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Kiwi Crocus
29 September 2010 @ 12:22 am
I thought this was an important post to make:

My McGonagall hat is now perched atop my wardrobe. She made it across the puddle.

My undergarments are, erm, back in their drawer...

(I swear I saw one had a tinge of tartan, but I may have been imagining things - same with the cat hair...)
 
 
Current Mood: chipperChipper.
Current Music: Torn - Natalie Imbruglia.
 
 
Kiwi Crocus
29 September 2010 @ 02:06 am
*****GLEE SPOILERS*****

Glee, you are so full of what-the-frakkery that I feel like I'm watching The L Word with fewer lesbians and set in an Ohio high school sometimes.

I know your characterisation flakes from week to week, but what was all THIS about?

However, this episode still made me squee.

Brittany as Britney with a crush on Britney = guuuuh. Santana + Brittany + singing and dancing and grinding = guuuuuh. Sue being Sue = hilarious. Emma being Emma = adorable. Brittany's ridiculously stupid lines = giggletastic.

Don't worry, consistent characters, I still love you. Sometimes I wonder why nearly all my favourite characters are snark queens. Hmmm...

Glee, so many questions. But as usual, despite your inconsistencies and plot-what-plot, you have still delighted me for the week.

I will remember Brittany as Britney for a while to come. Brittana, keep it rockin'. Rachel, frak off.
 
 
 
Kiwi Crocus
29 September 2010 @ 05:28 am
The Infection of Perfection

Every day I consider dropping out of university, because the idea of excelling with and failing at my dissertation are equally frightening to me. If I think of 'dissertation' once before I fall asleep, I will be awake for at least another hour hugging myself tightly until the shakes stop. I won't drop out, but I do not want the thought of that or failure (which is anything less than perfection, and thus the inevitable) to trap me into feeling terrible about myself. I want to fix that part of my brain.

[ --- ||| --- ]

***TRIGGER WARNING***

Sometimes I picture cuts along my arms, but I remember the bone-deep scars on my leg that I received without choice from doctors, and I recognise my thoughts as a cry for help - 'help me, someone needs to see exactly how much pain I'm in inside'. I drop everything and meditate, try to find that 'perfect', grounded, centred, balanced, self-compassionate, sane person that I feel I'm supposed to be - have to be.

Sometimes I cannot tell which part of the roller-coaster is my 'true' state and which is the distraction, the temporary fix - the up of a peppy self with shows and stories or the down of a frightened student with deadlines and panic? Sometimes I have the clarity to understand that neither is - that they're both just states I pass through, whatever the elusive 'I' is; often, I miss these lucid moments.

Sometimes I wish people would insult me more, because even though it hurts, I feel stronger then; the pain comes from with-out. When I am complimented, I attack myself; the pain comes from with-in, where the walls are weak or not present. I often attack myself most for being too weak to gracefully accept the middle ground: constructive criticism.

Sometimes I hate the positive qualities people tell me I possess because I feel the need to (and paranoia that I won't) succeed in continuing to showcase those qualities. Sometimes, I wanna be grammatically wrong without the fear its gonna makes me come off stupid and I don't wanna fear that acting stupid makes me stupid.

Sometimes I wish I hadn't gone through the stuff I've tackled and resent that it's the reason for my present strength of character - whenever I believe I possess such a thing. Sometimes I wish none of it had happened: that I'd kept dancing, kept straightening my hair, kept not particularly minding what marks I got, kept going with the flow, kept my voice and self to myself, kept avoiding the itching, agonising feeling of overwhelming personal growth as a trauma-induced larger self grows out of skin that can't stretch. Sometimes I wish my sense of self didn't stem from something so painful, that people didn't 'oh' and 'aw' about my story and how it has created me because they tell me they can't imagine experiencing that sort of pain at that age. Sometimes I wish my story was run-of-the-mill - that I was run-of-the-mill. Sometimes I blame myself for drawing in the attention.

Sometimes I feel good enough despite my imperfections, and I hate the guilt that I feel when I think such things. Sometimes I feel the need, this hounding, heavy requirement to not be good enough because being comfortably imperfect is wrong, 'too perfect'; equally, I feel an opposing (or a masked and assisting) force pressing me to be perfect because no one, least of all myself, will have me if I'm not: 'fake perfect'. Sometimes I feel I'm not allowed to be imperfect, perfect, whole or broken, but something impossible: something illusionary, something unreal, something ethereal and untouchable. Sometimes I wish I could be so I would stop feeling the weight of this on my shoulders (too wide), my thighs (too fat), my stomach (too flabby), my scars (too present), my hair (too much), my beliefs (too out-there), my whole personality (too wrong, overpowering, underpowering); the weight on my mind to stress these and not learn to accept them as they are (and me as I am). Sometimes I feel I am balancing an impossible see-saw puzzle, trying to find balance between having to be 'more perfect, fewer imperfections; stress the attaining of the unattainable' and 'more imperfect, fewer perfections; stress the self-flagellation and inherent wrongness'. The balance between trying to follow expectations and arguing that they are wrongly ascribed, I suppose.

