Life is Perfect

Since I decided to be happy, I've realized that I've been living a lie, a lie that everyone is told. We're told that perfection is unattainable, yet we should strive for perfection at all costs. Inherent in this statement is that we're not perfect, and that we should try to be something else. If we believe this, then we can never be "good enough" because we're not perfect.

But we are perfect, and to say we are not is a lie. I am perfect. You are perfect. We can be nothing but perfect. There is nothing that exists that is not perfect.

Life, the world, everything is the way it is, which is perfect at every moment. Yes, there are changes in the world. Yes there are things we consider 'good' and 'bad.' But this does not mean that they are not perfect.

When we do our best, when we take the time to ask questions instead of assuming the answers, when we speak only words we mean and mean every word we say, when we act with integrity to those words, and when we live our lives for us without worrying about others emotions or judgments, we are perfect.

There is nothing but perfection in the world.

Reasons to be Happy

-- I am alive, breathing and healthy; I am human.
-- I am a man, strong and strong willed.
-- I am a father and husband, ensuring the lives of others can live to their fullest.
-- I am a craftsman and an artist, creating and transforming the world around me.
-- I am a writer, able to speak and act for myself with a unique voice.
-- I am an individual, and I believe in myself. 

Happiness is a Personal Choice

I have decided to be happy, that I deserve to be happy. I no longer debase myself, no longer hate myself. I have made mistakes, and I have atoned for them. There is no reason for me to repeatedly punish myself for anything. There is no need to hate myself.

I no longer base my self-worth on societal standards or the standards set forth by my parents. I am a good person and I love myself.

I am responsible for my own feelings, my own desires and my own needs. No one can change me, no one can sway me, no one can persuade me; I am in charge of my thoughts, my actions and my reactions. I do not need validation, I do not need support. I am all the support that I need.

I cannot change others, and I do not want to change others. I no longer wish to convince anyone of anything. I no longer wish to change the world, because I cannot change other's point of view.

I live in my own world, in my own dream, in my own perception of reality, and you do the same. We may agree about certain things, and perceive certain things in a similar way, and we call that 'knowledge', but our interpretation of that knowledge could never be the same.

These are the agreements that I have made with myself. This is life I live. This is my freedom.

We Almost Lost Our Home

Our home was almost impounded. My wife was able to convince the Federal Way, WA police to allow us to tow our RV to another location, rather than impounding it.

It was about 8 pm, and we were traveling in our RV, which has been our home for the last six months. The engine suddenly cut out, and I was able to coast it off of the road and into a parking lot of a dance studio in Federal Way. The owner of the studio came out and talked to us. I asked if we could stay the night and have our mechanic come in the morning. She called the security company that the studio contracts with, and they said that they would tow any vehicles that were in the lot after the studio closed.

Since we had no money for a tow truck, and no place to tow the RV anyway, we decided to chance it. We were not towed overnight, but the next morning we were approached by a woman who said she was the cleaning contractor for the studio. She wanted to let us know that she had seen a note for the receptionist to have our motor home towed if we were still there when they arrived.

Our mechanic showed up at about 10:30 the next morning. We were working on the RV as people started pulling into the lot around noon. When we saw a man unlocking the building, my wife approached him, and asked for leniency to let us fix it. He said he would give us as much time as he could.

At about 1 pm, a police officer pulled into the lot, and entered the building. Shortly after, he came out, pulled up next to us and said, "You have to leave this parking lot now, or you will be arrested for trespassing. The owner doesn't want you here for one more second."

We said we understood, and I tried to get the RV to move. It would run with the key held in the start position, so I tried to hold the key while putting the car into gear, but it would die every time I tried. So we gathered our stuff, and put it on the sidewalk next to the road. We leashed the dogs, kenneled the cats and grabbed as much of our stuff as possible.

