Are you practicing comparison or judgment? Yup. Are you practicing blame or loathe? Affirmative. Or are you practicing compassion and love? . . . If your answers were opposite to mine (no, no, yes) , you’re in the right track. If they coincided, you’re... not. Your mental switch might be in need of some acute adjustments— or of a complete remake if you’re like me. Then and only then, will we be in the right track with those others. Last Wednesday, during my weekly session with my psychologist, Lucia, she asked me to recall the last time I was kind to myself. I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t remember ever being consciously kind to myself. I’m so used to having my inner critic berate me for every mistake I make, for every situation I mishandle or basically, for anything and everything that doesn’t go as I planned. I have my personal Simon Cowell* settled inside my head unfailingly judging away, never ceasing to disappoint. “If you spoke to your friends the way you speak to yourself, would they still be your friends?” A nervous snigger escaped my lips. This, I could answer. No sweats. “Of course they wouldn’t like me, they’d hate me”. Her unflinching facial expression revealed she wasn’t surprised. In fact, she expected this response, “Why do you say that?” This time, to mask my discomfort I let out an apathetic chuckle, “Because they wouldn’t appreciate my unremitting criticism. It’d be unpleasant to be around me. If I were them I wouldn’t like me either.” Change of topic. Lucia knows exactly when to stop prodding; she knows I’ll shut down if she doesn’t. Plus, I always come back the next session having meditated on our last chat. This time, after leaving, I kept on thinking about the reasons responsible for my self-depreciation; the whys behind my lack of self-compassion. And it all came down to expectations: My friends’ expectations, my teachers’ expectations, my parents’ expectations, but most importantly, my own expectations. I’ve always had this never-ending need to prove myself. My ego encourages me to continually try to exceed people’s expectations by making my own even higher. I accept nothing less. My entire self-worth is dependent on my achievement and on everyone else’s acceptance. So when I don’t have evidence of either of these to cling to, my self-worth vanishes. And there’s nothing easier than maintaining a negative opinion of myself. A lot of us, self-haters, are experts when it comes to sitting upon a throne of self-pity and disappointment. Sometimes, it even feels like it’s the only thing we’re sure we’re good at. Besides, it’s tempting to stay in this wormhole—in this I-don’t-measure-up black spiral—waiting for the day to come when someone will finally pull us out. The thing is, if we keep on waiting for someone to come, we’ll be stuck in here till we breathe our last. We’re actually in an I-don’t measure-up-to-myself black spiral. No one will ever be able to change our own expectations of ourselves. This change will gradually come the moment we let some self-love, self-respect and self-worth in. There’s a reason why these all start with “self”, we can’t find them in anyone else. We’ve got to change the way we treat ourselves, that’s where our heartache comes from. Easier said than done, I know. But we can start by following these two basic norms: 1) Take care of how you speak to yourself; you are always listening. Our self-talk habits, like the ones where we ask ourselves, “Why am I such an idiot?” should be replaced with questions exploring the circumstances of our mistakes. We must look for anything that can be taken as positive. Practicing this will help us reform our over the top expectations. 2) Stop labelling and judging others, even if you don’t say it aloud. Once we label someone, that’s how we’ll see and think of them regardless of the evidence showing us otherwise—It’s the same with us. Stopping this will help us create an awareness of how labels limit our thinking. Who knows, maybe being less judgmental towards others will help us do the same towards ourselves. “What are you practicing”, is maybe the bravest of questions. It brought me face to face with the complicated emotional situation I’ve been in for quite some time now. It made me ask myself all questions I’d been holding back. It gave me answers, which only led to more and more questions making my walls crack a bit. And I’m starting to think that perhaps some compassion might’ve squeezed through. *Simon Cowell, English reality television judge.
