Emotional openness is something that I learned to avoid at all costs within the first two years I was put in contact with a lot of people outside my parents’ immediate sphere of influence, i.e. school.

I was homeschooled for quite a while after a breakdown in the classroom where I was sobbing into my desk about too much information. The teacher, in an effort to keep me quiet in her class, supplied me with books and puzzles, and like the good little sponge that I was I started absorbing them.

I had not yet learned to pace myself; at home, my Mom would regulate the amount of concentrated information available to me, interspersing with relaxation or physical activity after she’d learned that I had migraines from the age of two onward due to my lack of filters for information.

I still remember the laughter, the jeering, the pain. Migraine sufferers know just how devastating the brain hurting can be, this one remains one of the worst attacks I’ve ever had, and all the other children had to say were taunts and laughter and “TMI! She said TMI!”. It was too much information, too much too fast, the web expanding outward.

I do not visualize a building or pathway for memory techniques. I hardly visualize at all, if ever, but if I do I have my memory web, where every strand consists of thousands of others that are all linked to one another, ever-growing and changing. Start adding too much too fast and the stability of the construct is threatened, shocks occur and strands unravel resulting in unpredictable flashbacks about mostly completely unrelated topics that vary in length (and that I can’t get out of most of the times).

I have learned all these things later. Back then, I knew I was in pain, I could surmise a cause for it and all I knew was that, emotionally, I had dared to open up and show that I was hurting and all I received for it was more hurt. That, on top of the taunting and bullying that had been going on before then, caused a complete shutdown.

I was lost for two days, jumping from one place to the other in memories, some that are still too vague to accurately recall and feel like dreams, others as clear and sharp as glass because they have been called up in more than one flashback since then (once flashed to, memories are harder to put in their places again).

I learned my lesson. I would love to be able to have the easy interaction I observe between my friends and their partners, the closeness, the reliance on one another yet I am too scared to even contemplate letting down some of my walls, creating indelible memories of pain and hurt. I can’t think of the good things, because they’re so much less strong than the bad ones.

But I want. I yearn. I observe.

One day, I’ll learn. Hopefully soon.

I also fast-talk when my brain gets overwhelmed. Too many people, too much to see, too many facts in too short a time and I have to disassemble, which I tend to do verbally if there’s another human within 20 feet of me. The normal reaction I get is startled blinks and requests to explain once again, and to really verbalize all trains of thought.

When it’s really bad (i.e. close to migraine-level headaches, large congregations of people so certain in their knowledge of being the center in the universe that nobody can possibly understand their comings and goings…), the brain-mouth floodgate ceases to exist.

Case in point, I told one of my co-workers her husband was cheating on her with a colleague from another firm yesterday at a social gathering. The evidence is extensive and conclusive, but still I was the bad person for telling her.

Sometimes I just wish I couldn’t see. Or just didn’t have to notice. Or that people would realize that not everybody’s oblivious. Or that I didn’t have to put facts together in a chain of logic as they’re assembled in my brain.

Sometimes, I just wish I didn’t have to think. But then I’d miss my chance to make a public spectacle of dorkiness of myself, and what would the world be without dorks?

Still so tired of it all.

On a different note, the Aussie Open is a bit of a let-down this year, at least what I could watch. No spectacular matches so far, just the favorites trouncing everyone else. Can’t wait for better match-ups to come!

But then,  nah. I enjoy my deity-less life

So I had some free time and went over to one of the major sports goods and apparel stores in central Hamburg. Some of my tennis shirts are getting threadbare (as in nipplegate threadbare), and my sweatpants are all stitched together so many times they look worse than a Raggedy Ann doll. New sportswear had to be found.

Being the goal-orientated little shopper that I am, I quickly located women’s wear on the second floor and went up there. Looking around, I was searching for the sports clothes.

Some notes about me:  I refuse to run around in public showing my underwear to all and sundry. I didn’t like leggings when they were ruling recess at school, and I don’t like them now, especially not if they’re half a foot too short to cover all of my legs. I need some give in the shoulders of my tees so I can serve with all the power of my body, or move around enough to kick heads in TKD.I need pockets to store tennis balls, pocket knives and extra stuff like bandages in. I don’t like pink, aqua or other bright pastel colors when exercising as they tend to NOT look so bright anymore after sweating through them and washing them a couple dozen times.