Our mechanic helped load our stuff into his vehicle and drove me to a friend's house, who we had called to ask if we could stay a night or two. In transit, my mechanic told me he would loan me some money to get it towed, so that it didn't get impounded. My wife, who was still near the RV, was able to get a pay advance and borrow a truck from her employer. She called the tow company that had helped us a few weeks ago and convinced them to tow us about 15 miles for the same price as they had charged us the last time it broke down.

We are now stranded in the parking lot of a shut down grocery store, near our apartment that we moved out of six months ago. For two nights, no one has bothered us. I've worked on the motor home almost non-stop, and we still haven't figured out what is wrong.

I'm on my way to install a new ignition switch. Hope it works.

To Jennifer, Who Inspired Me at a Young Age

Hi, Jennifer! I wanted to tell you thank you! I know we don't agree politically/morally on many things, but you did have a profound effect on my ability to reason through arguments.

I'm don't know if you remember 8th grade speech class, but I do. One of our assignments was a 'persuasive' speech, and I chose the topic of capital punishment, and why it was acceptable to use in society. I didn't know that you had also chosen the topic, but taking the opposite side, arguing that it was inhumane and wrong.

I thought I had sound arguments based in morality (mostly via the Bible), but when you got up after me and gave your speech, you obliterated every single argument. The cognitive dissonance in my brain was extremely uncomfortable as I sat there contemplating your arguments.

I didn't immediately change my mind, instead I looked for real arguments to back my position. After years and years of contemplation, I did change my mind.

This also affected many other aspects of my life, making me question almost everything I'd been taught, including my religious beliefs, my personal relationships, my education, my family life, and so on. I still regularly question these things, searching for rational, logical answers to issues I might have from day to day.

Basically, you inspired me to search for truth no matter what my personal beliefs, and for that, I thank you.

One "Awe, Shit!" Wipes Out 100 "Atta-Boys!"

Do I need to change? (Always questioning myself)

Why am I always questioning myself? Is it okay to question myself? Is it okay for me to question others? Is it okay for me to question others, when their actions don't affect me? What if their actions directly affect me? How about indirectly?

Am I helping myself by writing these words? Is it wrong to help myself? Would helping myself before helping other people make me a bad person? If my actions benefit only me, does that make the action immoral? Should I help myself?

Am I helping to make the world a better place by writing these words? How could I know if I'm making the world a better place? Who am I making the world a better place for? Me?

Is it wrong to help a bad person? What if that person has made horrible mistakes, would it be wrong to help them be a better person?

Can people change? Is it possible to help other people change? Have I changed? Do I need to change?

How I Feel Living an RV Parked My Friend's Yard

I am a mooch, and I'm ashamed of myself. I don't want to go inside; I just want to stay out here in the RV. It's easier to stay in this little bubble, protected by the thin walls. I want to do this as long as I can. I don't want to look my friend in the eye because of the shame I feel. I know that I should go discuss life with her, and find out her expectations, but I don't want to do it. 

I'm tired of mooching, but I continue to do so. I should get a job, but I don't. I'd rather do nothing, than contribute to the matrix of lies that is the government. But I feel like I am taking advantage of a friend. 

I justify my continued mooching with weak rationalization like: 

"My friend works for the government, and gets paid way too much for the job she's doing. I'm just taking back what I put into her job in the first place." 

or

"My friend invited us; we didn't ask. If she doesn't want us to be here, she'd ask us to leave."

or

"It's not like we're costing her much, and we're even paying some of the electric bill."

Like I said, weak.

Should I make it a priority to leave, so that I can stop mooching? I would have to start paying taxes again. This is such bullshit. Government is the most fucking evil invention ever conceived, I swear.

One of the 'atta-boy' memories...

I'm running through the fields of tall grass, the sun blazing down on my face. Mom says that I need to go in, it's way past my bedtime.

"But Mom! The sun's still up!" I whined.

"Martin, it's 11 pm," she replied. "We're in Alaska now, remember? The sun doesn't go down until really late tonight, and you're already supposed to be in bed. I want you to grow big and strong, and you need your sleep to do that."

