When I was 12, a horrible illness struck dad, and I nearly lost him. He was in the hospital for months, while I stayed with my aunt.

While I brooded silently in my room and wondered if I’d ever see my dad again, I lost my faith.

“How,” I thought, “Could God take away my daddy? Doesn’t He understand that he’s all I have? Hasn’t dad always prayed and worked so hard, hasn’t he always given what he could to the church, hasn’t he tried to be an upright, honest man? Why? Don’t you care, God? Are you even there? Were you ever there?”

So for about 8 months, from the time dad got sick to the time he came home, I really stopped believing in any God I’d ever been told about.

Then dad came home, and you’d have thought I’d be grateful.

But no- I now not only realized that there was not only a God, but that he was kind of a jerk. Dad was the strongest person I’d ever known- still is, in fact- and yes, he was back, but… it just wasn’t the same. Since I’d spent a few months thinking dad had died and no one had told me, I’d gotten used to being pessimistic and alone.

Who was this person, I thought, masquerading as my father? My big, strong dad who had always taken charge of everything? He was a weak little man confined to the nearest chair.

I hated God even more.

Dad kept praying, and the more he prayed, the more I hated.

“Shut up!” I’d think. “God isn’t listening! If he gave a shit about us, do you think we’d be like this? Would you have gotten sick at all? Would the business be failing? No! Stop praying, God doesn’t care about us.”

And I kept thinking that way. For years. 6 years, to be exact. For 6 years, I wondered why dad put so much faith in a God that clearly didn’t give a damn about anyone but people who already had the means to help themselves.

When I was 17, I made a very stupid mistake and got married. Don’t ask me about my mindset at the time, all I can remember is being hurt about someone else and dating my ex just so I wouldn’t be alone, and somehow a marriage came out of that- if you can call it that.

My ex-husband was, as I soon came to realize, a total asshole. He cheated on me, and started forbidding me to talk to a lot of my friends- i.e., the ones who told me he was an asshole. Over the next few months, he started verbally, psychologically, and eventually physically abusing me. And through all this, I hated God all the more. “If God cared,” I thought, “He’d make my husband less of an asshole.”

One day, after being married for a few months, dad and I reconciled. (I’d run away from home when dad told me the guy was an asshole). And a few weeks after, I decided it would be a nice gesture to go to church with dad.

The church was much the same. (You can’t be a good Catholic church if you’re gonna be updating stuff all the time).

The priest was new, though. So I sat down, and for once in 6 years, I listened.

The sermon was about finding the courage to love yourself, and God’s relationship with love and the self.

That’s when it hit me… look at where I am. I graduated from high school despite all my attempts not to, I have a loving father and a good job. My husband is an asshole, but he was before I married him. I was stupid to think a piece of paper would change anything.

I’d been a retarded teenager all this time. I hadn’t had any faith in myself, so how could I have faith in anything else?

It was this sermon, in fact, that gave me the courage to leave my husband. A few weeks later, I’d had just about enough, and after one particularly bad fight, I called the police on him, packed my things and left- and more importantly, never looked back.

Things got better after that. I still carried physical and emotional scars from that period in my life- still do- but I was free.

I enrolled in school, got a better job, lost weight, moved- and things kept getting better. All because I just kept thinking “God DOES love me. He’s always made things happen in the darkest hour.”

But what I realized is that I couldn’t just sit back and expect God to do everything for me. You are the author of your own fate.

Now, as to how I believe in God instead of just the power of positive thinking, I think it’s because my dad never talked about Hell.

Sure, I asked about it, and asked if a list of various people were going there, and he always answered my questions, but dad never went into much detail, beyond the reading of Revelations.

Instead, dad talked about Love, and Heaven.

“Heaven,” he said, “Is a place where those with goodness in their hearts go when they die. This life may be hard, but if you’re a truly good person, God sees your heart and takes you to live with him forever and ever. There, you will see all your loved ones again, and everyone is eternally happy. This is why we never really lose the ones we love.”

I think as long as I believe there’s something better when I die, it doesn’t matter how much I suffer on this earth, because in the end, God will be there.

