- XL coffee from Timmies
- apple fritter donut
- a bowl of pasta
Good night awful week.
Friday, March 25, 2011
I've had about 500 calories today:
Good night awful week.
Good night awful week.
Today was a horrible Friday. I skipped World Literature. My essay has not been written or submitted yet. I have my Romantic Literature essay due on Wednesday, with my final response on Friday. Then, on Monday, April 4th, I have my last essay due for Victorian Literature. Delaying the submission of my first essay has evidently screwed up the time and energy I have to prepare, plan and write the other two. Nevertheless, I suppose I will manage, somehow. Weekends aren't exactly in my favour when it comes to school work. Or, to be honest with myself, I don't seem to be in favour of school work during weekends. This very incident proves such a resistance: I shouldn't be sitting on the computer right after arriving home. But, nevertheless, here I am.
The horrible Friday consisted of a horrible night. I don't know what kept me up last night, but I was wide awake. My own stupidity kept me awake, really. I drank a large coffee with a limited amount of milk earlier yesterday. I had the intention of keeping myself wide awake and finishing that darn World Literature essay overnight. I wanted to submit the thing before the weekend came. Well, that certainly didn't happen! I stayed up and I talked to a number of friends on FB chat, but I certainly didn't touch my bag at all. That, indeed, was an awful mistake. Obviously.
Sleep deprived, I somehow mustered up the courage to get out of bed. I made it to class only 10 minutes late. I say "only" because I didn't feel like attending school today, like really. The happy thing about class was that I got an 89% on my second quiz in the course, and Professor Terretta remembered my name. After class, I bought myself an XL coffee from Tim Horton's with an apple fritter, of which, I didn't pay a penny. I didn't eat anything else today. Really, I don't have much of an appetite.
From the moment I went to the library until the last few minutes, Krishu and I "talked" about a whole bunch of exhilirating topics. You know, how much we disagree with each others' perspectives. We threatened our relationship a handful of times. And, I don't know, it was the typical fully passionate discussion. Passive really. I mean, we were sitting behind computer screens. Passive...
...So passive that I skipped class and I cried in public and it was an awful, four hour long mess. I am glad now that the mess was cleared up (at least mood wise) with the vision of Faith sitting in an empty "71" headed home. She was such a great person to talk to at the time because she understood a great deal of what I could be feeling. She's happy and fun too. I think that was a message: I will be okay. But you know something? This time around, I'm actually quite scared. I don't know what I did wrong and I don't blame him for anyway he offended or hurt me in return because everything was out of heated passion. We were absolutely pissed off. But the mere fact that we can become so bothered with each other and a mere discussion can blow totally out of proportion, only further suggests that there is a problem. A rift. A growing, unbearable and painful rift that is stripping us further apart. I don't know what will become of us at this point in time. I feel a lot, but nothing entirely explicable. The food I am depriving myself gives the inner feeling a physical dimension. Hunger. That's all. I know that I should eat something, but I'm really not in the mood. Maybe later. Besides, shedding a few pounds won't hurt either. I only wish I knew what I said specifically. Or what he doesn't like about me. Or how this is going to work out if must break up. I don't know what to say. I'm not numb, but in a way, I'm weak. I feel so weak.
The weather is sunny, but the temperature is freezing. Very cold. The breeze encapsulates exactly how I feel inside. Gothic. The sun is going down now, and I feel like I could ignore the whole world and remain in a dark corner of my room. Unfortunately, I can't. There are two more weeks of classes (or something like that), with all three assignments and a ton of exams around the immediate corner. I've got to face upto reality now. This dying relationship. These parents that expect more than I can offer. A degree that is not mine. Payments that I cannot make. A heart just panging with hunger. I wake up with my bladder burning in pain. My piss smells. I'm probably sick. All I ever know how to do is write about it. Some think I write because I want attention. I think if I showed this to anyone, they would think I was definitely seeking attention with my actions too. A blog? Why would anyone want a blog to resort their private thoughts to? Especially when a perfectly good, pink journal is waiting with half of its pages totally empty. The place where private thoughts are supposed to go. Burn-able. Rip-able. Smell-able. Where the ink smudges at the places where tear drops drip. Where mistakes are not deleted, but merely crossed off. There is evidence that the writing process is not perfect, and yet consoling. The other half of the little book's pages are filled with endless thoughts, contemplations, and frustrations. Nothing is ravishing or deep. They just exist to replicate what would have been a friend's mind bank. One day I can carry and show it to you, the reader. If I die, my book will continue to exist.
And yet, I still choose the blog. What does this imply? Why do we write? Communication to self, or communication to others? Or is there a difference at all? What if communicating with others was communicating with ourselves? Hm!
