"It’s a new year! And though there’s not exactly a new me, here’s a new blog documenting my thoughts, on WordPress! It’s fully functional and it’s got a good bit more of wonderful features and tools that Blogger didn’t have. It sure took me awhile to get this thing started. I couldn’t really figure out all this navigation – it’s simple and straightforward but there is way too much for me to adapt to in one day. I’m actually not even planning on releasing this new blog until I’m at least 75% finished with customizing it. At 75% complete, I’m banking on it to be a new and improved (and much more focused) blog than I previously had (which was a total experiment that turned out to be quite an enjoyment). And though no one will see this post immediately after I post it, I am still posting it. This is a test post…well, actually it’s because I’m too impatient to start a post after I release this new blog (who knows how long it’s going to take me?). But even after the premiere, I’m going to have many more changes to make. So, bear with me and stay tuned!"
Saturday, January 15, 2011
New year, new blog
First post on my new blog that explains it all:
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Abusive working conditions? Or just cultural differences?
My mom works for the Austin-based Foxconn (the company that gets your iPhones to you). I don't really know what her work environment is like; she doesn't really talk about it. She probably doesn't talk about it because it's nothing out of the ordinary, and probably identical to any other company building in America. Her work conditions are, undoubtedly, comparably better than the Foxconn factory's working conditions in Shenzhen, China where 11 workers committed suicide at the factory's dormitories.
I recently came across an article online about the living conditions of the Foxconn factory workers (you can access it here). The first time I looked through the pictures and their captions, I thought, "Wow. This looks horrific." I mean, who would want to live with seven other people in a dorm the size of a two-car garage? Gross. But while I was gawking at the photos, I felt a strange bit of...(dare I say it?) familiarity and nostalgia. Wait a moment, these rooms look like many of my relatives' homes in China! Given that my relatives don't exactly live with eight people to one large bedroom, the atmosphere and condition of the rooms are incredibly similar. I felt like the article was not only (subtly) bashing how Foxconn treats its workers, but also how most families (including my own) live in China.
Though the big company really could stand to provide its workers with higher living conditions, the dingy lifestyle is really just a reflection of the mainland Chinese lifestyle in general. The standards of living in China are simply not as high as the standards of living in America - and I think the native Chinese are all used to that. There are more modern living conditions equally comparable to the U.S., though, particularly in the big cities like Beijing where much of my family lives. The more recent generations, like my aunts and uncles, live in the contemporary city apartments. But even when I stay there during my visits back, I still feel like I'm not as comfortable. Like they don't use central air conditioning and their mattresses are not nearly as thick and firm as ours in the U.S. Not to mention, you can't drink straight tap water - your choice is either bottled water or boiled water that you leave sitting until all these particles form a layer at the bottom so you can pour the water from the top. But it's not like they're necessarily poor or anything - heck, our family and friends in China are better off economically than most Americans come close to. And as we all know, China is our number one competitor. I think the dreary setting that the articles' photos captured aren't as much of a matter of worker mistreatment as it is a matter of cultural differences. Living as a Westerner definitely has its blissfully sweet luxuries.
"Well, what about the 11 suicides?" What about them? Haha, just kidding. Well, there's a simple answer to that - yet another cultural difference. Chinese people are mentally screwed up. Yes, I just said that. There's not nearly as much of an emphasis on mental health as there is in America and sometimes I feel like the only two things that Chinese people know are suffering and hard work. There isn't a remedy for the consequences from the trials that they put themselves through. And I wouldn't even doubt that the majority of Foxconn workers' are now dwelling in better living conditions than they would have been in the homes that they left behind to make money for their families.
A few decades ago, when my parents were still kids, China was especially deficient in living standards (though it wasn't as impoverished as the earlier famine, it was still, at best, dreadfully modest). My parents would tell me stories from their childhood and I would feel guilty for being able to indulge in modern Western conveniences. My dad actually grew up as a farmer boy, with an extended farmer family. Even today, when we go back to visit his hometown, outhouses, muddied dirt roads, and chicken eggs as luxury items are the norm (man, were they proud to have raised their own hens who hatched the eggs!). He was one of the exceptionally rare few who were able to traverse past the almost-impossible-to-reach-success barrier of his environment, while still partaking in it by breaking tons of farming sweat. He's now able to claim one bachelor's degree, two master's degrees, and a doctoral degree (from three different countries, too) -oh, and a well-paid job at one of America's top public universities. I don't really know exactly what it was like for him to travel that path but surely it was anything but merciful.