I smiled, happy she took the time to reason with me, allowing me to understand that she's trying to help me.

"Okay," I repled. "I guess that makes sense."

To my parents: do you remember?

Do you remember that saying you used to tell me? The one that went "one 'awe, shit' wipes out a hundred 'atta-boys'?" Did you know that I have very few happy memories with you, but many, many terrible memories of pain, abuse and shame?

Do you remember the time that you spanked me for peeing my bed? Do you realize that I had just had a nightmare about finding my dead father?

Do you remember the time I was 5 years old and you spanked me so hard with your hair brush that it broke? Then you blamed me for breaking the brush, and used your leather belt on me instead?

Do you remember the time when you left us with an inattentive babysitter who didn't notice that I ate a whole pack of cheese slices and became sick? Did you know that's why I don't like cheese? Why did you never believe me when I told you about that?

Do you remember when I was six years old, and didn't want to finish my food because it was cold, so you told me to put it in the microwave for a minute, but I accidentally pushed 10 minutes, and got a spanking for it?

Do you remember the hundred or so beatings you gave me simply because I didn't get good enough grades, starting in first grade? Do you really wonder why I tried to hide report cards, when I knew I'd be beaten shortly after handing it to you?

Do you remember when you beat me for defending myself from physical attacks from my sisters? Did you know that's why I never stopped Andrea from pulling my ear, because I was afraid you'd beat me?

Do you remember the time when you didn't know which one of your children did something wrong, and no one would confess, so you took us into your bedroom one-by-one, starting with me? Do you remember that you spanked me several times with a leather belt trying to get me to confess, but I didn't do it? Do you remember that you then took Andrea into the bedroom, and without any spanking, she confessed? Do you remember that because she confessed, you decided she didn't deserve a spanking? I don't even remember what it was that she did, do you?

Do you remember throwing away my boy scout project because I didn't make the cuts straight enough? Did you know that I had no idea that I wasn't making straight cuts because I was only a child?

Do you remember the many times you collected and threw away all of my books because you said I read too much? What child reads too much?

Do you remember the time, when I was 11 years old, and you literally picked me up and drop-kicked me out of the house? Do you remember when that young couple found me early the next morning, trying to sleep in a phone booth, and had the decency to take me to their bishop, who recognized me and called you in the middle of the night? Do you know how scared I was when I came home?

Do you remember beating me with my own belt many, many time? Do you know how humiliating it was every time that happened?

Do you remember when other students saw the welts across my butt and legs in gym class, and called social services to report the abuse? Did you know that I told them you didn't abuse me because I feared that if I did, I'd be abused further?

Do you remember the time I told you "No, I won't allow you to spank me?" Do you remember that after that, there were no more spankings, and instead of belts it was fists? Do you remember lifting me up by my ears and smashing my head against the wall hard enough to put a hole in the drywall?

Do you remember how I would spend most of my time in my bedroom instead of spending time with the family? Did you know that I was constantly in fear of you, unsure if my words or actions would anger you enough to hurt me?

Do you know that you made me feel as if I shouldn't exist. Do you remember telling me that I'd be in jail as soon as I turn 18 years old, because I had a problem with authority? Do you remember calling Mexicans "stupid beaners", knowing that I'm half Mexican?

Do you know that's why I don't keep in contact with you? Do you know that these memories are why I've kept your grandchildren from knowing you?

Do you feel any remorse at all? Is there anything you did that you regret? Could you acknowledge that you abused me?

Early Memories of a New Family

Four-year-old Martin opens his dresser drawer, grabbing a clean pair of underwear.

"Stupid dreams," he mutters, rubbing his sore bottom. "Stupid Aunt and Uncle, I mean new Mom and Dad. It's not my fault I peed my bed."

Several months before this, Martin's father shot and killed his mother, then took his own life. Martin had been the first person to find the scene, and the memory haunts him most every night.