I feel that whether we are in a relationship or not, I will need to learn how to communicate in this way again. To myself, that is. People don't seem to comprehend that this is a way that people rationalize and organize their thoughts/feelings. Hm. I can't survive without it. Really.
The horrible Friday consisted of a horrible night. I don't know what kept me up last night, but I was wide awake. My own stupidity kept me awake, really. I drank a large coffee with a limited amount of milk earlier yesterday. I had the intention of keeping myself wide awake and finishing that darn World Literature essay overnight. I wanted to submit the thing before the weekend came. Well, that certainly didn't happen! I stayed up and I talked to a number of friends on FB chat, but I certainly didn't touch my bag at all. That, indeed, was an awful mistake. Obviously.
Sleep deprived, I somehow mustered up the courage to get out of bed. I made it to class only 10 minutes late. I say "only" because I didn't feel like attending school today, like really. The happy thing about class was that I got an 89% on my second quiz in the course, and Professor Terretta remembered my name. After class, I bought myself an XL coffee from Tim Horton's with an apple fritter, of which, I didn't pay a penny. I didn't eat anything else today. Really, I don't have much of an appetite.
From the moment I went to the library until the last few minutes, Krishu and I "talked" about a whole bunch of exhilirating topics. You know, how much we disagree with each others' perspectives. We threatened our relationship a handful of times. And, I don't know, it was the typical fully passionate discussion. Passive really. I mean, we were sitting behind computer screens. Passive...
...So passive that I skipped class and I cried in public and it was an awful, four hour long mess. I am glad now that the mess was cleared up (at least mood wise) with the vision of Faith sitting in an empty "71" headed home. She was such a great person to talk to at the time because she understood a great deal of what I could be feeling. She's happy and fun too. I think that was a message: I will be okay. But you know something? This time around, I'm actually quite scared. I don't know what I did wrong and I don't blame him for anyway he offended or hurt me in return because everything was out of heated passion. We were absolutely pissed off. But the mere fact that we can become so bothered with each other and a mere discussion can blow totally out of proportion, only further suggests that there is a problem. A rift. A growing, unbearable and painful rift that is stripping us further apart. I don't know what will become of us at this point in time. I feel a lot, but nothing entirely explicable. The food I am depriving myself gives the inner feeling a physical dimension. Hunger. That's all. I know that I should eat something, but I'm really not in the mood. Maybe later. Besides, shedding a few pounds won't hurt either. I only wish I knew what I said specifically. Or what he doesn't like about me. Or how this is going to work out if must break up. I don't know what to say. I'm not numb, but in a way, I'm weak. I feel so weak.
The weather is sunny, but the temperature is freezing. Very cold. The breeze encapsulates exactly how I feel inside. Gothic. The sun is going down now, and I feel like I could ignore the whole world and remain in a dark corner of my room. Unfortunately, I can't. There are two more weeks of classes (or something like that), with all three assignments and a ton of exams around the immediate corner. I've got to face upto reality now. This dying relationship. These parents that expect more than I can offer. A degree that is not mine. Payments that I cannot make. A heart just panging with hunger. I wake up with my bladder burning in pain. My piss smells. I'm probably sick. All I ever know how to do is write about it. Some think I write because I want attention. I think if I showed this to anyone, they would think I was definitely seeking attention with my actions too. A blog? Why would anyone want a blog to resort their private thoughts to? Especially when a perfectly good, pink journal is waiting with half of its pages totally empty. The place where private thoughts are supposed to go. Burn-able. Rip-able. Smell-able. Where the ink smudges at the places where tear drops drip. Where mistakes are not deleted, but merely crossed off. There is evidence that the writing process is not perfect, and yet consoling. The other half of the little book's pages are filled with endless thoughts, contemplations, and frustrations. Nothing is ravishing or deep. They just exist to replicate what would have been a friend's mind bank. One day I can carry and show it to you, the reader. If I die, my book will continue to exist.
And yet, I still choose the blog. What does this imply? Why do we write? Communication to self, or communication to others? Or is there a difference at all? What if communicating with others was communicating with ourselves? Hm!
I feel that whether we are in a relationship or not, I will need to learn how to communicate in this way again. To myself, that is. People don't seem to comprehend that this is a way that people rationalize and organize their thoughts/feelings. Hm. I can't survive without it. Really.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Bad luck?
The last time I wrote here, it was morning.
Now, I am home. I was at school then, on Gmail chat with Krishu. I had begun a rant, but I cut the rant and posted it here instead. Hours have passed since and unfortunately, I hate to conclude, but most of today hasn't been particularly delightful. I want to be grateful that the day happened at all. The most liberating moments were in the classroom. The happiest moment was being able to converse with a previous classmate, Indie, on the bus.