That is the life of a Chinese person. You'll find extremely few who don't work as hard as the Foxconn workers do, or as my dad does (he was just lucky to have gotten this far).
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| After the suicides occurred, netting was installed around the dorm buildings in case anyone else tried to jump. |
Though the big company really could stand to provide its workers with higher living conditions, the dingy lifestyle is really just a reflection of the mainland Chinese lifestyle in general. The standards of living in China are simply not as high as the standards of living in America - and I think the native Chinese are all used to that. There are more modern living conditions equally comparable to the U.S., though, particularly in the big cities like Beijing where much of my family lives. The more recent generations, like my aunts and uncles, live in the contemporary city apartments. But even when I stay there during my visits back, I still feel like I'm not as comfortable. Like they don't use central air conditioning and their mattresses are not nearly as thick and firm as ours in the U.S. Not to mention, you can't drink straight tap water - your choice is either bottled water or boiled water that you leave sitting until all these particles form a layer at the bottom so you can pour the water from the top. But it's not like they're necessarily poor or anything - heck, our family and friends in China are better off economically than most Americans come close to. And as we all know, China is our number one competitor. I think the dreary setting that the articles' photos captured aren't as much of a matter of worker mistreatment as it is a matter of cultural differences. Living as a Westerner definitely has its blissfully sweet luxuries.
"Well, what about the 11 suicides?" What about them? Haha, just kidding. Well, there's a simple answer to that - yet another cultural difference. Chinese people are mentally screwed up. Yes, I just said that. There's not nearly as much of an emphasis on mental health as there is in America and sometimes I feel like the only two things that Chinese people know are suffering and hard work. There isn't a remedy for the consequences from the trials that they put themselves through. And I wouldn't even doubt that the majority of Foxconn workers' are now dwelling in better living conditions than they would have been in the homes that they left behind to make money for their families.
A few decades ago, when my parents were still kids, China was especially deficient in living standards (though it wasn't as impoverished as the earlier famine, it was still, at best, dreadfully modest). My parents would tell me stories from their childhood and I would feel guilty for being able to indulge in modern Western conveniences. My dad actually grew up as a farmer boy, with an extended farmer family. Even today, when we go back to visit his hometown, outhouses, muddied dirt roads, and chicken eggs as luxury items are the norm (man, were they proud to have raised their own hens who hatched the eggs!). He was one of the exceptionally rare few who were able to traverse past the almost-impossible-to-reach-success barrier of his environment, while still partaking in it by breaking tons of farming sweat. He's now able to claim one bachelor's degree, two master's degrees, and a doctoral degree (from three different countries, too) -oh, and a well-paid job at one of America's top public universities. I don't really know exactly what it was like for him to travel that path but surely it was anything but merciful.
That is the life of a Chinese person. You'll find extremely few who don't work as hard as the Foxconn workers do, or as my dad does (he was just lucky to have gotten this far).
Sunday, December 19, 2010
The inconvenient truth(s) of being a writer
I'm back from my long hiatus from blogging. I haven't gotten to it despite winter break having begun for a while now. I took a little trifling vacation and did some soul-searching. In that soul-searching, I came up with quite the variety of blogpost topics. However, I now refrain from blogging about any of those (that is, out of the ones that I can actually remember).
I refrain from writing a lot of the time. I feel like being a writer (or in my case, writer-in-training/writer-wannabe) means handling something very delicate - like if you aren't tip-toeing painstakingly enough, something will snap, whether that be a personal relationship or...even a career (your boss may find your post disturbing - gasp!).
Like today, I wanted to blog about how my mother thinks I may be incapable of finding a boyfriend. But as I started to type...actually, no, scratch that - I never started to type. It was too much of a hot topic to get started on. Sometimes what I brainstorm becomes too personal, too brash, or even too uncensored. Sometimes potentially intense and colorful ideas get shoved aside because I fear that they may be too much for the general audience to handle (not that I have much of an audience). And because you never know who is reading, you try (or at least, I try) to not offend any individual who just might be offended. For example, my parents. I don't hide my blog from them; I don't think it does them justice for a daughter who they have been raising to hide her blog from them, or any other piece of writing for that matter. But sometimes their reactions really irk me. They think there are certain thoughts that I shouldn't have written about, things that I shouldn't be sharing with the open cyberspace. I, on the other hand, do not think I've blogged about anything even near risque. No one has ever told me that I have either. Moral of this very-short-story: a writer can never know what disturbs some people. People's judgments are too diverse.
