24 Weeks, 3 Days: It’s Mom’s Birthday – June Sucked, July Shouldn’t – Memorial Ashes Tattoo

24 Weeks, 3 Days.


It’s mom’s birthday today. She would be 62.


My brother posted a sad post.

It made me cry immediately.

I hate it how easy it is to make me cry. And it’s not like a small cry. It’s uncontrollable sobbing.

It happens randomly when I think of her. It happens many mornings. It happens sometimes when I’m driving around. Or suddenly when I am reminded that she’s gone.

Today is going to be a day like that.

I miss her so much it’s stupid.

Happy birthday, mom. I love you and miss you so much. It’s tough to hold back the tears and there is no point in doing so alone in my room, but it’s already been so much that I am tired of crying.


Then I wash my face.

Look at myself in the mirror. And see this big dude with tattoos just sobbing. It looks ridiculous.


Speaking of tattoos.

I’m getting one soon.

And by soon, I mean, as soon as I am done with this post I am going.


Tattoos in honor of my mom I had planned way before all this happened.

Turtles.

Her favorite animal.

I always planned on getting three little 8-bit Koopa turtles on my arm.

And another big turtle across my chest.

The big turtle across my chest is today.


I had the idea of mixing some of her ashes with ink. I Googled that thing. Turns out, it’s a thing.

Ceremonial cremation ashes tattoos.

Or memorial ashes tattoos.

The information out there is a bit mixed about the safety of it and how it hasn’t really been studied, but it should be safe.

The tattoo artist I am going to be working with had me put some of the ashes through an autoclave (with my dentist) for the extra precautions.

It was the first time we opened the box of ashes where my mom rests.

I didn’t even know it was sealed.

I thought it was just a box that you could open.


Now I have some ashes in my apartment in a marble urn-like thing that belong to my grandma. On a table that used to be my grandparents. With a lot of turtles that used to by my moms.

It’s… so fucking weird.

I say everything is so fucking weird.

But to see human ashes. To have them. To know that that was her.

They feel sort of heavy. Not the same as other ashes.

It’s all symbolic.

I wasn’t at the cremation place. People that work there probably give 0 shits.

How do I know the ashes are my mom and not some random person?


June sucked. And I am already starting this post in a very sad manner.


I went to therapy again last Friday. Second time.

We talked about my depression. Because it’s been getting worse lately.

Again, June sucked.

But even before going into therapy, I have decided I want to kick July’s ass.

I haven’t been able to as much as I would like to.

I realized working makes me happy.

Or not really happy… but productive and busy which makes me forget about my depression.

So I want more work.

Especially photography work.


I worked a bit extensively for three days last week. And it felt great. I got to do some work right now. And ask for my money for the work I did (not enough). Send a lot of emails. And organize my work week.

I know I work on Saturday covering the Pride Parade. WOO!!!

And I work next weekend a lot covering Comic Con.

And one of my favorite issues is in order “Feast!”

That means I get to go to fancy restaurants, tell them I’m the photographer and the writer mentioned certain plates and that I need pictures for the cover or the inside spread.

Then I get to photograph all the pretty food, and almost always, I get to it after.


I wanted to write for this special issue as well. Since there are a lot of fine dining places in Baja and Tijuana that need to be addressed that I want to try and I know I can write greatly about it.

But no.

The editor told me that I’m not a good food writer, much less a fine dining one.

I disagree with him. Food writing is one of my favorites. But it’s not my decision.

What is my decision is… being truly a freelancer.

All my work goes to them.

And I wait for them to always give me more work instead of me finding freelance work on my own.

I love working for them. They pay great. And I like my co-workers and the magazine in general.

But it’s time for me to go bigger. Get more gigs.

And that’s my plan.

Get more fucking gigs.

I’m a great versatile photographer. I can get more gigs. More food and drink photography. I am thinking of starting with businesses I know in exchange for credit at their places. And then start charging a ton by 2020.

And make my own digital marketing agency.

I see it all the time. People getting paid a ton for controlling social media. More specifically, Instagram and Facebook. And the posts are poor. Well… in many cases, they are actually great. But a lot of places have poor social media with shitty pictures. And I yell at my screen SOMEONE IS GETTING PAID FOR THIS AND IT COULD BE ME!

Hopefully, I can do this shit.


I had a meeting today to talk about the potential of writing a book. He had to cancel again. That possibility seems to be getting further and further away.


My other book…

Well… now two more people read it and enjoyed it. It needs editing. It needs a nicer layout. But I think I’m just going to add a link here to a PDF and charge people $10 if they want to read it. As it is.

If I get 10 people to do it… that’s $100!

And if that turns into more…

Then I can edit it and make it nice?

Probably not.

Probably no one will download it.

Or probably I will end up forgetting and doing nothing.


I have things to do.

I don’t do them.

That’s been the story of my life for the past days.

My therapist gave me goals that I should work on. I didn’t promise anything, just that I will try. It’s hard to try.

I want to get rid of this depression.

It’s just tough.


I don’t see my therapist again until next Friday. Friday mornings are when I see her. It’s not at all my favorite time, but apparently, it’s the only time she has an opening on her schedule.

I talked to her about something I posted months ago. About my “best friend fucking my girlfriend though both are neither.” I still haven’t talked to either of them since then. Until this Saturday, out of nowhere, she texted me that she misses me.

And I do as well.

But it’s been too long. I don’t want to see her just like that. Especially after I feel like I’ve been doing a decent job of forgetting about it and moving on.

Moving on is healthy.

So I said, sorry but no. And I just want to talk to my therapist about it to see what she sees.


My therapist is also curious about my depression. It’s something that I’ve dealt with forever.

So my depression is not about my mom. That’s just pure sadness. It’s a completely different feeling of sadness vs depression.

Sadness = I’m sad she’s gone and I want to honor her and I miss her and I cry. But I still want to make her proud and the things I wanted for her and for me, are still things that I am working towards.

Depression = I don’t really care about anything and my house is dirty and that’s fine and I just see the days go by and like a cripple, I don’t do anything just waiting for life to pass me by. Old pizza boxes with rotten crusts start to stack up. A bag of empties stinks of stale beer. And other trash just sits there.

I’m sad because of my mom.

Depression is my own and it’s not related (just a little bit) because of her.

Classic saying “she wouldn’t want you to be this way, she would want you happy.”

I know.

I know.

But that’s not how it works.

We both struggled with depression. It’s different.

And I’m trying.


 

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