Proud

I remember when I was losing weight the first time round. I had lost a significant amount of weight, and my mum took me shopping at Tarocash Manukau. I got my first sweater vest as well as a shirt and tie I think. Anyway, while I was trying them on, my mum was talking with the sales person and was telling them what I had done and how proud she was.

When I was filmed for Campbell Live, they did some pick up shots with me and my mum cooking dinner, and she told all of New Zealand how proud she was of me.

My mum loved me, and was proud of me no matter what I did. She told me, a lot. I believe her.

Pickled Onions

My mum loved pickled onions. There is a jar left in the fridge that she had that was unopened. I opened it, and added some to my dinner the other night.

I don't like picked onions, at least in the way that I ate them, but it felt good to connect to something that was my mum's. I wonder if they would be good with brie?

Speaking of connecting, I've been thinking about connecting, and how we do it with things and people. Maybe even with experiences.

I used to blog a lot, and through blogging I connected with a lot of people. I did some incredible things. I had some incredible things happen to me. I'd like to get back to incredible, and I'm not sure how to do it.

While one can connect through writing, writing seems to be a medium that I have less and less connection to. I am a HEAVY consumer of Youtube, and I am fascinated by the platform. I'm incredibly scared of what Youtube can do, too. Comments sections are hell a lot of the time, but maybe that reflects the relationship text has with video? Nah, I'm reading too much into that.

But I want to experiment with it. I want to see if I can do anything with it. Maybe not, but maybe.

Currently Casey Neistat's vlog series has captivated me. How he can hold a consistent narrative through a day, through editing, selective shooting, it's awesome. I'm thrilled at his story telling through the everyday.

I'm going to sleep now, but I want to go to Vegas and New York.

Everyone Dies

So not too long after my mum died, my dad died.

My dad's passing is a lot easier to process and interact with mentally. And the reason behind that is I've had a difficult/non-existent relationship with him.

My dad physically and psychologically abused my mum when she was with him. He hit me too.

I used to want his approval because he disapproved of me/what I was doing. To be fair, I wasn't doing much with my life as a teen, but when he'd see me maybe once a year and tell me what I needed to do, it doesn't foster any closeness. Resentment, if anything.

So, him dying, doesn't hit me as my mum's death did.

For me, it's not the loss of a parent, of someone who loved me unconditionally, who I knew, who knew me, who I loved and spent the majority of my life with. It's the death of a possibility. The possibility of having a relationship with my dad, of having a father like everyone else.

To the people he kept in touch with, mainly my family on his side, he was a funny uncle or brother who was also an abusive dick. They've tried to contact me, but I can't engage with that, with them, because of him, and in that respect I feel sorry for him and them. To know that his son doesn't want to engage with their grief, and with his passing. I feel bad for that too.

It's given me a sense of my mortality, though. Both my parents died under 60 and I'm 30. So if we're going by their track record, I'm more than halfway through.

I'm going to try to prioritise my health. Not so much that I can live longer, but so that I can enjoy the years I have left to the fullest.