Women’s sportswear is skintight, has no pockets, is too short, too uncomfortable and way too revealing to ever be shown anywhere but on one of those stupid fashion shows where people expect to see this kind of thing on human clotheshangers. It is not designed to be moving around vigorously in (no matter HOW thin, leggings creep up and down when you really run. Don’t tell me they don’t!). It is not practical. It has zero appeal to anyone who really wants to actually DO sports instead of appearing like they’re doing so. EVERYTHING has some pink in it. Plus, those so-called tennis “dresses”? Like I said, I don’t want to flash the world every time I move.

I went over to the men’s section. Practical, loose sweatpants WITH POCKETS. Nice, breathy and roomy tees.  OK, so there were the full-body spandex condom suits for cyclists but they’re forgivable given the rest of the selection. Women’s running shorts are the lower-body version of these full-body condoms. Men’s running shorts are loose around the legs. Huh? Men’s sweatpants legs are long enough to cover my ankles while a women’s XL which I have to cinch to tight around my waist I look like the parody of a clown barely reaches the top of them. Huh? SOME brights in the golfing section but a merciful absence of pink everywhere else. YAY!

In the end? I bought men’s clothes, ignoring the strange looks the cashier girl gave me. It fits better into my model of being an active person. It’s a lot more comfortable. You can move around better in it. AND it’s NOT PINK.

Now when will they make sportswear for women that you can actually comfortably do sports in?

Speed can only carry you so far- once you’re into a battle of reach, there’s just no chance you’re going to win because unlike speed reach doesn’t deteriorate as you tire.

A quick tall person will always beat a quick and nimble shorter person.

And these, ladies and gentlemen, are the reasons why I lost yet again in another tournament. I don’t feel like going on one of the extreme diets I was on as a teenage amateur athlete, though. I don’t have the time or the energy to keep up that extreme a regime. Doesn’t mean I’m any less frustrated.

Plus, the person I lost against today in the intramural was male- and took his time gloating. I keep wishing I could just grow six inches and be of equal height- let’s see who’ll win then!

Argh!

Not a sore loser- just hypercritical. Maybe if I’d conserved my strength a little better…?

The first generation in however many who has a chance to be born of not only one but two freethinkers who have themselves been raised in the spirit of equality and free thinking. The first generation to not have to fight for their right to education because their mothers have been granted the same.

Compared to my grandmother, I’ve had it so very easy. My grandmother became a scientist when all that was expected of her was to look perfect and cook microwave dinners. All she got was work as an assistant because she wasn’t a man, in spite of her grades and credentials.

My mother became a scientist, too, even through the resistance of my grandfather who wanted for her to choose a “more appropriate” path. She was the one who broke free of generations-old restraints and blazed her path through the crusty world of academia while people a few years her senior were celebrating free love and release from the bonds of tradition.

Both these women gave me the freedom to choose- and showed me that there’s nothing you can’t achieve if you want it enough. But they gave me another gift, too, a gift that I believe has been repeated in a lot of people all over the world: The knowledge that we aren’t inferior, that we have the same potential and abilities as anybody else and that it’s just up to ourselves to make the best of it. I am part of a generation who has been taught that it is alright to speak your mind, that your thoughts and opinions are worthy of being heard- and I have been taught by a generation who has been raised knowing that there’s nothing unusual about this.

That freedom, that assurance that both parents need to work together to give, is what separates us from generations before us. We are the first in which these factors combine on a wider scale. We are the first generation.

Let’s make something of it!

I get how I must sound like a hypocrite for supporting HAES and FA when I’m for all appearances a normal-weight person. I get how I must sound like a hypocrite for advocating self-made people when it seems like I don’t have to struggle for most achievements (I do, though. You people don’t see the amount of all-nighters I pull!).

Why do you have to hurt me to make you feel better, though? What is it in this country that has people sniping you down from every small high you manage to create for yourself?

Three situations over the past few days have made me want to cry…

#1. The office. Tiger mom controversy goes international while most of us are absently listening to someone reading said article out loud during lunch break.

Coworker #1: Yeah, well, we all know how these people turn out. *significant glance and eyebrow waggle* Nell, how did you ever get out?