This is a problem. A notably troublesome problem, in my opinion. Based on me (note that I am not covering every writer out there, just some), I know that writers can be very expressive individuals. I mean, hell, I'll be one of the most open people you will ever meet. I don't hide things - not because I don't like to hide things, but because I don't even think about what to hide so everyone just basically knows everything about me. I have no secrets. Pretty much all elements of my life are...well, shared. Does this miff people? Sure it does. But am I supposed to care about ruffling people's nerves so much to the point of holding myself back? Movies like Julie and Julia are what worry me - the main character, Julie, was afraid that her idol, Julia Child, didn't appreciate her - possibly because she mentioned the word, "fuck," too many times in her blog. I mean, my everyday choice of vocabulary does not include words such as, "fuck," but the situation is relevant.
Also, speaking of expressive, I am often excessively expressive on the internet. When I tweet or IM, I tend to use lots of punctuation marks and varied lower-/uppercase letters. It doesn't even matter that it's a subconscious habit because I will often communicate the wrong message. For instance, I was chatting with one of my best friends on IM today. He thought that I was getting angry at him because I commenced my usage of uppercase letters and "?!" marks. I had no intention of getting mad at him whatsoever! (See? There goes that exclamation mark.)
I'm sure virtually all writers know about this risk - that the intended audience can often be very different from the actual audience, and thus, messages have the potential to be altered in the most unintended and unnerving manners. And I'm sure I'm just too inexperienced to have honed my skill of filtering my writing. And, I'm sure that there are plenty of writers out there who really don't care what their audience may think of them. I'm also quite sure, however, that there are those who are very much like me - those who care about what others may think or how they may react. What do you do then? There's just so many perils to being a writer. Who would want to spend his or her life being one? Pfft...evidently, me.
I refrain from writing a lot of the time. I feel like being a writer (or in my case, writer-in-training/writer-wannabe) means handling something very delicate - like if you aren't tip-toeing painstakingly enough, something will snap, whether that be a personal relationship or...even a career (your boss may find your post disturbing - gasp!).
Like today, I wanted to blog about how my mother thinks I may be incapable of finding a boyfriend. But as I started to type...actually, no, scratch that - I never started to type. It was too much of a hot topic to get started on. Sometimes what I brainstorm becomes too personal, too brash, or even too uncensored. Sometimes potentially intense and colorful ideas get shoved aside because I fear that they may be too much for the general audience to handle (not that I have much of an audience). And because you never know who is reading, you try (or at least, I try) to not offend any individual who just might be offended. For example, my parents. I don't hide my blog from them; I don't think it does them justice for a daughter who they have been raising to hide her blog from them, or any other piece of writing for that matter. But sometimes their reactions really irk me. They think there are certain thoughts that I shouldn't have written about, things that I shouldn't be sharing with the open cyberspace. I, on the other hand, do not think I've blogged about anything even near risque. No one has ever told me that I have either. Moral of this very-short-story: a writer can never know what disturbs some people. People's judgments are too diverse.
This is a problem. A notably troublesome problem, in my opinion. Based on me (note that I am not covering every writer out there, just some), I know that writers can be very expressive individuals. I mean, hell, I'll be one of the most open people you will ever meet. I don't hide things - not because I don't like to hide things, but because I don't even think about what to hide so everyone just basically knows everything about me. I have no secrets. Pretty much all elements of my life are...well, shared. Does this miff people? Sure it does. But am I supposed to care about ruffling people's nerves so much to the point of holding myself back? Movies like Julie and Julia are what worry me - the main character, Julie, was afraid that her idol, Julia Child, didn't appreciate her - possibly because she mentioned the word, "fuck," too many times in her blog. I mean, my everyday choice of vocabulary does not include words such as, "fuck," but the situation is relevant.
Also, speaking of expressive, I am often excessively expressive on the internet. When I tweet or IM, I tend to use lots of punctuation marks and varied lower-/uppercase letters. It doesn't even matter that it's a subconscious habit because I will often communicate the wrong message. For instance, I was chatting with one of my best friends on IM today. He thought that I was getting angry at him because I commenced my usage of uppercase letters and "?!" marks. I had no intention of getting mad at him whatsoever! (See? There goes that exclamation mark.)
