Releasing the Fantasy Self

I love this topic of the fantasy self. It seems to reveal so many underlying causes for so many of our first world issues.

“There’s Something About Her…”

“There something about her that I just don’t like.”

We know this phrase well, and somehow it always seems targeted towards women. Men’s personalities, no matter how outrageous or controversial, never seem to be picked apart quite as much.

Every single woman on Earth knows what this feels like to some degree. I can remember so many of my high school friends telling me they thought I was a snob when they first met me. Had I given them any reason to believe that? No. I didn’t think I was better than anyone, I always spoke kindly, and I wanted so desperately to make friends. I found that even when I pushed the boundaries of my comfort zone and took on the role of semi-social butterfly, the same thing happened. It was beyond frustrating because it gave me no direction in which to go to change the cycle. It made me angry because, try as I might to change myself and act exactly how the social skills subreddit taught me to, I still seemed to radiate the energy of an insufferable cow.

My mother taught me to be confident, unapologetic, open-minded. She taught me to set boundaries for myself and not to disturb the boundaries of others. She also taught me that all of my problems start with me. I’ve lived by this since I was 17 and it seems like common sense, but it causes waves amongst those who have not learned these things yet. We forget that the opinions of others are not truth. That oftentimes we may be the target of those projecting their insecurities. There’s something about her that they don’t like because it serves as a reminder to them how much they lack. Have you ever noticed how they shout this so loudly about attractive, intelligent and/or successful women? They receive the most hate because the jealous and insecure believe that it is their duty to take these women down a notch. Their own fears have deceived them into believing these innocent women are the problem, when the problem has only ever existed inside of themselves.

You know your intentions, you know your heart, you know what kind of woman you are. Don’t let anyone (but your therapist or your mom) try to tell you anything.

What is Love

I’ve been married for 3 years (such a long time, I know!), and it is the best thing I’ve ever done. Being married has taught me how to love; a lesson that is a lot harder than it looks.

The Goldfinch: My Unsolicited Opinion

The Goldfinch (written by Donna Tartt) is the tragic adventure of a young boy named Theo Decker. It all begins in a museum and ends in Amsterdam with about 800 pages in between.

This was a captivating story drawn out much, much further than necessary.

The detail was impeccable, but often tiring. The lack of good decision making from any of the characters was maddening. The fact that I just couldn’t put the book down made me want to pull my hair out. How could so many people simultaneously choose the path that would only bring them more problems? How could no one stop for a moment to even try to comprehend the bigger picture?

But that’s the reality of a wild life, isn’t it? And a good story. A part of me just wishes this story could have been told in 300 pages or less. How many pages does one really need to describe a drug-induced stupor? But I admire and commend Donna Tartt on her pure talent for creating extraordinary from the mundane.

Every character, besides Theo’s mum and Hobie, was difficult to love; much like most normal humans. And while we are supposed to feel great empathy and compassion for Theo in the beginning, the ability to empathise runs out when the pages turn into what feels like a never-ending pity party.

I loved this book and hated it all at the same time. It was a little too raw and a little too real to be read in comfort. But that is the style of the author, and part of what makes her work irreplaceably great. I’m craving to read more of her work, but I need time to recover.

Opinions & The Art of Reading

Once again, I’ve managed to acquire far too many books. Only this time, I have had to cram them into the cramped spaces hidden around a Victorian-era English house.

Because London seems to be under some spell stripping it of time, I also find it quite difficult to finish reading through my precious treasures. So, I just look at them and they make me happy all the same. The people I live with find it ridiculous, my obsession with books. “A waste of time”, they call it. But we all have our vices; just as they love to fill the spare hours with TV, I love to get lost in my stories. Really they’re both the same, but would we be human if we didn’t convince ourselves that we are wholly better than everyone else around us? That our passions and desires are the only things worth anything, and those who differ must be mental?

I had only caught glimpses of this way of thinking in my past life. Well, my father was very much like this which is why, I believe, we didn’t get along after the divorce. My mother, on the other hand, was quite fluid and easygoing as long as you respected her and kept unnecessary opinions to yourself. She taught us that the world is full of differences and everyone is right in their own way. Now in my 20’s, I can say that I don’t agree with everyone nor believe all differences to be right or good, but I do believe in respect and boundaries. I can’t be bothered to care about most things and if you would like to live differently from me, be my guest. If you seek my opinion, it is yours. But life is too short to be so worried about everyone else around you unless you have to be. Besides, would the world be quite so captivating without all of the varying shades and hues that give it so much life?

