The glorious and triumphant return of now-19 year old Blogger, the revival of a once-grand and dare I say influential webspace that produced daily content, and the crippling anxiety of a young woman who no longer has any time or motivation to write, and feels like any ability she had acquired in the past through repetition and sheer will alone is now slowly slipping out of her grasp. Brief history of the Blog and Blogger can be found here.

Here be personal journal entries, observations, slices of life, questions and conclusions, as well as exploration of social and political topics seen through the lens of a Malaysian Muslim, feminist, lesbian, Marxist, and horse enthusiast.

Monday, August 22, 2011

Interlude 40

When I have bad days, I write, I listen, I talk, I cry. Mostly cry, though, and it really is sometimes no use at all because God has made everything the way that it is and nothing's going to change that. But it feels good. It just feels nice.

There are stages you go through, he says, his voice crackling from disuse; stages that you have to come to terms with because whether you're looking at it from a third person's point of view, or your own, it doesn't matter. What matters is facts. Hard, cold solid facts. And he wants to tell you what he knows. He wants you to learn the phases, live the phases, with him.

First is you've got to know that you're special. And not a wrapped in cotton, prick of a finger can put you to sleep kind of special. Not delicate. You're special because God chose you. Out of all of those other people, he chose you. And don't you feel the slightest bit happy? Don't you feel the slightest bit blessed? Because they don't have what you do, and if it's not pure and utter faith we're talking about, they don't have the basics, the foundation to step a foot inside of heaven's doors. They're not you, born with an intense curiosity for things you will never understand. They're not you. They don't have what you have and sometimes, it's a bad thing and sometimes, it's not. It's more than brains and it's more than pure instincts. It's guts. The courage to do what is right. The bravery to fight for what you believe in and the strength and perseverance to solve the problems that must be solved.

For He is God, all knowing, and he does not burden you with things He knows you can't handle. This is pressure, pure and simple. This is hardship. And most of all, this is a test, and don't you feel the slightest bit empowered, Morning Glory, that He chose you to endure all of this because he knows you can handle it? You. Out of four siblings. Out of the thirty something people in your class. Out of the thousand something people at your school. You. You've had to go through this and so much more because you can handle it. You can get through it. And if God believes in you, then why, why don't you believe in yourself?

Second, you start telling yourself that you're not smart and he disputes that, as he always will, and he'll tell you, Morning Glory, that that is the farthest thing from the truth he's ever heard you utter yet. You tell yourself these things, you tell others these things and yet you don't take any of it to heart? But what is the point, then, if words are only uttered for the sake of utterance? If encouragements are only spoken for the sake of getting the thing over and done with? Please don't do this to yourself. Please don't make yourself go through this whole thing again.

But you insist. You say that after all that effort, after all that you've put into it, this is result? This is it?

But he tells you, as he is already tired of telling you, that that wasn't effort, what you did. It's not effort to cram a day before the exams, it's not effort to not give a fuck and it's not effort to read fanfiction first thing in the morning before you go to school. It's not effort, pure and simple, and it is definitely not effort, and it's really neither here nor there, to cry over spilled milk. And once again you say something.

You say, that that might just be the most ridiculous expression ever because while that may be the case, once the milk is spilled, it's still going to just be there, on the floor, and you're either going to have to live with it and live with the sour smell it leaves in its wake, or clean it up. And you ask, how. How are you supposed to walk alongside all of your other friends, knowing that they're better than you, knowing that you're less?

And that's when it comes to a head with him because that's when it usually does. He'll defend you, as he always does and probably always will. He'll defend you against your harshest critic. Yourself. And he'll do it while simultaneously trying to soothe away the heartache but what he won't do is hear you talk like this because.

That's how some people feel some days, walking around and seeing everyone else around them just being better. But that's what they keep telling you, the books, the television shows, the talk shows. That who is society to judge you? Who is everyone else to tell you that you're not perfect? Who are they to say anything against who you are? Why do people, he says, why do people have to measure everything against everything else? Why are everyone's accomplishments an accomplishment only insofar as they are the best, the most accomplished, the smartest, the prettiest, the skinniest, the most talented, the most popular, all of that?

Why are you scared, Morning Glory, when you know that there is quite literally no one who can be smarter than you are?

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