I'm sure virtually all writers know about this risk - that the intended audience can often be very different from the actual audience, and thus, messages have the potential to be altered in the most unintended and unnerving manners. And I'm sure I'm just too inexperienced to have honed my skill of filtering my writing. And, I'm sure that there are plenty of writers out there who really don't care what their audience may think of them. I'm also quite sure, however, that there are those who are very much like me - those who care about what others may think or how they may react. What do you do then? There's just so many perils to being a writer. Who would want to spend his or her life being one? Pfft...evidently, me.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Growing up Chinese
It's 1:59 AM as I start to type this blog post. I'm sitting here still working on the Research Assistant rut that I've taken upon myself to burrow through, during Thanksgiving break, having consumed most of my "resting" days (insert mopey face here). At first, I was thinking, "Why on Earth do I get myself into these things along with 2390859043 other things that make them turn into annoying inconveniences?" And then I realized my research would be so much easier if my parents weren't so Chinese. I know it sounds terrible, but please, allow me to explain.
My research consists of interviewing and recording the interview with 26 Americans. I must fit the criteria to complete the leftover demographically reflective sample with these 26 people: a certain amount of males/females, a certain amount of Republicans/Democrats/Independents, a certain amount of high school education only/college education, a certain amount of young-/middle-/old-aged, and on and on. Then I have to transcribe the recordings (the interviews last anywhere from 10-90 minutes and it takes three times as long as the actual recording to transcribe it). Then I have to do all kinds of neat analysis type things with it. And well, despite the tedious and meticulous work, nothing is quite as difficult as the part where I have to find these 26 people.
It's been over a year since my family has moved to Texas. This project would've been easy if I could still interview my fellow South Carolinians that I've come to know over the ten years I've lived there but I'm required to do face-to-face, in-person (meaning no Skype) interviews. But you'd think that one-and-a-half year here in Austin would be enough for my parents to have made enough friends to help me recruit some potential interviewees for my research (since, from what my professor told me, that's how the past Research Assistants worked their connections). And you know, my parents have made enough friends. But the problem lies in that they are mostly Chinese people who have recently arrived in the U.S. or have such heavy accents that the interviews with them are often rendered useless and void. I'm still missing seven more recruits, and I need my entire project done by this coming Wednesday. I'm in a desperate crunch.
And it's this part of my anxious, running thoughts where I realize that this would all be so much easier if my parents had been, well, more assimilated into the All-American community. Then, golly gee, I'd have loads of recruits to interview and I would've been done already! Sad, but true.
Then upon even further revelation, I realized that's how it's been my entire life. Everything seemed to be a little more difficult for me than my peers (or maybe that's because I grew up mostly in South Carolina so it's warped my perspective, but nonetheless, it's troublesome!). I mean, don't get me wrong, my parents are fully-functional Americans who have careers - my dad's a professor and my mom works for a big company. It's just that there's still the cultural and language barrier (I came over to the States at the age of two so we're still pretty Chinese despite my own super Americanized-ness). It was always weird trying to get my parents to socialize with other parents at any given high school occasion. In fact, I was this lone butterfly for a while because from where I came from, the parents of the kids who were best friends were also best friends. Not only that, often in academics and extracurriculars, my parents couldn't help me like other parents did. In the areas where I saw other parents helping my peers with their school projects or talking teachers into playing favorites, I worked hard to accomplish what I have, on my own. I mean, I was never mad at dearest father and mother. How could I have been? My parents are truly the most supportive and encouraging parents anyone could ever have. Though honestly, I've kind of always felt like I was on my own, and it's kind of lonely sometimes (or rather, often times).
But somehow, I'm so thankful (no, I did not prepare this blog post for Thanksgiving, though I feel like I should have). For all of it. For all this independence I was forced into. I can veraciously say that my independence is unlike any other independence. Because I can do things on my own...but I've always had the encouragement waiting for me when I turn around, and a shoulder to cry on for the colossal number of failures I've encountered as a consequence of this forced independence. And it's made me more aware - more aware that I'm, in fact, not the only one - that there may be another just like me, going through all the trials they have to, just because they're different.