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I wasn't planning on reading the actual summer read assigned, “7 Habit of Highly Effective Teens”; I planned to get away with a kick-ass blog post I wrote based on a book summery I googled. It wasn’t as much laziness as it was disinterest. I’ve never felt like I learn anything I haven't heard before in this sort of “self help” books. They’re always embellished life lessons structured in a smarter way than when my mother or teacher first told them to me, making them sound eye opening and revealing. For once, I decided to ignore my skepticism and give this book a try. “If Mr. Bon and the entire class, who by the way have already finished writing their blog post, claim it to be good, then it must be”, I thought. Turns out I was wrong, about them being right I mean. I didn’t find the book to be anymore than a well-dressed version of my mother’s lessons. I found it to be an easy and somewhat entertaining read though— I’ll give my classmates that. I could easily write a suck up blog post where I praise Sean Covey for writing “the last word on surviving and thriving as a teen and beyond.” But I refuse to rave about the book being a distilled sound advice, which changed my life for the better, when I believe it to be a bunch of clichéd advice and rehashed common sense I’ve heard ceaseless times before. Now, I wish to clarify Covey does gives good advice, teens should follow the seven habits, they’re simply too universal—too repeated. Covey is no Aristotle. He’s not offering anything new; this book contained no miracles that will transform my way of thinking, living nor perceiving life. However, it did give me a time of reflection, a time for cogitation. It made me think of how my life doesn’t just happen; of how I’m the one who either consciously or unconsciously designs it.
I’m no Aristotle either and you’ve probably heard the following before, I know I had, but I chose not to listen. It's my one takeaway from reading this book, a piece of advice that suddenly clicked: Get to know yourself and how you work; get a grasp on how to use the tools you’re given. When you meet someone—woman, man or children—to deal with them you try and get to know and understand them. It’s the same with you. Get acquainted with yourself; you are the only one with the power to let yourself down. You choose failure, you choose sadness, and you’re the only one with the power to change your choices. Choose success, choose happiness. Learn to use what you have to make the right decisions. I’m far from perfect, but at least I’m not fake.
I’ve got a thing for genuine people. I hate fake folks, you know what I’m talking about, mannequins. Especially when they call themselves ‘friends’. It’s hard not to fall in their trap. After all, they come with their glowing hellos and over-reaching promises and all. Their plastered-on simile makes you come out the other side pondering, “how did I miss the signs again?” But it’s even harder letting them go, the mannequins I mean. Although you’ve got that nagging feeling deep inside, letting you know your ‘friend’ isn’t really your friend, you try to ignore it. You make up excuses for them; you want to be the bigger person. You give them the benefit of the doubt. Only to be disappointed again. Fake is the latest trend; it’s the new real. And I can’t stand it. When they exaggerate everything and border on lying to make themselves look good and you’re like, “Hey, that’s not how it happened.” But then they turn the whole group against you. And all you can do is search their neck for that made in China stamp. When they don’t follow up on anything, because talk is cheap and their character isn’t capable of real talk, so they break their promises leaving you in the lurch, while coming up with a ton of excuses. And all you can do is pray they'll take their mask off when they speak to you. Or when you find out about all the ambiguous gossip they've been doing behind your back, because you know, in a social circle everyone is always willing to tell you who said what. And all you can do is shoot them that “darling, you’re so fake” stare. Let them go— that’s what I told myself. So you know, little by little I ended up letting everyone go. I convinced myself that I should be going home at the end of the day feeling the interactions I had with others were genuine, and the emotional investments I made with friends had to be something worth making. I repeatedly told myself to avoid getting caught up in the hypocritical game, where we’re all nice and smiley and all, but then we’re trash talking behind each other’s back. I didn’t want to be a fake person myself. But now, viewing myself through an outside perspective, using the same criteria I used to classify others, by my own standards, I’m already fake. I’ve been in situations where I didn’t follow up on what I said, breaking my promises, while coming up with a ton of excuses. We just finished our IA photo exposition. Our topic being teenage pregnancy, Aitana, my partner, and I decided to photograph teen moms. It wasn’t easy asking nor convincing the “hermana Andrea” to let us take and expose the photos, they’re underage. We sat down with her and Mr. Bon, we had a deep chat and came to an agreement: In the inauguration we were