Once upon a time, I would have been quite put out by negative talk regarding my books or really anything I liked. But I have grown a slightly less thin layer of skin, so I continue getting lost in worlds so far from my own. I love my books, I love reading them, I love being inspired by them. I have just finished reading The Jade Peony by Wayson Choy, a story in 3 parts narrated by a sister and two brothers. It is about life for the first generation of children of Chinese immigrant parents in 1930’s-1940’s Canada. It was touching and slightly heartbreaking, I finished it in 4 days. Now I am on to Half of a Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, one of my favourite authors. The opinions will announce themselves again, loudly attempting to interrupt my venture into those deep pages. The book will be branded stupid just like the last one and all of the ones before that, but I’ve stopped caring. My stories will go on, and I will go with them.

Lessons

I look back upon my life and see a pattern so clearly outlined by the passing of time. Since I can remember, I have been afraid of speaking up for fear of being disliked. In my mind there has been a constant stream of rules, regulations, and judgments on my behaviour that I failed to apply to anyone else. Nothing was ever right, always the wrong words, my actions awkward and robotic as I attempted to act out my role. But I’ve always been rubbish at acting.

Most of the time it seems much easier, much more uncomplicated, to be a doormat. Resistance takes a constant effort, a persistent fighting wracked with emotional toil. But to just simply lie there and take life and the people in it gives off a pretense of calm and fluidity. Only for a short while, at least, until it all becomes too much to bear. Then, I attempt to stand up only to be trampled on again. It is only when I impulsively make my escape to land on another doorstep that I may sever such ill connections.

It is only now at the ripe age of 24 that I am finally realising my role to play in all of this. I am the common denominator in every situation that has arisen. I have actively chosen not to speak up nor take action. I have chosen to stay silent and submissive to those who don’t deserve any portion of me. Yet still I give it freely, assuming the best of intentions in the recipients. I am tired of this now. How do I make it stop?

It can only begin with myself. I must find my voice and use it actively at every moment. I must withhold myself until my audience is proven worthy of acceptance. My aspirations, plans, feelings, history should be kept to myself. I am not a friend to anyone until I know they are not an enemy. I must move in silence. And I must demand respect. That is the only way.

The Beginning

The air is filled with the energy of summertime. Almost overnight we dashed from what felt like a miserable ice bath and plunged headfirst into something more like the comforts of a hot tub on a long awaited holiday.

I’ve lived in London for 1 year and 5 months exactly and have fallen madly in love with it. I am now living in what was once only a distant dream and it still feels so surreal.

Today is my first and possibly only day off for the next week and I’ve decided to finally undertake a project I’ve put off for far too long. Last year in the midst of the pandemic, I rediscovered my love for writing. I only wrote in journals and most of it was childish and grammatically incorrect from lack of practice. But I feel now that I have found my feet again and would like to attempt to make another one of my dreams come true: to become a writer officially, professionally. I have aspirations to publish my poetry, to study all of the classics, to begin this blog, and to submit my work to various online publications. I have only been standing in my own way all of this time. I upsets me to think of how it’s taken me so long to do so many things that I love. Was it laziness? Fear? Some deep, psychological response to some childhood issue?

There is so much to do in this life and so little time. I have watched as old friends have embarked on their own creative journeys and I feel very deeply that I should be doing the same, but I’m not. What’s stopping me? I look back over my own life and recognize so many moments where I could have thrived but instead I became overwhelmed and gave up. So many opportunities I watched lethargically as they floated on by.

Perhaps now I feel so alive and full of ambition because I’ve finally sorted out my iron disorder. Or maybe I’ve grown up a bit. Maybe it’s a combination of both. Some days I still feel as if I’m being crushed by some invisible weight and I lose all of my desire for beauty and words and creation again. The writing goes uncompleted, my dreams unfulfilled, opportunities neglected. I keep thinking that maybe I should go for a mental health check up. After all, I do have access to the NHS now. We’ll see.