In the end, I must say that growing up Chinese has made me recognize my strength - that I'm stronger than I normally take myself to be. But most of all, it's made me recognize that there are other individuals out there who are just as beautifully strong. And some of them don't realize it yet. So, I'm going to take it upon myself to help them see it.
My research consists of interviewing and recording the interview with 26 Americans. I must fit the criteria to complete the leftover demographically reflective sample with these 26 people: a certain amount of males/females, a certain amount of Republicans/Democrats/Independents, a certain amount of high school education only/college education, a certain amount of young-/middle-/old-aged, and on and on. Then I have to transcribe the recordings (the interviews last anywhere from 10-90 minutes and it takes three times as long as the actual recording to transcribe it). Then I have to do all kinds of neat analysis type things with it. And well, despite the tedious and meticulous work, nothing is quite as difficult as the part where I have to find these 26 people.
It's been over a year since my family has moved to Texas. This project would've been easy if I could still interview my fellow South Carolinians that I've come to know over the ten years I've lived there but I'm required to do face-to-face, in-person (meaning no Skype) interviews. But you'd think that one-and-a-half year here in Austin would be enough for my parents to have made enough friends to help me recruit some potential interviewees for my research (since, from what my professor told me, that's how the past Research Assistants worked their connections). And you know, my parents have made enough friends. But the problem lies in that they are mostly Chinese people who have recently arrived in the U.S. or have such heavy accents that the interviews with them are often rendered useless and void. I'm still missing seven more recruits, and I need my entire project done by this coming Wednesday. I'm in a desperate crunch.
And it's this part of my anxious, running thoughts where I realize that this would all be so much easier if my parents had been, well, more assimilated into the All-American community. Then, golly gee, I'd have loads of recruits to interview and I would've been done already! Sad, but true.
Then upon even further revelation, I realized that's how it's been my entire life. Everything seemed to be a little more difficult for me than my peers (or maybe that's because I grew up mostly in South Carolina so it's warped my perspective, but nonetheless, it's troublesome!). I mean, don't get me wrong, my parents are fully-functional Americans who have careers - my dad's a professor and my mom works for a big company. It's just that there's still the cultural and language barrier (I came over to the States at the age of two so we're still pretty Chinese despite my own super Americanized-ness). It was always weird trying to get my parents to socialize with other parents at any given high school occasion. In fact, I was this lone butterfly for a while because from where I came from, the parents of the kids who were best friends were also best friends. Not only that, often in academics and extracurriculars, my parents couldn't help me like other parents did. In the areas where I saw other parents helping my peers with their school projects or talking teachers into playing favorites, I worked hard to accomplish what I have, on my own. I mean, I was never mad at dearest father and mother. How could I have been? My parents are truly the most supportive and encouraging parents anyone could ever have. Though honestly, I've kind of always felt like I was on my own, and it's kind of lonely sometimes (or rather, often times).
But somehow, I'm so thankful (no, I did not prepare this blog post for Thanksgiving, though I feel like I should have). For all of it. For all this independence I was forced into. I can veraciously say that my independence is unlike any other independence. Because I can do things on my own...but I've always had the encouragement waiting for me when I turn around, and a shoulder to cry on for the colossal number of failures I've encountered as a consequence of this forced independence. And it's made me more aware - more aware that I'm, in fact, not the only one - that there may be another just like me, going through all the trials they have to, just because they're different.
In the end, I must say that growing up Chinese has made me recognize my strength - that I'm stronger than I normally take myself to be. But most of all, it's made me recognize that there are other individuals out there who are just as beautifully strong. And some of them don't realize it yet. So, I'm going to take it upon myself to help them see it.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
I'm thankful that I get to be a spoiled brat.
Okay, so most people who see the title to this blog post will say, "You don't act like a spoiled brat." False. Ask any of my roommates and they'll tell you how I sound when I'm on the phone with my parents.
I don't really know why they put up with me. I'm kind of a terrible child; I'm really demanding. I've been in self-denial about it for a while now, thinking that I'm the perfect little daughter. Well, not so. Certainly not so. So I'm really thankful for them, basically.
Oh, and I'm thankful for my (few) close friends that put up with me. Because I start to act really bratty and demanding to those who get closer to me. Heh, apologies! Sincerely! I'm working on it though. And honestly, I think I've made quite a bit of excellent progress. I don't think any of my close friends since college have really seen much of this side of me (sorry, Dorothy, for making you the sole sufferer of the Crystal Zhao wrath). Though if it does come out, again and in advance, I am very truly sorry!
