ohtheseas: (Default)
 I have started to think, this is part of my space. I think, I'm going to pretend to know what I'm talking about because why would my point of view be invalid on matters related to my own life? (I'm not going to jump into others lives and make blanket statements about what they're doing wrong.) I think less "oh god I am so wrong aren't I why am I even speaking up" and instead going, "I am going to present this without the addition of 'I think', 'I feel', etc". I speak up when things aren't working for me, or they're wrong. I'm not always doing okay but I don't think I can do anything until I feel like I have control of my life. That's it.

And likewise, when I critique something it doesn't mean I love it less, but that perhaps they handled something a little less than perfectly. Or that could have been a nice change. Or something. Issues in exist in things I love! I love Mass Effect, but some matters were handled less than stellar, even in the first game. I love Haruki Murakami, yet there are some ways in how he writes women in his earlier novels that frustrate me. (He's gotten better over the years though.)

I think getting away from the atmosphere on tumblr or carefully filtering it helps with that. I am me. I need to be me. I need to accept myself.

Then I can start to work on other things.
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 I spend a lot of time doubting my intelligence. I wish I didn't.

I spend even more time doubting my analytical abilities.

My suitability to study at university. My suitability to study overall, and then my ability to work.

Then my ability to make it as an actual human being in modern society, instead of the urban recluse I have become.
ohtheseas: (Default)
 I never thought I'd say, I'm coming to terms with being the monster, but reading The Last Werewolf by Glen Duncan is helping with exactly that. It's absurd! I've fought this, that I am the antagonist in other's narrations of their lives for so long, but here I am, coming to terms with it.

I have caused a lot of hurt, and I am not looking for forgiveness from my victims. (How bone-chilling, to call them that.) They won't give me that, and besides, that makes it sound ego-centric. Seeking to help for the purpose of absolving myself the wounds I have slashed into them. I do not believe in returning to someone else's life, wrecked with guilt, or this sense of "we need to finish this"; I have myself rejected that offer from someone who hurt me. It's not something I believe in. Do others?

I'm tired and I have to go soon, but it's the only thought that's in my head. The monster in the narrative. I write monsters, too. I like them, us horrible ones, my kind of people.

It requires a certain strength, a certain desire of life and a mindset, an acceptance of difference, to be able to cope with me I think. Accept that I am not a social person, that I am sometimes very withdrawn even from myself, accept that I sometimes write and write and live writing and breathe writing, accept silence, accept my incessant talking about something I love and you have no idea what it is, accept that I'm terrible but that I am in love.

There's no point to this. Just a thrill. Narrative monster. The creature of nightmares. How exciting! I'm this! I'm the antagonist! And I'm fine with it!
ohtheseas: (Default)
 I threw something out today. 

When I was 17 and head-over-heels in love with a man ten years older than me, I got out and got drunk and felt so ill I wanted to throw up. I nearly did, almost crying as we sat on the steps of a faculty building of NYU while an angry drunk screamed at us. All the while I kept clicking a broken lock between my fingers, counting. The man I so adored, who sat there by my side doubtlessly wondering why he was spending his evenings with a 17-year-old girl and their common 25-year-old friend, noticed. He asked me where I found it, and I vaguely recalled walking past Silver Towers on Wooster St and snatching it from there.

I brought it back to Sweden with me.

An ex asked "how can I even compete with that love?", seeing my eyes shimmer as I thought of this man I never got to kiss. (I kicked him, punched him, hated him, raged at him, cried over him. I never kissed him.) I said "you can't", because he was a thousand ideas and ideals and dreams wrapped up in one, but not a man I could ever have or hold. I didn't even fantasize about sleeping with him, just being near him, kissing him, having a snatched month of intellectual bliss.

I confessed this to him on 34th Street, blood trickling down the inside of my thigh, sunburn on my chest. He said he knew, said it was impossible, and I was dazed and confused and hated everything and wanted to hate everyone. I cried and told everyone.