I was fortunate enough to come home to happier parents. I can't say the same... fourty minutes later.
Bittu Uncle called, and from what I can determine, Rani Aunty (his wife) has gone to some type of college to push herself toward building employability skills. From what I'm guessing, she's acquired an education in something signficant. My father is jealous. My mother is tired. I am annoyed. Aggravation. I hate it when my father is like this. He demands that she be so many things, play so many roles and yet, it's not possible. My mother makes daily living possible for what is now a household of six members. I often delve into an all consuming depression wondering why my father fails to acknowledge the importance of my mother's role in our family. Why doesn't he ever appreciate her? Even if she were merely a housewife and didn't contribute economically, then she is still the owner of the hands that makes him his meals.
I can't express how scared this makes me feel. I'm afraid not only for my mother's emotional and psychological security. That woman, who is the breadth of my existence. I fear that one day my father will be served his karma and the consequence will be unforgiveable. I fear for both of my parents.
...
I have since had dinner. I still want to hug my mother. I still want to change my dad, though he acts like nothing happened. And she, she smiles and acts more outspoken then ever to show that she is not afraid. But what if she implied that she was? That he hurts her with his words. Would that not be effective? Is anything effective when one has so much power? A revolution? Of what sort. Of what strategy?
Now, I am home. I was at school then, on Gmail chat with Krishu. I had begun a rant, but I cut the rant and posted it here instead. Hours have passed since and unfortunately, I hate to conclude, but most of today hasn't been particularly delightful. I want to be grateful that the day happened at all. The most liberating moments were in the classroom. The happiest moment was being able to converse with a previous classmate, Indie, on the bus.
I was fortunate enough to come home to happier parents. I can't say the same... fourty minutes later.
Bittu Uncle called, and from what I can determine, Rani Aunty (his wife) has gone to some type of college to push herself toward building employability skills. From what I'm guessing, she's acquired an education in something signficant. My father is jealous. My mother is tired. I am annoyed. Aggravation. I hate it when my father is like this. He demands that she be so many things, play so many roles and yet, it's not possible. My mother makes daily living possible for what is now a household of six members. I often delve into an all consuming depression wondering why my father fails to acknowledge the importance of my mother's role in our family. Why doesn't he ever appreciate her? Even if she were merely a housewife and didn't contribute economically, then she is still the owner of the hands that makes him his meals.
I can't express how scared this makes me feel. I'm afraid not only for my mother's emotional and psychological security. That woman, who is the breadth of my existence. I fear that one day my father will be served his karma and the consequence will be unforgiveable. I fear for both of my parents.
...
I have since had dinner. I still want to hug my mother. I still want to change my dad, though he acts like nothing happened. And she, she smiles and acts more outspoken then ever to show that she is not afraid. But what if she implied that she was? That he hurts her with his words. Would that not be effective? Is anything effective when one has so much power? A revolution? Of what sort. Of what strategy?
Making Choices
It started with Dadu just constantly checking to see if I'm awake, which can get pretty annoying when you're lacking sleep anyway and you find the courage to get up and get out of bed. Obviously, that wasn't a big issue. Cleaning the bathroom and having it get dirty really quick, however, is frustrating. If anything is wet in the bathroom, I wipe it so that neither I nor the next person has to deal with that. My grandparents really don't. They really take up a lot of space. Wet clothes will be on the counter, bundled on top of the tap for bath, water will be all over counter and floor, toilet seat, and of course, the teeth container! I hate being so annoyed by really insignificant matters, but it's annoying. The space, for seven years, was mostly mine and my brother's. I adjusted to him growing up and becoming really disgusting, but I also had an authority over him. If he forgot to flush or something, I'd make him. If he made a mess or forgot to put his clothes away, I had the authority to tell him to do it. I can't do the same with my grandparents, and quite frankly, they are more messy (in some ways) than my brother. Considering what they have to say to me about remaining tidy because I am a girl, it just seems ironic and that itself ticks me off, as you may imagine.
Eventually, when it was time to change into clothing, I found that among my newly washed clothes, the one item I told my mom to specifically not wash otherwise it would get ruin... she washed. It's not unwearable, but the material looks worn out and I only bought the top in January and wore it merely 3 times. I bought it with my own money and right now, I'm really paranoid about what I spend my money on. Whenever I actually make a choice in purchasing a clothing piece, it somehow gets ruined. Most of my t-shirts became stained somehow when Dida washed them. Many of my clothes have really become unwearable because of stains from other clothes, but I still wear them. It's just frustrating that it always has to happen to my clothes. I'm not exaggerating. My clothes get stained and really badly too - pink or unidentified coloured blotches all over a shirt that is green, for example! In the past, such items that I really liked and cherished somehow disappeared in the laundry. I told my mom this time that I would do my laundry myself but you know something? Moms have this way of still wanting to obsessively do things themselves because they are control_freaks too! And the mold us just the same!