And most of all, I'm thankful for Thanksgiving mainly because I finally get to go all out for Christmas! I mean, not that I haven't been leaking my Christmas spirit yet, because I most definitely have. But this time, I really do get to bug people up and down and side to side with all of my merry tidings! I'm rather excited.
And finally, another new reason to be thankful - I logged onto my blog today and was welcomed by two very comforting comments. That made my Thanksgiving all the more fuzzy and warmer :). Thank you to the two of you (you know who you are) for taking the time to read my (sometimes the very opposite of optimistic) thoughts and responding to them. That was truly amazing.
Speaking of some of my thoughts being the very opposite of optimistic, I've decided that I need to remodel (or re-theme) my blog. It will be changed soon. I officially pronounce my blog Under Construction until further notice (and this further notice would probably be very short since I am currently undertaking the editing right now).
Cheers and Happy Thanksgiving to all!
I don't really know why they put up with me. I'm kind of a terrible child; I'm really demanding. I've been in self-denial about it for a while now, thinking that I'm the perfect little daughter. Well, not so. Certainly not so. So I'm really thankful for them, basically.
Oh, and I'm thankful for my (few) close friends that put up with me. Because I start to act really bratty and demanding to those who get closer to me. Heh, apologies! Sincerely! I'm working on it though. And honestly, I think I've made quite a bit of excellent progress. I don't think any of my close friends since college have really seen much of this side of me (sorry, Dorothy, for making you the sole sufferer of the Crystal Zhao wrath). Though if it does come out, again and in advance, I am very truly sorry!
And most of all, I'm thankful for Thanksgiving mainly because I finally get to go all out for Christmas! I mean, not that I haven't been leaking my Christmas spirit yet, because I most definitely have. But this time, I really do get to bug people up and down and side to side with all of my merry tidings! I'm rather excited.
And finally, another new reason to be thankful - I logged onto my blog today and was welcomed by two very comforting comments. That made my Thanksgiving all the more fuzzy and warmer :). Thank you to the two of you (you know who you are) for taking the time to read my (sometimes the very opposite of optimistic) thoughts and responding to them. That was truly amazing.
Speaking of some of my thoughts being the very opposite of optimistic, I've decided that I need to remodel (or re-theme) my blog. It will be changed soon. I officially pronounce my blog Under Construction until further notice (and this further notice would probably be very short since I am currently undertaking the editing right now).
Cheers and Happy Thanksgiving to all!
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
I hate small spoonfuls of peanut butter. And I hate losing myself even more.
Winter's a-comin'. It's time for the winter blues. Or rather, it's time for a hot-button issue that my friend and I have been discussing lately - I'm experiencing the onset of my speculated seasonal affective disorder (SAD).
But that's only part of it; my SAD is just an attention-grabber for this blog post.
What's really been bugging me lately is how much I feel like I've lost myself. It might be the stress and worry I've been experiencing. My fleeting thoughts are a part of my recently-diagnosed ADHD and anxiety. Regardless of the reasons, I can't seem to manipulate my mind onto the path it used to be on.
I'm an idealist, I always have been. But lately, I've been less so, much less so. I feel like I was more passionate about everything I did prior to this semester. I suppose you could say that I was more exuberant and vivacious...more thoughtful as well. I had more insight and more intuition for the way I want to live my life, my picture-perfect life (however, admittedly, with flaws - I'm not that idealistic). But lately, there's been less depth in my introspection, if any at all (obviously, since I haven't updated my blog in forever).
My psychologist told me it's because I'm like a spoonful of peanut butter. If I only had one slice of bread, I would sufficiently cover its surface. But since it seems like I have several slices of bread, I'm hardly covering any surface at all. I asked him, "Well, isn't that kind of the case with everyone?" He responded with a nod, "Yes." But then goes on to say, "Though only to an extent. You're a smaller spoonful of peanut butter." I'm sure he didn't mean to make me sound inferior, but I sure felt more inferior! What is so wrong with me that I couldn't be a larger spoonful of peanut butter?
He says there's nothing wrong with me, that I just have a deficit. But to me, that deficit is worse than anything in the world. Why? Because I feel like I'm losing myself. Though I've always prided myself in my careless goofiness, I prided myself in my ability to soul-search even more. There hasn't really been any of that lately. My "know thyself" development has come to a halt. I feel so...shallow.