Me: *silent sputter*

My mom would never ask for anything from us when she’s not willing to go twice the distance herself. She’s an inspiration, a person who has such high standards for herself that she would never ask from anybody else. To have her compared to a borderline abusive person (at least from what I got from the article) is beyond offensive. Her credo in raising us was to make us want to know. Insatiable curiosity and a spunky personality combined with a never-back-down attitude wrapped in one small, tousle-haired package, that’s my mom. NOT someone who tapes violin scores across the TV (she didn’t need to, by the way, there was more of a war for the grand piano going on between the four of us playing in my house).

#2. At home. Just posted a few pics of the spring theme decoration that I’ve been working on. Feeling accomplished if very tired because I’ve been working through the night writing thesis.

Roomie (per text, she’s out of the house for a month): Just saw your pics. Remember I also live here and that I don’t like or feel comfortable in your idea of a decoration most of the times. Also take care to water my plants and wipe the floors.

Me: *feeling slightly hurt* Alright…

#3. Took one of my coworkers with me to TKD class as he wanted to get into the sport (maybe, if my teacher accepts him).He’s a really nice guy normally, pretty good-looking too (if you like gym bodies). We’re doing the usual warm-ups.

Coworker #2: Hey, this is fun. By the way, how do all those fatties get through the whole program? I mean, look at her *points at black-belt who regularly wipes the floor with me*. She’s jiggling all over. I’d kill myself before I go out to do sports looking like that.

Me: You do know that I’m also overweight according to those standards, don’t you?

Coworker #2: *scoffs* Yeah, sure.

Me: No, seriously. Plus, said “fattie” will win any push-up match against you when she’s not busy kicking ass in the ring. I’m only safe ’cause I don’t like sparring and don’t do competitions atm.

Coworker #2: She should lose some weight, though. I mean, who wants to LOOK at that? Maybe not only do TKD, like, go running or to a fitness studio?

Me: She’s not here for your visual entertainment. She’s here for a martial arts lesson and to do sports. Nobody cares about what you look like inside these walls, we care about doing TKD, and doing it right.

Coworker #2: But, still. I mean, it’s not healthy.

Me: And how do you know that she’s not healthy? Have you had access to her medical records?

Coworker #2: Everybody knows that. *air of superiority*. So, if you’re overweight you should lose some weight. *glances over*

Me: *finally flying off the handle* Alright. So it’s a lot better to starve yourself and not be visually offensive to steroid-enhanced gym rats. Seriously, get a clue. We don’t tolerate these kind of comments here. You’re not even a student here, and dare to disrespect one of our senior students who even teaches us sometimes.

Coworker #2: Why are you defending her? I mean, you’re not exactly model material but you don’t look as ugly as her. Even if you could try to wear some more skirts and do something with your hair.

Me: I don’t even know you. I took you here because I thought you wanted to learn. Where are you getting off telling me these kinds of things?

Coworker #2: I thought women liked honesty.

Me: Well, this woman likes gentlemanly behavior and getting back to her workout more.

Coworker #2: And I wanted to take you out for a drink after this- crazy bitch!

Me: *sputters in silent rage and goes on to kicking the air*

Luckily, he didn’t make the cut. If I had a better grasp of the German language maybe I could’ve said more, explained in more detail, but I can’t yet defend myself on a scientific playground in that language- something I’m working on like crazy, by the way.

So here I am, there’s my grandma’s Christmas feast, and I’m stuck with a measly cup of soup, a runny nose and a cough that would wake Santa from his well-deserved rest.

Argh!

I’m not going to be shouted at- I’m a girl, no, I’m a lady. Instructors shouting at me has a reverse effect in that I flat-out refuse to do whatever they want me to (even if it’s a good thing) until they ask me politely. I don’t shout, so please extend me the same courtesy.

This guy thought we were some kind of military training facility I believe since he shouted into my ear to be doing push-ups.

I left class early.

Like I said, I don’t do being shouted at. I also don’t stand for rude people who take the ART out of a martial art and turn it into a combat tool. I trained some more at home, and went for a run that night.

But seriously, do people think that shouting makes other people obey their commands easier or do what they want faster? A whispered word can be more efficient than a shout; maybe it’s time for that lesson to sink in.

For the first time in three weeks, I get to play this afternoon! YAY!