That’s something positive.

Pandora

I don’t know for sure who came up with the idea of naming the girls in our family after Greek godesses, but I’m pretty sure it must have come from our surroundings. From the time our family had settled in this country, we have always lived near the towns of Arcadia and Pandora, and beyond them was the city of Athens.

So that is why I came to have a grandma Phoebe, my mother Demeter, and my sister Persephone. I am called Adicia.

Ours was a close-knit family, and mom was our world. Dad worked in Athens, doing big important things with important people, and he made sure we had everything we needed, but mom was the one we went to when we needed a hug, or words of endearment, or a shoulder to cry on. From the time we were very small, she let us help with every aspect of her life. We helped her fold the laundry, wash the dishes, dust the mantle, and tend her garden.

How mom loved her garden! Every day she’d take us by the hand and show us the different leaves and flowers, the trees and shrubs. Her garden was her own world, and we were all part of it. My earliest memories are of walking down the path and touching all the petals and stems- softly, so as not to disturb them.

Every weekend we would drive to Athens to pick up new bulbs or seeds, or anything else we needed. Mom always cut through Arcadia, even though it was quicker to cut through Pandora. She said it was because the roads there were bad, but I thought it was more to do with all the foliage to be seen in Arcadia.

When we returned from shopping and had worked in the garden for a few hours, mom would have us wash up and eat lunch. Then she’d take us to her room and we’d open her jewelry box and try on all the bracelets and necklaces. We had to be very careful with them, because every piece told a different story and had been in the family a long time. The sapphire and diamond necklace dad had given mom on their first Christmas as a couple, the golden earrings great-aunt Iris had given grandma on her wedding day, and most important and delicate- the thin silver chain grandpa had given grandma before he left for the war.

Mom always let us play as long as we liked, but we were never allowed to take the jewelry back to our rooms, least of all that thin silver chain. Persephone was fascinated by that chain from the time we were very small. It was so delicate and simple, and she loved the way it felt around her small wrist.

Our life was always happy, and we were always content.

Until, that is, Persephone fell in love. She was 17, and her passion for the young man was “unlike any other! the love of a lifetime, the beginning of her life as a woman.” Mom told her sagely that it was only puppy love, but Persephone insisted they would get married and have many children and grow old and die together, as so many besotted teenagers have avowed.

I was 14, and thought it must be wonderful to feel so completely in tune to another person. I had no loves, not even maybes. I lived in a fantasy world, in a garden of my own, with imaginary friends I’d never grown weary of. Mom spoke of me as her “sensible” daughter, but in my heart I knew I was the odd one.

That year was a turbulent one for mom and Persephone. Mom set more and more boundaries, and every time Persephone would rise up and defy her. She’d break curfew, sneak out, drink, smoke, and mom really hit the ceiling when she found birth control pills in our bedroom.

Mom was deeply saddened, and Persephone alienated herself from us with each passing day. She wouldn’t even speak to me, except to complain about how unfair mom was being. I knew mom was just trying to protect her, but I missed my sister, and heartily agreed with all her rants.

The more time Persephone spent with her boyfriend, the more time mom spent inside. She watched t.v. all day, ate less, and cried often. As a result, the clothes often went unironed, the dishes piled up, and the flowers began to wilt.

Around the end of that year came time for my first school dance. I was going with a friend, and mom spent hours styling my hair and doing my makeup. Persephone watched jealously, having been grounded from any extracurricular functions for staying out all night the week before. Right before I was to descend the stairs, mom called me into her bedroom, where my sister sat cross-legged in an armchair, waiting to ambush mom with more pleas to be let out. Mom pulled me over in front of her dressing table, and opened her jewelry box. From it she picked up a thin silver chain. Persephone leaped up and cried out that I shouldn’t be allowed to wear it, that was her favorite bracelet, mom had promised her she could wear it. Mom, not even turning around, said quietly that I had earned it more than she had. I blushed, wanting to wear the bracelet but wanting my sister to be happy so much more. Mom closed the clasp around my wrist and smiled at me. Persephone screamed that she hated us both and stormed out of the room.

