Last night I came home all happy and recharged after having another wonderful dinner with my team. (One of my co-workers had her birthday and we celebrated.) Everything was great until my mom came to my room and bluntly asked me:
"Don't you seriously think you need to lose some weight?"
Mom had always treated my weight issue very gingerly and especially because my boyfriend had been kind of hinting at the fact that he wanted me to lose a few pounds, I had been very self-conscious about my body. I felt so embarrassed, humiliated, and betrayed. It was my MOM -- one person who could just tell me that I looked fine the way I was. Of course I wouldn't believe her. But it's just nice to hear mom saying that I look okay.
I had already been trying to lose weight. I changed my lunch menu to low-cal dishes that had a lot of veggies, I walked more, and I had begun to do some exercises. Nothing changed drastically but I figured that it was better to start things off easy so I can gradually increase the intensity of my routine.
I contribute my over sensitivity to PMS partially but I was hurt. Deeply. Mom still doesn't know that she did something so hurtful to me.
But -- being the secretly optimistic person that I am, I'm trying to see this as a positive thing. Sometimes I DO need some kick in the butt.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Writing
I miss those days when inspiration flowed through my veins. I feel like my resources have depleted. At least for now. I have ideas but they are not complete thoughts. I have vague images in my head and they require assembly.
I've been working on my novel for quite some time now. This is the third year. It sounds like a lot but my writing sessions are intermittent so I only have fifteen pages or so. I see vivid characters and backgrounds in my mind but it is by random chance I get to describe them to full satisfaction. It is especially difficult when I'm in a place where I'm not using the language. Luckily I get to write it often though its uses are limited to rather dry legality.
My chief interest when writing fiction is mental illness. Nothing in this world is fully understood but a human being is a fascinating creature. We ourselves often fail to comprehend what is really going on with our own bodies and minds. Humans are the only animals that study motives of their behaviours. And we're the only ones that lie to ourselves. Mental illnesses are therefore a very interesting subject. Visual and auditory hallucinations are my favourites. Mind you, my interest is strictly scholastic; it is not sick fancy with patients who suffer from these horrible ailments.
And perhaps I'm interested in this area because I myself often wondered if I were crazy. We are all mad to some degree, I believe, but at times I really convinced myself I might not be normal after all. I think I won't be surprised even if I were to receive such diagnosis. I think being ordinary is the most terrible thing in the world. If I'm crazy at least I'm not mundane. (Or is this a very dangerous idea that I'm toying with?)
Anyways.
All the writing I've done in the past four months are either blogging or translations. Blogging makes me excessively introspective. I'm quite inwardly focused as it is.
I write these days to gain some relief. I'm dying to have intelligent discussions (by which I merely mean any kind of conversations that force me to think) and I'm beginning to think they are a rarity here. I'm not saying I'm surrounded by stupid people; they're just too tired to talk about things that require intense thinking. Most people already use too much brain at work and when talking they want to do so casually. I've been feeling pretty underchallenged at work these days so I do need some intellectual stimulation.
More and more I lose confidence in my resolution that I will one day reapply to law school and practice law in Canada. I'm not sure whether this is momentary weakness or cold hard realization.
But I don't want to be ordinary. Giving up would render my existence utterly and painfully ordinary and insignificant. I don't want to be like that.
So I keep feeding myself hope which may or may not pay off. So I write.
I've been working on my novel for quite some time now. This is the third year. It sounds like a lot but my writing sessions are intermittent so I only have fifteen pages or so. I see vivid characters and backgrounds in my mind but it is by random chance I get to describe them to full satisfaction. It is especially difficult when I'm in a place where I'm not using the language. Luckily I get to write it often though its uses are limited to rather dry legality.
My chief interest when writing fiction is mental illness. Nothing in this world is fully understood but a human being is a fascinating creature. We ourselves often fail to comprehend what is really going on with our own bodies and minds. Humans are the only animals that study motives of their behaviours. And we're the only ones that lie to ourselves. Mental illnesses are therefore a very interesting subject. Visual and auditory hallucinations are my favourites. Mind you, my interest is strictly scholastic; it is not sick fancy with patients who suffer from these horrible ailments.
And perhaps I'm interested in this area because I myself often wondered if I were crazy. We are all mad to some degree, I believe, but at times I really convinced myself I might not be normal after all. I think I won't be surprised even if I were to receive such diagnosis. I think being ordinary is the most terrible thing in the world. If I'm crazy at least I'm not mundane. (Or is this a very dangerous idea that I'm toying with?)
Anyways.
All the writing I've done in the past four months are either blogging or translations. Blogging makes me excessively introspective. I'm quite inwardly focused as it is.
I write these days to gain some relief. I'm dying to have intelligent discussions (by which I merely mean any kind of conversations that force me to think) and I'm beginning to think they are a rarity here. I'm not saying I'm surrounded by stupid people; they're just too tired to talk about things that require intense thinking. Most people already use too much brain at work and when talking they want to do so casually. I've been feeling pretty underchallenged at work these days so I do need some intellectual stimulation.
More and more I lose confidence in my resolution that I will one day reapply to law school and practice law in Canada. I'm not sure whether this is momentary weakness or cold hard realization.
But I don't want to be ordinary. Giving up would render my existence utterly and painfully ordinary and insignificant. I don't want to be like that.
So I keep feeding myself hope which may or may not pay off. So I write.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Plans? What plans?
On the very last day of 2011 my parents and I had a very serious talk regarding my future. My dad problematized how unpredictable I have become (allegedly) and asked me what I planned to do with my life. My dad always takes a condescending tone with me so that part's already been established. What really insulted me was that he told me I was unpredictable. Do I need to be predictable in some way? Does dad always have to be able to figure me out? My dad always told me in a boastful manner that he could open up a fortune-telling / physiognomy place and have a flourishing business.
I suppose what makes my dad, let's face it, so afraid of my lifestyle is that he no longer has the degree of power that he used to have over me. I openly rebel against him, criticize his attitudes towards other people... among other things.
But I did see his point. Even though I feel stable and comfortable enough in my current position I do need to have a plan.
The fact that I still long to study law in Canada presents me with daunting tasks of retaking LSAT, asking profs to fill out recommendation forms, and completing personal statements ALL OVER THE FUCK AGAIN. I had spent three months prepping law school applications before. The whole thing is still fresh in my memories and I'm not looking forward to doing that again even though this time I won't be applying to nine schools. My parents practically have no faith in the prospect of my getting into law school so I've stopped expecting them to trust me. I'm not doing this for them anyway.
It's been years since I made new year resolutions. I didn't bother mostly because I knew they will be short-lived. But I've decided to prove my skepticism wrong. I won't tell you what they are, however. ;p
I suppose what makes my dad, let's face it, so afraid of my lifestyle is that he no longer has the degree of power that he used to have over me. I openly rebel against him, criticize his attitudes towards other people... among other things.
But I did see his point. Even though I feel stable and comfortable enough in my current position I do need to have a plan.
The fact that I still long to study law in Canada presents me with daunting tasks of retaking LSAT, asking profs to fill out recommendation forms, and completing personal statements ALL OVER THE FUCK AGAIN. I had spent three months prepping law school applications before. The whole thing is still fresh in my memories and I'm not looking forward to doing that again even though this time I won't be applying to nine schools. My parents practically have no faith in the prospect of my getting into law school so I've stopped expecting them to trust me. I'm not doing this for them anyway.
It's been years since I made new year resolutions. I didn't bother mostly because I knew they will be short-lived. But I've decided to prove my skepticism wrong. I won't tell you what they are, however. ;p
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