The first year was the worst. It got gradually better, then better still, then I realized a few months ago I barely think of him. He's still that stuff dreams are made of, but that which never materializes, that relationship you hinge imaginations on, thinking of what you could have had but thankfully never did. I am a disappointment when I date men, because I end up hating their semen, the smell of their dick, the way they groan when they come.

I threw out the lock today.

It didn't hurt.
ohtheseas: (Default)
 If asked to name my biggest concern and reason for losing sleep, it would have to be that I feel absolutely out of my depth in terms of my education. Which is pathetic considering I'm still only at a high school level, scraping together credits little by little, 400 per semester if I'm lucky and pay attention, but most of all I worry about grades. I worry and fret because it still feels like it is so out of my hands. When I apply myself I get B or C; when I do not, I somehow achieve an A. It's a dangerous formula in terms of my engagement with my studies, particularly in how the more I strive to do well in a subject the worse I perform.

For heaven's sake, my best math test happened the day after I threw up whiskey in my bed and fell asleep in the vomit. I somehow scored a flawless A drawing up statistic charts with a pounding hangover and sucking on painkillers, and then I immediately tripped as I went out and landed in wet mud that covered half my body. The point is, when I am a disaster I somehow manage. It doesn't make sense to me.

Now here I am. I am acutely aware that the funding I receive for my high school studies cut off the minute I surpass the amount of credits I need get my graduation. I also realize that the paper I sent in to the funding services were all about some noble goal of going into engineering or economics, which frankly makes my skin crawl. There is always this gap in presenting myself as having an aim that is Noble, Worthwhile, and I rate it in the same manner everyone else does.

Who needs another English degree graduate anyway? Who needs a Swede with an English degree?

Then I start to argue with myself, because the jobs I see myself actually enjoying can benefit from that – librarian! Translator! Editor! I try to remind myself of this as I think of the choices I have made over the last month.

I think one path to better happiness is to throw my tentative caution to the wind and go all-out with the subjects I actually do love. Maybe I should not take that Chemistry class when I doubt my sincere affection for that subject (tantalizing as it is) and perhaps dive headfirst into Philosophy, Psychology (oh the intimate experiences I have with this subject!), Religion, languages. There's a course in Latin that deals with both the language and culture. I could maybe get a grip and open up the possibility of studying modern languages through taking a course in German, or Japanese (my affinity for Japanese literature, I suppose) – for so long I spend time denying what I want to do and make myself miserable.

I might continue with math but it's... The courses are so quick? They get done in so little time when I wish that maybe, I could have two months more. It's difficult to find flexibility in this rigid system I am attempting to navigate. And then I look around and I get insecure again. I shouldn't have flunked history as hard as I did. I should have gotten a better grade. I start beating myself up again, repeatedly.

It's like a circle of misery I perpetuate by being indecisive and trying to balance the idea of being both a rich and successful person my siblings can be proud of, and being the writer I yearn to be, living in a medium-sized city/town, in an apartment where I have a room of my own to write in. It doesn't have to be big, just fit a desk, a few shelves on the wall, a comfortable chair, a couch. A window I can open, a door I can close. I write the best when I am not watched. I made my ex put on headphones when he played games as I wrote, refusing to talk to him as I pounded out a terrible love story for hours on end.

So that's where my mind is.

Plus, I keep looking back at my time in school – going to terrible and underfunded schools where I set fire to things during recess and spat in boy's mouths because I was so frustrated that classes were only 40 minutes long and my mind is slow – I can say it's brilliant but it works slowly. I need time and I had so little of it. I skipped classes and worked at home, or not at all. I barely passed, I hated everything. 14 and depressed. 14 and angry.

It's just... I look at others who had their parents pull strings to get them into good schools. Who moved areas just to ensure they got into good ones. Why didn't my mother push me? 

A thousand questions. I'll finish this later. Amend it with all my questions.

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my name is everything

October 2012

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"We want to be loved; failing that, admired; failing that, feared; failing that, hated and despised. At all costs we want to stir up some sort of feeling in others. Our soul abhors a vacuum. At all costs it longs for contact." — Doctor Glas, Hjalmar Söderberg