is my final week in Oxford, and what am I doing? I am not studying for my final exam on Thursday, I am not writing my research paper due on Tuesday, I am not spending my last few days exploring the city in which I will never again have the chance to be a student, I am not taking my last chances to hang out with my Oxford friends, I am not bonding with my Stanford housemates….

I am spending all day holed up in my room feeling sorry for myself. Crystal, you never get enough sleep, take a break today, you can work tomorrow after you’ve gotten a nice rest. That’s what I told myself yesterday. Crystal, you should call your ex-boyfriend. I know you feel worse every time after talking to him, but this time it will be different. Maybe this time he will actually care about you. In fact, he probably misses you a lot more than you think.

If someone else were born instead of me, that person would be so much more productive, well-liked, and prettier. She would actually do something with herself. She wouldn’t be me.

(continued from previous post)

My cellphone displays your name on the screen. Why would you be calling me, I haven’t spoken to you in six months since we broke up.

“Do you want to watch Slumdog Millionaire?”

“You mean like, on a date?”

“Yea, sure…”

You pull up my driveway in the same car you drove to prom, the beige Honda with the mini teddy bear hanging from the rearview mirror. I just spent thirty minutes getting ready and choosing my outfit, trying to look good while pretending that I didn’t try too hard for you. I slide in the passenger seat, as casually as if we had actually been dating.

“Where are you taking me for dinner?” I cheerfully ask.

“I was thinking La Madeleine, I really want french food.”

—————-

“So where are we going for dinner?” I was so excited. I was 16, he was my first real boyfriend, and this was my first real date. He even picked me up in a car – no more ‘ask your parents to drive you on your date’ for me. I could tell that he had tried hard to look nice, because he was wearing a blue button-down shirt instead of the same two-sizes-too-large T shirt he always wore. I think I even smelled a hint of cologne. I had never had someone go through all that trouble for me.

We ate at La Madeleine because it was close to the theater. It was a cozy french restaurant with candlelight and charming decor. We picked a small table near the back of the restaurant, by the window. The food was not memorable, but we both went crazy with the free fruit jam and toast, wanting to try all the different varieties. By the end of the meal, we had probably eaten more in free jam than the restaurant had made in profit off of us.

————–

“I think it was this table, let’s sit here,” you say pointing to that cozy table in the back by the window.

“Sure,” I laugh, uncomfortably. Bringing me to the same restaurant and the same table where we started our relationship four years ago. It almost seems like we’re celebrating our four year anniversary. Except we’re not.

“So, how has school be like for you?” I’m trying to make idle talk. We catch up about school, family, life in general. It’s almost like we’re high schoolers again, going on our first date. Is this the message that you wanted to send me? That we can start over and return to when things were happier between us? If you’re willing to, then I am too.

————–

You walk me to the door as you send me home. I turn around before entering, purposefully dawdling around hoping that you would kiss me. You know what I’m thinking, but then you see my grandfather at the top of the stairs staring you down. I guess our first kiss will have to wait until next time. I close the door behind me, and can’t believe that things were actually going right for once.

————

You start driving me home but purposefully slow down as we near the turn to my house. Seeing no resistance from me, you speed up again, but drive straight, taking the road to the ballpark instead. You park the car in the darkest part of the lot, lean over to the passenger side, and start to rub your body against mine. As I feel you inside me, I realize that you didn’t really want anything else from me. You didn’t really want to start over. You didn’t really care about my feelings. You just wanted this. Well you got what you wanted, and left me worse off.

continued from this post.

You loved the song, “Do you remember?” by Jack Johnson, and you would always play it for me, telling me that you wish you could still play it for me in ten years. I always thought the line, “You were lazy about it you made me wait around” was pretty apt for how our relationship got started. We danced around for a long time, both of us too shy to initiate anything. That’s how it goes with high schoolers, right? We went out many times, to a football game, an arts and crafts festival, a book fair, (how did you let me drag you to these things?) the movies, but it was never very clear whether these were dates – and I was too nervous to pursue the matter further. One time while watching a movie at my house, I even wanted to lean against you, but was too embarrassed and came up with the solution of putting a pillow between us and leaning on that. Finally, after Christmas, I gave you a call. I was sitting in the kitchen of my best friend’s house, and I asked you plainly, “Do you like me as more than a friend?”. You said yes. I was ecstatic.

High school dating is so cute. I hate dating in college – you go from just dating to basically being married just like that [snap]. In high school is when we first start to learn what dating is about. It’s a journey that we go on together to learn our preferences and boundaries, what ticks us off and what makes us tick. You would wait for me outside of my class and walk me to my next class. Since you were a senior, you skipped class a lot to find me. In the mornings, you waited beside my locker, and in the afternoons, you walked me to my bus. Sometimes you even drove me home, even though you lived 40 minutes in the opposite direction. We would do really cute things together, like both dress up nicely for no reason; I remember on that day I found you sleeping in your blue shirt and trousers next to my locker, and as I walked up in my high heels and pink-flowered skirt, you hugged my legs with your eyes still closed.

We were skipping class, lounging at the end of the hallway against the blue radiator, when you suddenly asked me, “Would it be ok if I told you that I loved you?” I asked, “Are you saying that you love me?”. “No, I’m just asking if it would be ok for me to say so”. A few days later we were lying on my bed, talking. You suddenly told me “Crystal, I love you”. I didn’t know what to say. To be honest, I didn’t love you at the time. At least, I had never been in a serious relationship and so didn’t really know what it all meant. I asked you if it was alright if I didn’t say anything. I think you knew that I would eventually figure out my feelings, and so you weren’t too upset that I didn’t say “I love you too” immediately.

A month later you left for a week for Florida, and I could not bear it. I missed you so much that I could feel it in my body. That is when I knew that I loved you. While on the phone, I wanted to tell you – but I was so shy that I kept stopping myself. When you finally told me you had to go, I shouted out, “Wait! I have something to tell you!” Then I delayed for about an hour while you walked around trying to balance yourself on the curb. “I love you”. There. I had said it. “I know. I love you too,” you replied. Later I asked you whether you knew what I was going to say, and you responded, “Of course, it was obvious”. I didn’t think it was that obvious…