allowed to leave the pictures with their eyes uncovered, but for the rest of the time the pictures were up, we would cover the girls' eyes. Of course I assured her 1000 times “que yo me encargo”, “que yo me voy asegurar de cubrirle los ojos apenas termine”. I covered these girls’ eyes two days after the exhibition. And of course I had a ton of excuses: “I had no time”, “I completely forgot”, “I didn’t know what to cover it with”. You see, I’ve been hypocritical. I’m a very direct person and try not to gossip, but you know what, of course I’ve done it before. I’ve arrived to school with the urge of telling someone how childish so and so are acting and how I can’t stand them any longer. I never walked up to them, sat them down and spoke about it. All this time I’ve been blaming society. Trying to exclude myself from this “fake” adjective I’ve labeled it as, when the truth is, I’m no better. When reading The Love Mindset by Vironika Tugaleva, there was one specific quote that stuck with me, “your relationship to yourself is and always will be directly reflected in all your relationships with others.” All this time I’ve been playing the victim here. Pointing my finger has become an art form for me—a natural instinct. The thing is, when I pointed one finger at someone, three were pointed back at me. I wasn’t aware that everything in my life was about me. Any relationship in my life has been a direct result of how I view myself. How I’ve interacted with others and the relationships I’ve formed, have been directly correlated to the wounds or walls I built during the hardest stages of my life. All my core beliefs were distorted and I had no idea. This translucent walls have been like judgemental lenses through which I’ve viewed others. I’ve been so fast to judge everything and everyone in my head that I’ve taken real friendship opportunities from myself. If only I’d taken the time to get to know the person’s reasons or motives to do or not to do something, maybe I’d understood. About two weeks ago I wrote a blog post about a hard period in my life and how during the roughest times for me there was nobody there but my parents, not even my sister. I didn’t publish it because of comfort reasons, but my mother wanted to read it. Hesitantly, I let her, I knew she’d find a way anyhow. After reading it she said something I wasn’t expecting; she said I had it wrong about my sister “not caring”. She said my sister did care and was there for me; she’d even cry out of worry... for me. The thing is, I wasn’t approachable back then, and wouldn’t open up to anyone, no exceptions. So again, I was so busy pointing fingers at her, that I didn’t take time to think about her reasons; I didn’t take time to think about how it was my fault. All I’m saying here is we’ve got to stop pointing fingers, labeling people and judging them, in order to truly open ourselves up to a real relationship. We’ve got to start being real with ourselves. This is the hardest challenge. Yes, this mean taking our masks off, accepting our weaknesses or insecurities as well as our strengths. Only then can we begin to be real with others, when there’s nothing left to hide. If we can accept ourselves, our awkward, clumsy selves, then we will be able to fully accept another awkward and clumsy person. I never said it was easy, It’s hard to find a true friend, really hard. But it’s more than possible, if you only let yourself. We’ve got to let go of judgment; the recipe for suffering: You begin with dissatisfaction over how someone is and then mix it with your desire for how you want them to be, resulting in you “letting them go”. Share your weaknesses, your hard moments, and share your real side. It may scare the fake ones away or inspire them to let go for once of that mirage called perfection. “Doubt yourself and you doubt everything you see. Judge yourself and you see judges everywhere. But if you listen to the sound of your own voice, you can rise above doubt and judgment. And you can see forever.” ~Nancy Lopez What I’d seriously like, no, what I’d seriously love, to change about myself, is the fact that I care too much. Way too much. About what? About everything, about nothing, I don’t know. — A fragment from my last blog post “If I could change one thing about myself what would it be?” Mr. Bon (who you already know by now if you’ve been following my blog posts) left a comment, “You'll need to define it more. I just don't believe it's about everything and nothing sounds too vague. I bet you can find patterns in those thoughts. That's the first step to inner peace.” I’m not as stubborn as you think Mr. Bon, I’ll listen to you this time. Confessions from a current approval addict: I’m plain. I’m short. My toes are too straight. My eyes are too big. My ears are too small. I must change my appearance. Maybe then you’ll care about me. I speak too much. I’m loud. I debate. I’m stubborn. I don’t listen. I must remain silent. Maybe then you’ll care about me. I overanalyse. I get anxiety. I think too much. I obsess. I create problems in my head. I have to “chill”. Maybe then you’ll care about me. I rely on reassurance. I ask too much. I have low self-esteem. I fake confidence. I must learn how to trust myself. Maybe then you’ll care about me. Thinking about the "Maybe then", that’s