Then a series of other unlikely events happened, which I could have dealt with if I was in a better mood and well-slumbered. I carried (all in one go down the stairs) my school bag, an extra bag of library books in one hand, laptop somehow carried, all my essential items (socks, cell phone, ect), and two cups that were in my room from last night's coffee attempt in my other hand...!
I had to go downstairs to print my assignment, which I did somewhat successfully. "Somewhat" because the ink became discoloured halfway down the pages. Whatever. Then when I went to staple the assignment, I had to hunt down the stapler, only to find that no staples were in the damn thing! Then, I had to hunt down my own stapler that my dad often uses and misplaces. After a minute of running around the house 3 times, I found my stapler and stapled the stupid thing. I was a raging bull though. I was pretty pissed off because, in the meantime, I had 8 minutes until the bus came. The next bus at any stop close to my house would take another 20 minutes at minimum, at which rate I would be late for class on a day when something was due.
My complete downfall. When I packed my pasta, Dida offered to do it as I eat a deem. I loudly stated that I don't have time but I was pretty angry with everything so they took it offensively. Quite honestly though, they really don't look at context and take most things in offense. I know my mistake in this situation and I'm not saying that they merely perceived my mood differently than it was OR that what I said and how I said it was justifiable by any means. But if they do look at it in context, then perhaps it would make more sense to them than to simply be offended. And they definitely were offended because as I raced around for a way out of the house, Dadu let out a sigh. I am, by no means, my mama. I think that's the impression they get with my anger. The problem with me is that I have intense emotions and I don't know how to control it because I've not learned how to effectively channel them out. I was never allowed to so it's hard for me now, though I am aware that I must be my own agent of change.
In the end, I made it to class on time. I feel bad about what happened, but not totally upset because I am too sleep deprived to entirely care. They never seem to realize that it's their own carelessness about certain things that drive them into the position they always feel their in - invisible, disrespected, such and such... I don't, by any means, support my uncle in his actions or the way he deals with things but sometimes I can relate to his source of frustration. All of this prayer, and then all of this anger that comes out. Instability is everywhere between both of them, and yet, they like to suggest that they are spiritually close with higher power. I wonder what that makes people like my brother or you, who don't necessarily confide in any source of spiritual consolation - or the recent me. I certainly don't. What does it mean when we, too, are imbalanced, or perhaps when we feel totally balanced but we don't need all of that ritualistic endeavour / prayer in our lives?
They make me question authenticity even if they are my kin and I love them dearly. They make me wonder what it must be like if I continue in the path I've begun... Negligent of my duties primarily to my own self. They have lived their entire lives in this all consuming type of selfish love. There is no doubt in my mind that they do love each other, but appreciation? Respect? What about the mere respect for one self? Dadu might present himself as being humble now, and he might say things like "I am like a poor man" but I wonder how long that excuse has been engraved in his mind. I don't think he is a weak person, but I don't think he was ever aware (when he had the chance) to accept his own agency. Instead, my grandparents usually took the route of running away.
My grandmother speaks for herself right now. I don't have expectations for her. I don't think she will ever change. There are good things about her personality and then there are the overly ugly. Everyday that she overtakes the space that used to be only my own, I recognize how I, too, have been changing. I see why my uncle felt aggravated in the presence of such a woman. She isn't aware of how deeply she cuts through her own life and causes her own misery. Again, she isn't aware of her own agency; the mental ability to deviate from reality and remain strong during times of defeat.
I am not writing this to suggest that I am better. I love them and I always will, but I think my point is that I recognize these realities and when the thoughts build, I become confused and aggravated. I don't want to be like either of them. I don't even want to be like either of my parents - a generation that certainly progressed, but not entirely. I do want my mom's inner strength and faith, and my dad's ambition. I don't want my mother's subservience or my father's neurosis. I don't think I've ever "fit in" because I always thought I was supposed to embody someone else. I am my own person and as a new generation, as a leader of my own pact, all I can truly assume is my own mental space. The only thing I can truly learn to acquire are my own thoughts and how I perceive the reality that exists around me. Through that particularly, I can also acquire my agency.