I was shaken, but mom told me Persephone would get over it. Mom went downstairs to warm up the car, and I checked myself in the mirror once more. As I passed out room, I heard Persephone crying on her bed. Feeling a wave of regret, I entered the room and sat down next to her. I put my hand on her shoulder and told her how sorry I was, that I hadn’t even asked mom for the bracelet. She sat up, clasped my hands in hers, and said she understood, and didn’t really hate me. She told me to have a good time, and that she just wanted to sleep.

I went to the dance and had a wonderful time. I took pictures with friends, danced with a boy for the first time, and talked to teachers. At the end of the night, I got a ride home from a friend, and looked forward to resting after such an evening.

When I got home, I found mom sleeping on the couch and a note from dad syaing he was gone for the weekend, so I tiptoed up to her room to return the bracelet to the jewelry box. But when I grabbed my wrist- it wasn’t there! I went outside and checked the path leading up to the door, the kitchen, the living room, and every stair, but it was nowhere to be found. I had lost my grandma’s silver bracelet.

As I drew near the staircase with a heavy heart to face the music and tell mom what I had done, I heard a knock at the door. I thought it might be my friend, that she might have found the chain in her car and wished to return it, so I hurried downstairs to beat mom to the door- but it was too late.

Mom opened the door and I held my breath, but it wasn’t my friend. It was a police officer. Confused, I hurried back to my room to wait until he left.

I heard hushed toned downstairs, and then, the sound of the door closing and my mother weeping.

I crept downstairs to find mom at the dining room table, weeping as though her heart had broken. I got closer, and caught her eye. She gazed up at me with red-rimmed eyes and told me to sit. She took my hands in hers and the next words out of her mouth chilled my heart.

Persephone had refused to speak to her anymore, and shut our door in her face. Apparently her next move was to phone her boyfriend, who soon after picked her up, and they left to his home in Athens. Mom drew a great shuddering breath, and said “She cut through Pandora.” Just as mom had always feared, they had an accident, and were run off the road. Persephone died that night.

Mom picked up her keys and told me to come with her to identify Persephone. She couldn’t bear to do it alone.

As we walked into the bleak building, I realized I was still carrying my purse. I sat numbly on a chair and fiddled with the clasp while mom talked to a receptionist. Inside the purse, which had carried only lipstick, mascara and a comb, there was now a hastily scribbled note.

It was my sister’s handwriting.

“I’ll tell mom you didn’t lose it- P.”Lose it? Lose what?

Before I could gather my thoughts, mom bade me follow her into a room where my sister lay. She was so still, so quiet. She couldn’t be my sister, who had been so full of life and vitality only hours before. My eyes left her face, and traveled down, and I let out an audible gasp- around her wrist was a thin silver chain.

Years later, the garden is only seldom kept up. Mom doesn’t spend her days crying, as she did the first few months, but she isn’t as she was. I don’t think she ever will be. I helped her plant lilies and a patch of rosemary in Persephone’s memory. The garden is much the same, just a bit overgrown in places, and not as well watered as before. There has been one significant change, though.

A willow now blocks the view of Pandora.

i’m gonna go home and drown my sorrows in alcohol. if i’m lucky i’ll fall into a coma.

who the fuck damn cares anyway.

i heard this song on some website a few years ago, and it totally floored me that someone wrote this song. it’s called “smell yo d*ck” by a ghetto female rapper named riskay. i guess she calls herself that because she was unsure where to place the accent mark on the correct spelling of the word (risqué), or maybe the concept of using correct spelling of any word was too much for a rapper to handle. what i’m saying here is that rappers can’t spell. because they’re stupid. (except eminem. he’s cool).

so, in this video, she wanders around with an iphone, wearing lingerie, (she shouldn’t, btw) bitching out her boyfrind because she called his ass “15 mothafuckin’ times,” and left his bitch ass messages. I’m just gonna put in here that if MY boyfriend called me 15 times in one night, someone better have died or something, ’cause that’s ridiculous. so anyway, she’s trippin’ because her homegirls sent her pictures of him buying drinks for some stripper named Diamond. So she says when he gets home, she wants to smell his… ah. yeah.