Sometimes I don't think any of this is what I think, and that I don't know what I think, or that it changes as soon as the thought is gone.


[ --- ||| --- ]


Dear Senior-year Self,

I know your pain. I know how unsure you are. I know you feel you need to do this because without it you fail to do what is expected of you and let down a world of people. I understand because I am there. I neither want to appease the expectations nor crumble before them, yet lack the strength to see them for what they are: symptoms of a problem we all seem to share and project.

I would still love you if you didn't go to college. You would not be less intelligent, even if less knowledgeable in some areas. In time you would have worked up equal knowledge in different ways and perhaps different fields. You would have disappointed and surprised some people who expected certain things of you and projected you along certain paths in their minds. If I made certain decisions today I would do the same. However, this is 'their stuff', and what you need to know is that I would love you anyway. And that by knowing this information, you and I can love me for however I make it through this because what we need to focus on is naming our own expectations and delusions, and living beyond them - not letting them control us, even where our path agrees with their jurisdiction.

I am learning to not be held prisoner by my expectations, which I have unintentionally and unwillingly picked up from others. I am learning to disregard this system that confines me to feeling perpetually wrong between two polar and equally displeasing ends. With the strength from you, the years before you and the years after you, I am learning to see the system around me and take a step to the left, find my own balance and my own two feet, one fibula and three hips. It is a unique balance.

No matter the pain I experience in this place in time, thank you for getting me here. I do not blame you for the pain I now carry with the hurtful thoughts of my mind. Some day I will thank you and your steps in my story for helping me transcend these painful games.

You did not always do your best (for 'best' is a flimsy thing) and you were certainly not perfect. But you were you, a creature of carbon and stardust stumbling along a path of infinite possibilities, and I love you for it. I am a fleeting step on our shared path and I love me for it, as I will love the me who reads this next.

We'll get through this together - imperfectly (the only form of perfection) and with love (which is the part that matters).

Love,
Third-Year (Seniorx2) Kiwi


[ --- ||| --- ]


That is me, trying to be Real. I wish my need-to-digest-my-thoughts moods wouldn't occur during such unreasonable times (5.21am), but I've been in this one for hours, and there it is. Sleep time to tackle a new tomorrow.

You are free to worry about me if you wish, but know that I am okay - in the 'okay' that I won't do anything to harm myself. I am fine, better for considering these thoughts and allowing them passage out of my brain. Part of this message comes out of my need to not stress people or get people down (being perfect so no one need worry about me), but most if it is just my trying to express the truth because I know at least a few of you are worry-warts and have (kindly) taken me under your wing; I am grateful. But please don't worry about me if you can avoid it - writing all this out is my way of being okay, and thus I am well on my way. There are many more out there who need the worry and help much more than I.
 
 
Current Mood: contemplativeContemplative.
 
 
Kiwi Crocus
29 September 2010 @ 05:00 pm
Jo just posted on my Facebook wall that her mother knows Maggie Smith has been to Cobbs before. Cobbs is the quaint little farm store that Jo's entire family has worked at on and off; she works there each Saturday.

I haven't got a voice presently (dratted Mark for passing along his lurgy!), but when I read it I screamed; it came out a bit like a restrained squawk or maybe a noise an ill Dr. Seuss creature would make.

I then found this interview with Maggie Smith.

I love the woman, I truly do - goodness knows I've never needed to meet someone to love them. But goodness, reading her views does make me so very sad sometimes. It's not her story that gets me down (although it has been hard and dark in places), but that she has never felt particularly loved or respected in her work, and does not believe she has fulfilled herself.

I think on my last post. I never want to be in that place. I love and respect Maggie Smith with all my heart and have since I was a little one. I'll never be as great as she, but that isn't what bothers me at all (I'm quite sure I wouldn't want to be). No matter where I end up, I want to feel that I have been loved (beyond just my one-or-many-true-loves) and have been respected (not for an ego, but to know that I have been doing good work for the right reasons) and have fulfilled myself (not my expectations, but myself in essence).

You are extraordinary in that you are beyond ordinary in the most brilliant of ways, Maggie "Granny Mog" Smith. I just wish you saw that for even a second every day when you caught glimpse of yourself in the mirror - or even without, for who needs mirrors? You are an inspiration.
 
 
 
Kiwi Crocus
29 September 2010 @ 06:14 pm
Dawr. I forgot that I wrote this poem for Mother's Day last year when I was stressed and stuck in the Agriculture building working on end-of-term reports. :P

Today and Every DayCollapse )


The rhyme scheme isn't perfect, but it still makes me giggle. :B Mark is singing downstairs in his room. That makes me smile. Danielle keeps posting very distracting pictures of Janeway; the last was her tied to a tree. Today is a good day.