Now Martin lives with his new mom and dad, who he used to call Aunt Roberta and Uncle Brian. His three cousins are now to be his sisters, even though one of them is the same age. Roberta says it was difficult to explain to the school, but there's six months between the two, and she made sure that they don't get the same teacher. At least the other school kids won't know.

Today is Martin's first day of kindergarten, and not the last time he'll be spanked for something he had no control over. This time it was a brush. Last time it was a wooden spoon. Next time it will be a leather belt.

Welcome to some of the earliest memories of my new family.

The Defining Moment of My Childhood

When I was 4-years old, my father killed my mother and then killed himself. I alone discovered the scene of the crime. This is the defining moment of my childhood.

I was born in Idaho Falls, Idaho to Laura and Salvador Salinas, on Sunday, August 22, 1976. I have no idea about any of my vitals; my weight, length, time of birth, etc. are of little interest to me, and I've never sought out that information.

My father was first generation American. From my understanding, his mother had illegally crossed the Mexican-American border so that her eight children would be born in the United States and thus have citizenship. I don't know if I can verify that information, without contacting the Mexican side of my family, who gave me up as a child.

My mother was 14th generation American, and white as white could be. I don't know how she met my father, how long they dated or under what circumstances they decided to get married. From what I've been told, she married him out of spite. My grandfather's strict rule led my mother to rebel against her father, and she married a man almost the opposite of what she new of her father.

We lived in Idaho Falls for a few years. My mother was a waitress, and my father was sporadically employed, although I've never known what kind of work he did. I've been told my mother was an angel who made a few mistakes, while my father was a nice guy, when he wasn't being a lazy, drug-dealing alcoholic. If you can't tell, most of my information comes from my mother's side of the family.

At some point before I turned 3 years old, we moved to McAllen, Texas. This was where much of my father's family resided. I lived there for only a short time; a few months before I turned 4-years-old, my mother left my father. I'm unsure of the details that led to this split up, but rumors of my fathers drug and alcohol use are said to be the cause.

My mother took me back to Idaho Falls, where she received support from her family. My father stayed in Texas, but after a few months of separation, he came to Idaho with the intention of taking me home with him.

I don't know the exact details of the night of my parents death, but I do know that I had been taken to a babysitter's house. My mother never came to pick me up, so the babysitter dropped me off the next morning. I remember getting out of the car, telling the babysitter not to worry. The door was open, so my mother must be home. I have no idea why the babysitter left me, a 4-year-old child, at the front door without talking to my mother. This seems very odd to me.

I remember running into the house, and seeing my father lying in the fetal position on the kitchen floor with a warm apple pie balanced on his hip. I remember thinking that he was sleeping, and that I shouldn't try to wake him up. I don't remember any blood, but I must have known that something was terribly wrong, and I ran out of the house, crying for my mother.

I walked around the block for some time, because I had been taught to only cross the street with an adult. Eventually, a neighbor heard my cries, and notified the authorities. They found my mother in the back yard, shot once in each kidney, and once in the head. They found my father in a pool of blood in the kitchen. The bullet had not killed him, and he bled out slowly.

Thus began my life.

Disclaimer: Much of my knowledge about my childhood has been told to me second hand, by people who had an incentive to deceive me in an attempt to gain my obedience. If I learn that any of the details discussed in this blog are incorrect, I'll happily retract and/or rewrite this post.

My Personal History: An Introduction

What am I? Why do I have so many questions? Why do the answers always create more questions?

Are answers really what I want? Do I want to know "The Truth?" Is knowing "The Truth" even possible? If I do come across "The Truth", will I know it's true? Have I already come across "The Truth", and already discarded it?

Why do I think this way? Is there something wrong with me or is asking questions the right thing to do? Why does it seem that I'm the only one that asks questions?

What is "right" and "wrong?" What is morality? Is morality a construct, or a reality? Does morality matter in the long run? 

Where are the answers?