What i don’t understand is why she’d even write a song about something as fucked up as this. i get it if this is a method she actually employs, but why write an entire song about how she puts her face in his crotch when he gets home from banging this clearly syphilitic stripper? if she were smart, she’d keep her face far away from his groin area, if she thinks he’s cheating. no telling what he picked up.

the next part of the song is the dude getting all pissed, and telling her if she doesn’t shut her mouth, he’s gonna punch her lights out. Wait, what he actually says is “smell my dick? Wait a minute hold up-
see that’s how a bitch get’er eye swole’up.” so… he’s going to fuck her eye socket. this song just gets more uncomfortable every second. why did she write this? i’m just confused. that’s all. just totally confused.

in other news, i still work at the home depot, and even though i totally hate people, i still love my work. it’s like an 8 hour workout. the only thing i really, really hate right now is the music. :/

so i missed him a lot and felt a little isolated… then i played beer pong and started having a little more fun. i didn’t do anything hugely retarded, maybe a little faux pas here and there, but there was a lot of alcohol in my system.

…and then, i got to go to work, and my customers kind of remind me of cows. they just wander out in the middle of the aisles, not looking for traffic, just kinda staring. i think i’m also easily irritated cause i feel sickish from last night. i look like a raccon too, cause i didn’t wake up early enough to wipe off my makeup. (hehe…speaking of raccoons, i made a terrible racist joke last night. with the predominantly redneck crowd, it was well received, though).

i can’t wait to get home and wash the rest of my makeup and the hairspray off. and get a little more sleep. i’m out of dvds i haven’t watched. well, that’s not true. i haven’t seen white noise yet. i can’t sit still during movies, though. i guess i’m just twitchy by nature.

dallas is getting more fun. i think loving him helps.

in a nutshell, my mom left when i was little, and i’ve had self-esteem problems ever since. and i have this problem where i cling so hard to people because i’m afraid of losing them, that they eventually need space and leave anyway. and i’ve done this to him before, and that’s where i’m having a problem now.

i’m trying. i’m trying so hard not to let my anxieties ruin the happiest part of my life. i’m just naturally a high-strung person, i guess.

i try not to dwell on it when he doesn’t call. i know he has more of a social life than i do. but then this nasty little voice creeps up and makes me get nervous about it. but then i find something to occupy myself, but then when i’m done i just dwell on it again. “he’s in love with his phone, but he can’t text?” all the time. and i don’t bring it up because….

that’s my other problem. i’m scared of bringing up any kind of conflict between us, because i’m absolutely petrified that he might get mad, or even go away again.

and one of the reasons is that, since we’ve been together, he said something to that effect because of this… thing that happened a few months ago.

see, he has this psychotic ex that created a fake myspace page (and while we’re on that, who the fuck uses myspace?) with my phone number, so i got a bunch of creepy phone calls. i told him about it, and here’s where the problem comes up. all my female friends understood exactly where i was coming from, the guys didn’t. i guess it’s a gender thing. i wanted him to get mad on my behalf, say something mean about her, tell her to fuck off… something. but he only asked “would you rather not be with me as a result?”

like… i don’t know. like it was easy for him to just push me aside if i was gonna beecome a problem again.

and i hate feeling like this, but i don’t even know what to do, or say. and i don’t want to be this lame, clingy girlfriend he rolls his eyes at everytime i call.

i’m trying to do better, i just want to make him happy, so i guess the status quo is fine, but… i don’t want to tell him how to make me happy. i want him to figure it out himself because he cares.