I've been looking in the wrong directions. I was always moved and shaped by the perceptions of others but now I realize that it truly is an inner struggle. In order to take action in my own life and witness outcomes, I have to take action internally and choose one thing over the other. I have to make decisions, even when I can't imagine the causal effects of any choice I make. When I don't know the answer, or the questions feel like they're too much, I still have to come up with something. Sometimes, we'll bullshit. But every time, we will come out learning something if we allow our minds to work that way. So yeah. The big dilemma. Making choices.
From sleep deprivation, bad morning getting ready, angry grandparents and making choices. That's right.
Eventually, when it was time to change into clothing, I found that among my newly washed clothes, the one item I told my mom to specifically not wash otherwise it would get ruin... she washed. It's not unwearable, but the material looks worn out and I only bought the top in January and wore it merely 3 times. I bought it with my own money and right now, I'm really paranoid about what I spend my money on. Whenever I actually make a choice in purchasing a clothing piece, it somehow gets ruined. Most of my t-shirts became stained somehow when Dida washed them. Many of my clothes have really become unwearable because of stains from other clothes, but I still wear them. It's just frustrating that it always has to happen to my clothes. I'm not exaggerating. My clothes get stained and really badly too - pink or unidentified coloured blotches all over a shirt that is green, for example! In the past, such items that I really liked and cherished somehow disappeared in the laundry. I told my mom this time that I would do my laundry myself but you know something? Moms have this way of still wanting to obsessively do things themselves because they are control_freaks too! And the mold us just the same!
Then a series of other unlikely events happened, which I could have dealt with if I was in a better mood and well-slumbered. I carried (all in one go down the stairs) my school bag, an extra bag of library books in one hand, laptop somehow carried, all my essential items (socks, cell phone, ect), and two cups that were in my room from last night's coffee attempt in my other hand...!
I had to go downstairs to print my assignment, which I did somewhat successfully. "Somewhat" because the ink became discoloured halfway down the pages. Whatever. Then when I went to staple the assignment, I had to hunt down the stapler, only to find that no staples were in the damn thing! Then, I had to hunt down my own stapler that my dad often uses and misplaces. After a minute of running around the house 3 times, I found my stapler and stapled the stupid thing. I was a raging bull though. I was pretty pissed off because, in the meantime, I had 8 minutes until the bus came. The next bus at any stop close to my house would take another 20 minutes at minimum, at which rate I would be late for class on a day when something was due.
My complete downfall. When I packed my pasta, Dida offered to do it as I eat a deem. I loudly stated that I don't have time but I was pretty angry with everything so they took it offensively. Quite honestly though, they really don't look at context and take most things in offense. I know my mistake in this situation and I'm not saying that they merely perceived my mood differently than it was OR that what I said and how I said it was justifiable by any means. But if they do look at it in context, then perhaps it would make more sense to them than to simply be offended. And they definitely were offended because as I raced around for a way out of the house, Dadu let out a sigh. I am, by no means, my mama. I think that's the impression they get with my anger. The problem with me is that I have intense emotions and I don't know how to control it because I've not learned how to effectively channel them out. I was never allowed to so it's hard for me now, though I am aware that I must be my own agent of change.
In the end, I made it to class on time. I feel bad about what happened, but not totally upset because I am too sleep deprived to entirely care. They never seem to realize that it's their own carelessness about certain things that drive them into the position they always feel their in - invisible, disrespected, such and such... I don't, by any means, support my uncle in his actions or the way he deals with things but sometimes I can relate to his source of frustration. All of this prayer, and then all of this anger that comes out. Instability is everywhere between both of them, and yet, they like to suggest that they are spiritually close with higher power. I wonder what that makes people like my brother or you, who don't necessarily confide in any source of spiritual consolation - or the recent me. I certainly don't. What does it mean when we, too, are imbalanced, or perhaps when we feel totally balanced but we don't need all of that ritualistic endeavour / prayer in our lives?
They make me question authenticity even if they are my kin and I love them dearly. They make me wonder what it must be like if I continue in the path I've begun... Negligent of my duties primarily to my own self. They have lived their entire lives in this all consuming type of selfish love. There is no doubt in my mind that they do love each other, but appreciation? Respect? What about the mere respect for one self? Dadu might present himself as being humble now, and he might say things like "I am like a poor man" but I wonder how long that excuse has been engraved in his mind. I don't think he is a weak person, but I don't think he was ever aware (when he had the chance) to accept his own agency. Instead, my grandparents usually took the route of running away.
My grandmother speaks for herself right now. I don't have expectations for her. I don't think she will ever change. There are good things about her personality and then there are the overly ugly. Everyday that she overtakes the space that used to be only my own, I recognize how I, too, have been changing. I see why my uncle felt aggravated in the presence of such a woman. She isn't aware of how deeply she cuts through her own life and causes her own misery. Again, she isn't aware of her own agency; the mental ability to deviate from reality and remain strong during times of defeat.