how I spend my life. I don’t really like myself— maybe you’ll do it for me? I don’t consider myself to be a loner or an outcast. In public, I feign confidence; I push back as many critical thoughts as possible. I put on a smile and laugh, like everyone else. The thing is, when I’m all-alone, at night, with no one besides me; when the dust settles, the thoughts start. That barrier I built earlier, turns out, it was of straw; the wolf blew it up in a huff, no puff needed. Critical thought rush in: “Why did I say that? What will they think of me now? I knew I shouldn’t have gone.” Little by little, they become more and more self-depreciating, “What’s wrong with me? Why am I so stupid? I’m not worth a dime.” I’m to blame. I take full responsibility of these thoughts— no one is coming up to me saying, “Hey, you’re not good enough. Change.” I’m the captain of my own mind; I set unrealistic and strict rules for myself. When I fail, I punish myself. Even when someone does say something mean, it’s still my fault. I should have control over what affects me and what doesn’t. But I don’t. I let others take me down a notch without thinking weather they’re right. Most times they’re just joking and I laugh, but I don’t laugh it off. It sticks inside me. I must change so and so, maybe then you’ll care about me. Maybe, if you would tell me I’m okay, if you’d confirm that I’m not as bad as I think I am, maybe... maybe then I’d like me. I know how and why I grew up with such insecurities. If I wanted, I could trace back the moments, which bit by bit, led me to question my value. But the how and the why behind my "self-torture" don't really matter. What really does matter, is how I must learn to tame, not destroy, just tame, these thoughts—I don’t think they’ll ever go away.
I wouldn't. I wouldn't be able to pick one thing.
I guess it makes sense to start at the bottom, at my feet. I'd change my feet. According to my sister they look like hands— fingers are too straight. Moving on to my legs, I’d change these two along with my hips, cheeks, arms and ... Oh no, my baby size, I mean, new born, I mean, fetus size ears. My eyes. Come on papis! Why brown? The funny thing is, my mother told me when I was a baby, I had this huge, blue eyes. Not anymore mother, not anymore. Maybe I'm being a little too superficial here. It's actually quite interesting, how every change I naturally thought about was external. When I told Mr. Bon, my Innovation Academy teacher, I’d be writing about the “one thing I would change about myself” in this week’s blog post, he tapped me in the head suppressing a giggle and ran off. Mr. Bon, what did you mean by that? That I’m what? Stubborn? Cause I’m not. I’m simply determinate not to change my position in an argument unless fully convinced. I can live with the fact that I’m simply a little more committed than everyone else not to loose my stand. What I’d seriously like, no, what I’d seriously love to change about myself, is the fact that I care too much. Way too much. About what? About everything, about nothing, I don’t know. All I know, is my mind is never at rest. Sometimes at night, after hours of replaying conversations, recapping uncomfortable situations and coming up with a ton of responses I will never use, my body continues to push back sleep. As I readjust myself on bed, in my typical fetus position, I start to ponder: Would it be better not to care? Then I picture myself coming back to school like a completely different person. As a stranger with a new mindset, a new attitude– like that girl who no longer cares at all. Would it be better? Quite tempting actually. I wouldn’t overthink every. single. detail. I wouldn’t create problems and scenarios in my head that weren't even there in the first place. I admire how most of my friends are just so “chill” about things— whatever happens simply happens. I want that. People don’t understand how stressful it is to explain what’s going on in my head when I don’t even understand it myself. I want my brain to shut up; I want to stop feeling pressured. But I know shutting all emotions isn’t the answer. I've got to find a balance, between caring and well… not. If I did find this balance, maybe some of the physical changes I currently want wouldn’t matter anymore. Maybe my ears’ ultra small size wouldn’t bother me any longer. Maybe I wouldn’t give a damn about being stuck with this baby face. Maybe I’d fall asleep as soon as I closed my eyes. Maybe. How do I find this balance? I don't know yet. What I do know at the moment, is the answer to my initial question. If I could choose to change one thing about myself, it would be that imbalance between caring and well, not. Footsteps got louder and creaked closer behind me; convinced it was a hallucination, I kept my pace. Heavy footsteps sped up. I turned into the road half jogging to get away. Just when I decided it was a figment of my imagination, two mammoth hands clasped me from behind, pulling me towards a strong, towering body. I couldn’t think straight—quivering unremittingly, panic took over my body. With my hands bound together, what could I do? Scream. But when I tried, nothing came out; not one sole note. No matter how hard I struggled, how hard I kicked or how hard I screamed, no one noticed. And then I woke up.