(and every girl in the room said “get real!” when i said that aloud in the breakroom).

i guess that’s just the difference between boys and girls. i just wish i knew how to man the fuck up sometimes.

     he really is wonderful to me. i’ve never had anyone be so openly affectionate with me, and though awkward at first, it’s great to feel so wanted, especially by the one i’ve always loved.

     i was so worried for the first month or so that it’d be one of those situations where you only think you’re in love with someone because you can’t have them.

     but it’s not like that at all with him- i really feel like this is the guy i’ve always wanted. and our relationship really has unfolded like a traditional romantic comedy.

     sure being the main girl in his life at long last has forced me to finally see a fault or two with him, but for every one of his there’re a dozen of mine, and i believe he’s painfully aware of all of them.

     so now that we’ve reached this point, i’m constantly worried about screwing this up.

     i mean, i have grown up a lot in the past couple of years, buti’m still whiny, impatient, obnoxious, needy, mean-spirited, jealous and picky.

     in other words, what on earth did i do to deserve this wonderful guy?

     ’cause he is pretty amazing. my whole day can be going horribly, and all i have to do is think of him and it pushes all the moodiness away.

     i really miss him all the time, though. there’s not much i can do to push that away.

even so…

he’s mine.

at last.

i will compliment myself when i say i have a great gift with one language, and one only: english.

i have never tried very hard to learn other languages, certainly not those of my ancestors (spanish, german, gaelic, welsh, etc.) I never learned any language besides english, because I was born and raised in the united states.

when you look at the geography of my birth, it should make sense to anyone reading this why i chose to never concentrate on learning another language- what need have i for that, since i don’t plan to become a diplomat, or to travel overseas at any point in time?

certainly, if i travel to mexico, france, portugal, germany- then i should learn a few key phrases.

but for a native raised on home soil? i have no need.

until, it seems, i clock into work, and i’m expected to translate every language known to man via sign language, and (painful to me) pidgin english.

it may well be that i am predjudiced against immigrantsm having had a dreadful experience with a weasel from across the border some time ago. it may even be that i despise accents, since it inconveniences me to have to translate their pidgin english to something we can both understand.

but i’ve said it before, and i’ll say it again:

the new immigrants have taken the idea of what it is to be an american totally out of context. the idea of “becoming an american” used to be just that. yes, we held on to our old ideas and traditions, but we also melted into the great conglomeration that is american society.

the new immigrants seem to think it’s we, who were born here, we, who know exactly what it is to be one of us, should cater to the entire world.

i agree, to some extent, that we should help others, that we should welcome foreigners seeking a better life with open arms- but to say “Oh, don’t bother to learn English like the rest of us, we can pay a translator in any world language,” it just really irks me.

my dad is a second generation mexican american, from a family that spoke predominantly spanish at home, but he saw no need to teach me because it just wasn’t important. What point was there in teaching me spanish, when i’d only use it at home?

but now, i’m harassed on a weekly basis by new immigrants, who demand that america cater to them and their staunch refusal to blend in the way their forefathers would have.

correct me if i’m wrong but… i thought this was america.

most of the time, i can just backsass a customer, or make some smart-ass comment, and that’s how i deal with assholes. screw those guys, y’know?

but today, for some reason, i just totally lost it.

this guy walked up to me, some entitled jerk buying overpriced products, not because they’re actually better, but because he can, with a trophy wife on his arm.

his paint wasn’t being mixed fast enough.

“Hey lady, what’s the holdup? I’ve been waiting for 10 minutes! (real time 2 minutes).

*internal sigh* “I’m sorry sir, the paint takes a few minutes to mix, it’s almost done.”

“Well, I’d like to paint my house sometime this year.”

“I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do until the machine stops mixing.”

“Fucking bitch… (to wife) can you beLIEVE the attitude of these kids?”

I never gave him any kind of attitude, I was being polite, and I get shit on for it. What the hell.

So I just turned to my co-worker, threw up my hands, and stalked to the breakroom, where I hurled my apron at the wall, screaming obscenities and frightening about six co-workers.

Then I headed back to the training room, sat down… and cried.

I felt like such a bitch, but just… the way he said it, it just made me feel so small.

There’s no reason for anyone to act like that, to anyone! Store workers are human being, just because they’re younger or make less money doesn’t mean you have the right to lord it over them, we didn’t do anything to you.

I really hope one day that guy comes home and catches his wife blowing someone her own age.

Damn it.