I am not writing this to suggest that I am better. I love them and I always will, but I think my point is that I recognize these realities and when the thoughts build, I become confused and aggravated. I don't want to be like either of them. I don't even want to be like either of my parents - a generation that certainly progressed, but not entirely. I do want my mom's inner strength and faith, and my dad's ambition. I don't want my mother's subservience or my father's neurosis. I don't think I've ever "fit in" because I always thought I was supposed to embody someone else. I am my own person and as a new generation, as a leader of my own pact, all I can truly assume is my own mental space. The only thing I can truly learn to acquire are my own thoughts and how I perceive the reality that exists around me. Through that particularly, I can also acquire my agency.
I've been looking in the wrong directions. I was always moved and shaped by the perceptions of others but now I realize that it truly is an inner struggle. In order to take action in my own life and witness outcomes, I have to take action internally and choose one thing over the other. I have to make decisions, even when I can't imagine the causal effects of any choice I make. When I don't know the answer, or the questions feel like they're too much, I still have to come up with something. Sometimes, we'll bullshit. But every time, we will come out learning something if we allow our minds to work that way. So yeah. The big dilemma. Making choices.
From sleep deprivation, bad morning getting ready, angry grandparents and making choices. That's right.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
I am incredibly tired. I am writing here because I need a space to myself where I can isolate my thoughts. Sometimes the act of actually writing out thoughts with ink and paper feels strenuous. I spend a good duration of my weeks taking hand-written notes as it is. So, I will try my best to find consolation here, in this tiny space. Welcome.
It is 1 AM on a Sunday night. I have an essay due on Tuesday at 2:30 PM. I don't have a thesis statement yet. I have two classes tomorrow. I will spend 2 hours travelling and 3 hours in class tomorrow; and perhaps another hour for other pre-occupations. I also have a "take-home quiz" which is also due Tuesday, but at 8:30 AM. Quite honestly, I don't know how I'm going to do this because I am tired. It is quite late. Even if I had the aspiration of waking up early, it would be nearly impossible because (chances are) it's already 1:20 AM. I can't focus, so really, this is an issue. But not an unfamiliar issue, in the least. The old me is just more used to giving into sleep. I want to think I've changed so I'm still awake. Am I making progress? Considering I've only responded to my stress by creating a new blog, definitely not.
What is bothering me otherwise: I didn't eat anymore than about 700-800 calories today. No, I am not proud and I didn't anticipate this but somehow, I didn't eat nearly as much food as I should have. I had a corner of my brother's tiny breakfast pizza. I had a very small piece of sausage that my brother didn't use. A cup of coffee. A handful of cheetoes and a Reeses Cup. A cup of tea. Two very tiny puris. A tiny bowl of fried beet. Most recently, one slice of a whole bagel with butter and cream cheese. A cup of chocolate milk. Listing the food makes it seem more in quantity than it actually was. Majority of my caloric intake today is from liquids. I'm embarassed to even express this reality, but my food intake has become really reflective of how I feel inwardly. I'm aware that this is a problem but sometimes, it just doesn't seem like a problem. What seems more like a problem to me is the fact that when I want to eat something of my own choice, someone in my home makes a comment I cannot stand. Snacks, as I know them, are private things. This is particuarly because so much of what I deem as a snack is sometimes judged by family members. At other times, the problem has to do with the pre-conceived notion that everyone in the house carries about me: that I don't get hungry, and ultimately, that I don't eat. If I eat, I supposedly eat very little. No one sees this as a threat or health problem, but often I get ridiculed by my father for "dieting" -- I have never practiced or promoted any such thing my entire life. I eat little infront of everyone else because it is uncomfortable for me to not have absolute control over something like the food I decide to put into my body. Surprisingly, food and its intake becomes quite political in our household. From the judegements of how well something is cooked, to the dictates of what should be eaten, the gender divisions do exist. They aren't always frustrating for me to deal with. However, sometimes, I feel stunted because these matters are judged. Women in my family are not arguing or judging the actions of the otherwise lazy men in the family; they are not being called out for their lack of ambition and financial responsibilities. I don't understand, then, why the divisions still exist. Why anyone ever had the right to suppose I am the type of child that doesn't eat a lot when I've eaten enough growing up? Sometimes the assumptions associated with my gender have defined me before I was given the opportunity to speak for myself. Now, I just feel either frustrated or overwhelmed. My only way of having control over my own food is through isolation. I prefer eating alone because sometimes it is the only way I can actually enjoy my food. I am ashamed to say that for this reason alone, I sometimes fail to meet a decent quota of caloric intake. And yes, it does hurt my body. As I write this, I can feel my muscles ache. I am exhausted and my body feels malnourished. I tried to feed myself before bed, but it is too late to make much noise. Snacks are limited. And honestly, sometimes, the feeling, the pain, is actually the most liberating feeling from the entire process. That is probably the most frightening thing I've ever written about my own thought process, but that is exactly what I think sometimes. When my physical weakness and instability reflects my inner instability, I simply try to sleep away the drudgery and eat enough the next morning. It's not liberating in the sense that I somehow feel empowered through this. No, not at all. Rather, what I feel inside is given some sort of tangible expression. It's an avenue. It's not the best one, but sometimes, and on certain days, it exists and is entirely accessible to me. I can't say the same for people.