You think I’m making this up right? How could I possibly remember such details when it’s rare enough to remember a dream itself! I guess it’s easier when it’s what you’ve woken up to multiple times a week for the past month or so. For some reason the context and setting always vary— I might be escaping someone, running from someplace, or undergoing an open heart surgery where the anaesthesia didn’t work; but in every single one of these dreams, no sound comes out when I scream; in all of these I’m overwhelmed by a sense of what I can only call… loneliness. Does this mean something? Is it my subconscious trying to reach me? Am I being oblivious? Probably. It may indicate my sense of frustration and helplessness; that feeling that no matter how hard I try, no one will ever really and truly hear me. It may also be suggesting that I’m currently holding back some true feelings or expression because I don’t actually want someone to hear, because I don’t want to need help. So even though my insides are screaming, as cheesy as it sounds, for someone to save me, I’m acting in waking life as if all is fine. But why am I feeling this way? These dreams are not telling me enough! When exactly is it I feel like this? Why? Two weeks ago, I had another nightmare, completely different, yet still relatable. The doctor diagnosed me with terminal cancer; I’d still have to undergo chemotherapy and thirteen different surgeries (I know, my dreams are somewhat tragic). I wasn’t planning on telling anyone, but at school I couldn’t hold it in any longer and confided in a friend (I’ll keep names anonymous). She actually laughed, right at my face— I know right? Mean child of God. Before I could stop her, without hesitation she whispered in another friend’s ear what I just intimately confessed, as if it was another piece of gossip to talk about. Then they both laughed. The dream went on and on following this same course. It’s almost self-explanatory, at least for me. I have an amazing group of friends, all different yet still equally as great. For reasons unknown, I still don’t have this one friend to fully and completely trust in, to hold my back no matter what, to be there for me when I most need it and most importantly, to genuinely care. Actually, I’m lying; I do know why I can’t find this 'one friend'. I guess I’ve always known but have tried to deny it for as long as I can remember. I guess it’s always been my fault. I think it all comes down to trust. I’m very, very, very reserved as to whom I can confide in; It's as if I don’t feel, I don’t know… safe or comfortable, telling my issues or whatever, to others. Why would someone else want to hear about what’s going on with me? They have their own things to worry about. They’ll probably think I’m a burden; that I’m trying to call attention? Or maybe they’ll judge, or gossip. I don’t know. What I do know is that I’ve taken the first step towards mending these loathsome sensations--recognising my problem—at least it’s a start. |
Daniela Ontaneda16 year old Junior at Colegio Franklin Delano Roosevelt who's taking the IB diploma program. Archives
August 2017
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Future Blog Posts:
-Free to Learn by Peter Gray reflection
- If you could change someone's life - If you could change one thing about yourself - Should students be allowed to grade their teacher - What happens after death? - Are precognitions and deja vu different? - Mysteries of the mind - Mentalism - The positive of experiencing pain - What is existentialism -Impact of media on society |