And shallowness is absolutely unacceptable to me. In fact, I hate when people think I'm stupid or naive just because I like to be a jolly, energetic ball of cheer and laughter. I hate when people think I'm incapable or not enough of a hard worker just because they take me solely at face value, not allowing themselves to really get to know me. I hate being underestimated. But I hate it all because I've always secretly acknowledged that I am shallow. I'm shallow because when I decide to spread myself onto too many slices of bread, inadequacy results. And yet, I insist on grabbing more bread, searching every corner for just one more slice.
And thus, my relentless accumulation of slices of bread induces me to lose myself. It's kind of an agonizing process. And that's really where my thoughts end. I have nothing further to say about my current introspection. Because I can't, because I'm shallow, because I'm worrying about too many slices of bread. And I apologize for such an abrupt end.
But that's only part of it; my SAD is just an attention-grabber for this blog post.
What's really been bugging me lately is how much I feel like I've lost myself. It might be the stress and worry I've been experiencing. My fleeting thoughts are a part of my recently-diagnosed ADHD and anxiety. Regardless of the reasons, I can't seem to manipulate my mind onto the path it used to be on.
I'm an idealist, I always have been. But lately, I've been less so, much less so. I feel like I was more passionate about everything I did prior to this semester. I suppose you could say that I was more exuberant and vivacious...more thoughtful as well. I had more insight and more intuition for the way I want to live my life, my picture-perfect life (however, admittedly, with flaws - I'm not that idealistic). But lately, there's been less depth in my introspection, if any at all (obviously, since I haven't updated my blog in forever).
My psychologist told me it's because I'm like a spoonful of peanut butter. If I only had one slice of bread, I would sufficiently cover its surface. But since it seems like I have several slices of bread, I'm hardly covering any surface at all. I asked him, "Well, isn't that kind of the case with everyone?" He responded with a nod, "Yes." But then goes on to say, "Though only to an extent. You're a smaller spoonful of peanut butter." I'm sure he didn't mean to make me sound inferior, but I sure felt more inferior! What is so wrong with me that I couldn't be a larger spoonful of peanut butter?
He says there's nothing wrong with me, that I just have a deficit. But to me, that deficit is worse than anything in the world. Why? Because I feel like I'm losing myself. Though I've always prided myself in my careless goofiness, I prided myself in my ability to soul-search even more. There hasn't really been any of that lately. My "know thyself" development has come to a halt. I feel so...shallow.
And shallowness is absolutely unacceptable to me. In fact, I hate when people think I'm stupid or naive just because I like to be a jolly, energetic ball of cheer and laughter. I hate when people think I'm incapable or not enough of a hard worker just because they take me solely at face value, not allowing themselves to really get to know me. I hate being underestimated. But I hate it all because I've always secretly acknowledged that I am shallow. I'm shallow because when I decide to spread myself onto too many slices of bread, inadequacy results. And yet, I insist on grabbing more bread, searching every corner for just one more slice.
And thus, my relentless accumulation of slices of bread induces me to lose myself. It's kind of an agonizing process. And that's really where my thoughts end. I have nothing further to say about my current introspection. Because I can't, because I'm shallow, because I'm worrying about too many slices of bread. And I apologize for such an abrupt end.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
What problem? I don't have a problem.
Whatever quality of your own that you're most afraid of is what you hate in other people. It's a vicious concept, however true. Think about it, I know it applies to you.
I am not fond of slackers because I'm scared that I'm a procrastinator. I am not fond of people who are late because I'm scared when I'm late. I am not fond of those dependent on others because I'm scared to be alone myself. I am not fond of those who do absolutely nothing because I'm scared that that's what I secretly want to be like.
It's really funny how our brains work...how naturally hypocritical we are. It's something that's so hard to fight against. I hate hypocrites because I am scared to admit that I am one. Scary thought, huh?
I am not fond of slackers because I'm scared that I'm a procrastinator. I am not fond of people who are late because I'm scared when I'm late. I am not fond of those dependent on others because I'm scared to be alone myself. I am not fond of those who do absolutely nothing because I'm scared that that's what I secretly want to be like.
It's really funny how our brains work...how naturally hypocritical we are. It's something that's so hard to fight against. I hate hypocrites because I am scared to admit that I am one. Scary thought, huh?
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