I am falling too tired to remain awake, so perhaps I will try to sleep tonight after all and see where my own motivation takes me. There were two other thoughts I wanted to include:
It is 1 AM on a Sunday night. I have an essay due on Tuesday at 2:30 PM. I don't have a thesis statement yet. I have two classes tomorrow. I will spend 2 hours travelling and 3 hours in class tomorrow; and perhaps another hour for other pre-occupations. I also have a "take-home quiz" which is also due Tuesday, but at 8:30 AM. Quite honestly, I don't know how I'm going to do this because I am tired. It is quite late. Even if I had the aspiration of waking up early, it would be nearly impossible because (chances are) it's already 1:20 AM. I can't focus, so really, this is an issue. But not an unfamiliar issue, in the least. The old me is just more used to giving into sleep. I want to think I've changed so I'm still awake. Am I making progress? Considering I've only responded to my stress by creating a new blog, definitely not.
What is bothering me otherwise: I didn't eat anymore than about 700-800 calories today. No, I am not proud and I didn't anticipate this but somehow, I didn't eat nearly as much food as I should have. I had a corner of my brother's tiny breakfast pizza. I had a very small piece of sausage that my brother didn't use. A cup of coffee. A handful of cheetoes and a Reeses Cup. A cup of tea. Two very tiny puris. A tiny bowl of fried beet. Most recently, one slice of a whole bagel with butter and cream cheese. A cup of chocolate milk. Listing the food makes it seem more in quantity than it actually was. Majority of my caloric intake today is from liquids. I'm embarassed to even express this reality, but my food intake has become really reflective of how I feel inwardly. I'm aware that this is a problem but sometimes, it just doesn't seem like a problem. What seems more like a problem to me is the fact that when I want to eat something of my own choice, someone in my home makes a comment I cannot stand. Snacks, as I know them, are private things. This is particuarly because so much of what I deem as a snack is sometimes judged by family members. At other times, the problem has to do with the pre-conceived notion that everyone in the house carries about me: that I don't get hungry, and ultimately, that I don't eat. If I eat, I supposedly eat very little. No one sees this as a threat or health problem, but often I get ridiculed by my father for "dieting" -- I have never practiced or promoted any such thing my entire life. I eat little infront of everyone else because it is uncomfortable for me to not have absolute control over something like the food I decide to put into my body. Surprisingly, food and its intake becomes quite political in our household. From the judegements of how well something is cooked, to the dictates of what should be eaten, the gender divisions do exist. They aren't always frustrating for me to deal with. However, sometimes, I feel stunted because these matters are judged. Women in my family are not arguing or judging the actions of the otherwise lazy men in the family; they are not being called out for their lack of ambition and financial responsibilities. I don't understand, then, why the divisions still exist. Why anyone ever had the right to suppose I am the type of child that doesn't eat a lot when I've eaten enough growing up? Sometimes the assumptions associated with my gender have defined me before I was given the opportunity to speak for myself. Now, I just feel either frustrated or overwhelmed. My only way of having control over my own food is through isolation. I prefer eating alone because sometimes it is the only way I can actually enjoy my food. I am ashamed to say that for this reason alone, I sometimes fail to meet a decent quota of caloric intake. And yes, it does hurt my body. As I write this, I can feel my muscles ache. I am exhausted and my body feels malnourished. I tried to feed myself before bed, but it is too late to make much noise. Snacks are limited. And honestly, sometimes, the feeling, the pain, is actually the most liberating feeling from the entire process. That is probably the most frightening thing I've ever written about my own thought process, but that is exactly what I think sometimes. When my physical weakness and instability reflects my inner instability, I simply try to sleep away the drudgery and eat enough the next morning. It's not liberating in the sense that I somehow feel empowered through this. No, not at all. Rather, what I feel inside is given some sort of tangible expression. It's an avenue. It's not the best one, but sometimes, and on certain days, it exists and is entirely accessible to me. I can't say the same for people.
