My name is Giyen – pronounced GEE-yen (which, much to my chagrin, rhymes with pee-yin). I am a 36 year-old mother of a 15 year-old girl. Needless to say, someone in their mid-30′s should probably never live with someone in their teens. At least not without backup. The combination of thirtysomething and teen angst is basically a recipe for pain – I HATE YOU! I LOVE YOU! I HATE YOU! – and around and around we go. This is the story arc of my life.

That’s a picture of my daughter, Paige. At 15, she is quite frankly the most brilliant person that I have ever met. Genetics may or may not play a role in my opinion. As much as I complain about her, I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather be with. She is funny as all get out and I consider her my best friend (even though the sound of that probably makes her want to die of embarrassment).

On October 1, 2009 we moved to a place called Vashon Island. Our lives have not been same since. Now my days consist of taking 2-3 modes of transportation – bus, ferry, schooner, dingy, car and then back on the bus again. Sometimes I take a horse and buggy. To date, I have not tried using a burro as a mode of transportation, but I am sure that my time will come.

I am still trying to get used to island life. Sometimes shake my hands to the sky and scream out, “WHY, GOD, WHY!”

God never replies.

There are other days when I feel like I was meant to be here. It’s usually after I’ve had a couple of beers.

Growing Up

I was born in the armpit of Texas, a.k.a. El Paso. I have no recollection of living there and have no sentimental regard for my hometown. Coincidentally, most people that I have talked to about El Paso don’t speak very fondly of the city and as a result it has hindered any feelings I might have about taking an obligatory “pilgrimage journey” to visit my roots. After a brief stint in Texas, my parents settled in the small coastal town of Coos Bay, Oregon. You would think that as recent immigrants to the United States, my parents would want to move to an urban city with other Korean people around but they didn’t and the rest is, as the say … history.

I spent the majority of my formidable years in considerable turmoil. My Mother, a paranoid schizophrenic, was sent back to Korean in the early 80′s and was institutionalized by her family there. She subsequently died in the hospital of complications stemming from pneumonia. I never got a chance to speak with her after she left the United States and have no knowledge of my maternal family members. I hope someday to change that.

My Father quickly remarried someone who I considered a Nazi (Wife # 2 of 4 marriages). While I won’t go into the details of it all, I will say that all of my parental figures did a good job at royally screwing up us kids. Most of my neurosis stems from the fact that I never felt good enough growing up because – well, my parents told me that I was never good enough. I rebelled by quitting high school and went on a quest to find myself. To date, I have not been successful.

After three stints at sitting in the therapist’s chair, four attempts at taking antidepressants and a bunch of self-help books later – I think that I turned out okay. I am off meds and am probably the most positive person that you will get to know. This is of course, when I am not in one of my moods. In which case, you’ll probably not see me because I will be hibernating.

Being A Parent

In 1994 I discovered that I was pregnant. I pretty much weighed each option I had very carefully and decided to have a baby despite all of my earlier conventions about never having kids “so I won’t screw them up like my parents did.” Paige was born in October and we never looked back. Putting aside the trials of her teen years, Paige has turned out to be the most amazing person I know and has been instrumental in propelling me forward as a human being. You really can’t wallow too much in self-pity when you have to support the needs of someone else.

And if you are doing it right, being a parent has to be the most heart-wrenching, soul-stripping, self-sacrificing pursuit. Every childhood neurosis that sticks with you as an adult is amplified when you have kids. You’ll actually still find yourself being afraid of getting picked last for team sports because it’s your kid who is in danger of getting picked last and somehow that is a societal reflection on the both of you. The emotional stress that I am under because of it is unreal. If my heart can survive years 14 – 18, then I think I can do just about anything.

Being An Adult

In 1991, I got my first job waiting on tables at a place called Virginia Street Diner. It had a 50′s theme and I had to wear a poodle skirt and wear scarves wrapped around the nape of my ponytail. It was an improvement over the Taco Time uniform that I wore prior to that. I only mention this because it epitomizes how demeaning being in the restaurant industry can be. It doesn’t matter where you live, people can be rude and you have to wear things like “flair.” Be nice to your servers. It’s hard work and to this day, like many of my compatriots, I can no longer stand hearing the “Happy Birthday” song.

As a result of my stint in the restaurant world, I became an amateur “foodie.” Like many of those in the restaurant industry, I probably spent large portion of my undocumented tip income on going out to eat and drinking copious amounts of wine & spirits. Though I have toned it down a bit, I am still in love with good sweet bourbon. I find it to be a panacea for most ailments. For you parents, it’s good for small crying babies as well.

My 20′s (like most people’s 20′s) were spent being in love with the wrong people. I could go on and on about this topic, but (I will assume that you are new to Bacon) nothing is worse than hearing about ex-boyfriends during the first time you meet someone. I won’t do it. And if you are an ex-boyfriend who just happen to find me on the interwebs – I am sorry I cheated on you. You were always right and I was wrong. My life is in shambles without you and I should have worked harder. Blah. Blah. Blah.

Now, don’t we all feel better?

Moving on.

In my late 20′s I settled into a long-term relationship. I decided to leave my restaurant gig and get a day job like “normal” people. You know, until I figured things out. I started working for a nonprofit organization and ended up being there for 7 years. My friends call it my college and graduate education (since I never finished college) – after all, I was surrounded by the most warm-hearted, funny and lovely people in the world. And I learned so much.

But I hated it. I am not built to work in an office work environment. My brain doesn’t work that way. I need to be creative.

Sometime in late February 2008 I woke up after a few restless hours of sleep and made the decision to resign a job that I couldn’t stand. Instead of doing what most rational people do in this predicament – find another job and then quit – I ran to work with a resignation letter in hand and set it on my boss’s chair. Aside from parenthood, this act of self-love is the most significant thing I have ever done in my adult life. I deserve to be happy.

After several months off assessing what to do next, I started a blog and the trajectory of my life changed. Suddenly I found where I felt most at home. Now, I wish I could say that I started a blog, made a bunch of money, got married and then lived happily ever after – but I guess I’ll have to settle with starting with happily ever after. All the other things will just be just around the corner ….

Nowadays

When I am not working full-time at a day job – I write. I vlog. I build WordPress websites. I try to make people laugh. And when I am not doing those things, I am out trying to meet as many people as possible. As my friend Matt says, “I am up with people.”