I am falling too tired to remain awake, so perhaps I will try to sleep tonight after all and see where my own motivation takes me. There were two other thoughts I wanted to include:
- I need discipline in my life. I realize this when old habits creep back into place. I wasted so much available time and energy today, totally unaware of it. When I finally closed the computer lid to fold laundry, I thought to myself. I need discipline. It's something I must work on. Eventually, as soon as I was done putting my clothes away, I found myself on the internet again, entirely distracted and not focused on what I was supposed to be doing in the first place (i.e, paper). One of the things I want to do once school is over this semester is read more. I want to read a variety of new authors and types of literature, but I also want to explore spiritual questions too. I was never a well balanced and organized person. There has rarely been a long period of time in my life when I felt absolutely secure and secret-free. The only time I can truly consider is 2006 when I graduated high school and began university: no financial problems, no grade problems, no future to think about except the exciting idea of university and adulthood. The only thing hidden then was Ritwick, a situation I just drove myself into and crashed with. If I regret anything about my younger self, it's that I was always too busy chasing after people I could not "have" and dreams that were highly unreal. I wish I was more involved and equally infatuated with the practical. I wish the thought of finding romance wasn't such a priority in my mind. I wish my main priority was the dream of being someone and acquiring something. If there is anything I would tell my younger self, it would be to read more books -- to invest in my own broader education. Read to shake away what Daddy said or what Harman did. I regret it. Most of it. I wish I just cared about doing well in life first and foremost. I forgot that I had a life of my own. Then, more than ever, I lived against the wall, forgotten. I need to replace that old, younger me with a more disciplined older me -- the adult. But it's hard with the daunting question of marriage around the corner...
- Krishanu De and my relationship with him is in flux. We fight a lot and we fought last night. I am too tired to go over the details of last night's fight. Perhaps it is not worth writing about. Surprisingly, when it comes to our relationship, I end up writing nothing about it, or very little and generalized descriptions. I wonder what this means: I don't like talking about us; I don't want negative attributions pitted against him; or I just don't feel that it's necessary to talk about him since I talk to him directly? I'm not sure. It sometimes worries me that I can't see him in the same, highly romanticized light anymore. Attraction has nothing to do with it. Now that we are in a position to actually discuss the nitty gritty of a shared future, I realize how much our opinions clash with each others'. And it's not at some easy-peasy, let's just pick on over the other type of negotiations that we have to make; one person really gets robbed entirely of their life, while the other makes very little adjustments. According to his traditional principles, that person "should" be me because girls move from their parents' home to their in-laws'. I understand that much and I'm willing to adhere, but he claims that we would have to be at his home between a possible period of 3 months to one year. What am I supposed to do in that much time? What happens if I learn to adjust there and we decide to settle there? What happens to me? He may have the capacity to take an entire household under his wing, but is he aware of the pressures associated with that in this day an age? Does he acknowledge the person I am and what I actually want to do with my life, as opposed to what he wants to do with me? If we did live together, then what would happen to "us" -- would going to school or working outside of the home be a question of "if I want to then I could"? It's time that men started to realize that women going to work isn't some sort of a liberation about choice. It's about being INCLUDED as citizens in the public sphere. AS WORKING CLASS MOTHER FUCKING CITIZENS! I am deeply hurt by the sudden views he has evoked. I thought I knew this man. We've been communicating everyday for three years and somehow, we clash in every way. I love him a lot and care about his well being. I fight with him and then I feel awful. His life has not been easy these passed three years. The reason we are together and took things this far is because 2009 took such a major turn in his life and somehow, we worked through it together. Fights didn't have space in our relationship then because they were out of the question. Things aren't the same now because circumstances have changed. I had expectations too. For one, I wanted my husband to at least have some knowledge about the greater world, if not well travelled. Krishu is a good soul and man. I deeply believe that. But you know, when he talks about compromises and expectations, it feels like too much. We don't communicate at all. He wants things from me and that's where I feel this ends. I don't offer much, but he does want things from our relationship. I want things too, and I have, but somethings I've let go of. Like height and attraction. I had my own set of expectations too. Don't those matter?
I don't think I can easily accept his family and their opinions quickly or smoothly. And if I can't, I shouldn't put myself or anyone else through the trouble. If I can't, I'd have to stand my guard against my dad and wait until I meet someone in the same career path/field as myself. I don't want to believe it but sometimes I just want to run away. Sometimes I feel like I'm making a mistake and he is not the right person for me anymore. Other times it's just a question of time; I am too young. But mostly, it comes down to how he responds to things. Saying I am sad isn't a plea for a rescue. I just want to feel secure. Does he think that his wallet is the only thing that can provide security? I don't know. I really don't.
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