Category Archives: Uncategorized

Tics, or how not to avoid looking like a dork in public

I fast-talk when I’m nervous. The sheer amount of word-vomit is dazzling, to say the least (unfortunately there’s video evidence). Every third sentence is in actual relation to the problem or question at hand, though.

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!

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Violence, missionaries or rather the lack thereof…

… are the reason that, should I ever feel the need to choose a religion, it’d most likely be one of the many forms of Buddhism. Probably a modified Shinto version.

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

The possibilities of Firsts

There is something about my generation that has me feeling excited for being born at the time I was- we, the women of my times, have a chance to be a First Generation.

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!

Christmas and the flu

… go hand in hand together with me. No stress=permission to collapse for my body.

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!

So that’s what’s up with my health then- or not?

My weight has gone up a LOT over the past two years. Like, forty pounds a lot. OK, I’m still in the “normal” weight range and I’m still pretty good in training but… it irks me. And puts me a couple weight classes higher in comps and that makes me go against people a head taller than me which is not good, no matter how fast you are.

Three doctors in the US and in Germany later, there’s just one agreement: Mine is an unusual case. They found out I’m hypothyroid (no shit, Sherlock, I’ve been on meds for five years) and that I apparently have a secondary thyroid dysfunction, meaning there’s something amiss in my brain. Uh-oh.

Sooo… they adjusted my T3/T4. Effect: I’m not only tired anymore but napping all over the place.  Sitting at my desk with me not absolutely busy has me falling asleep.

Until I can get my brain scan done, I’m going to have to live with this. It’s damn inconvenient- not that I want my insomnia back, but some happy medium would be very much appreciated. All the doctors are too stumped by my paradox reactions to meds, though (sleep meds make me hyper, most penicillins cause me to break out in hives, vaccinations lay me up for days… about the only thing I can take without side effects is Tylenol), so they’re pretty much shooting in the dark.

I just wish all that would go away. Just gimme a drug and send me on my way, please!

Come a long way…

I just finished writing a story I started when I was thirteen and a ninth-grader. This was THE story, the one I used to pour all my hopes and dreams and fears and experiences into. The main character was me, in so many ways. 442 handwritten pages (and almost 500.000 words) later, it’s time to say goodbye, however hard that feels. I know that noone but me will ever read this thing, it’s way too personal, but just writing “The End” has me feeling like crying.

Re-reading that monstrous effort makes me cringe with embarrassment at the kind of writing I used to produce. It makes me smile at my own teenage melodrama. It makes me angry at what some people put me through, everything which I have metaphorically written down there through another’s eyes. It’s strange how now, as an adult, I can see the pain some things induced in me when back then they seemed so insignificant because I was so used to being harassed and bullied- except for when I was writing. All my anger, all my fears, all the hopelessness I felt during those years, they’re all there in black and white chickenscratch. I can see whenever I started learning another language, because I suddenly start writing in that (rather poorly often but I did become OK to proficient in some of them). Memories are stirred, good ones too. My first crush, the first time I fell in love, all those plans I had.

Distancing myself from what I’ve been… it seems so easy, and yet, when I read what I’ve written, I haven’t really come that far. It’s been a long way, but it’s been a winding path as well. Down that memory road we travel…

It’s also a record of all the fandoms I’ve ever been into. Oh, the crossover madness! I killed off my main character, revived her again, almost killed her again… like I said, the writing’s cringe-worthy. We’ve been together for so long, her and I, that I almost feel like I can’t allow myself to stop writing that final chapter. Yet there’s this “The End” printed there in my handwriting. It really has been an emotional time, a time of change and development. The me now smiles at the me then, and I wish I could tell that pained little girl that she will be alright in the end, that her story, no matter how many hardships in how many universes her alter ego suffers, will have a happy ending.

I believe in my own happy ending as well, even though I’m not yet there I feel content that I have been able to write it. It’s eluded me for the last ten years (which I spent writing the final fifty pages). That I’ve managed it now makes me believe I’m in a good place, and ready to go forward.

Where do we go from here? To yet another new tomorrow. Yesterday’s story is written, after all.

Reflection

Reflection, a song from Disney’s Mulan has been a sort of theme song for me ever since the movie came out when I was still a small kid. Instinctively, I had known that the face I was presenting to the world, even my parents, at that time wasn’t who I really was. I was in the full throes of eidetic confusion, going through periods of intense paranoia followed by elation followed by depression and anxiety followed by a high that took me soaring. I had the hardest time keeping a straight face outside my room. Outside the little world my brothers (both not quite a full eidetic but having strong traces of the ability) and I created.

When I looked at myself all through HS and college I would be the smiling girl, the academic girl, the one with the unusual hobbies who could quote entire books on demand. Still, that wasn’t me. The me inside was scared, confused and horrified at the thought of the kind of human contact my yearmates engaged so freely in- oh, yes, I was also the one who was a good deal younger than anyone else in her year. I was free fencing, at least. Or in a dojang. Otherwise, I had to put on the face I saw in the mirror when I hid myself away.

Anything I didn’t want the world to see at that time was closed off inside me. I stopped doing Tae Kwon Do to be the perfect student. I started playing tennis once more to meet the right people. I was anything but authentic, anything but real. I was the plastic-thinking plastic law school barbie I needed to be to get top grades, recommendations, a good job despite being from a non-lawyer-y background (my family are scientists, generations back). I got what I wanted- and lost myself in the process. The person whose made-up face was looking at me wasn’t me. Why did I keep playing at being someone I wasn’t? Hard to say, but I guess it was because for once I wanted to take the easy way out. Nobody should know what a freak I really was.

Ever since I started working, I’ve been dropping the masks one by one. One day, I hope to be looking at the true, naked me, the me underneath the bravado, the me that’s terrified, and brave, and real. I want to see that girl, that woman. She might even be someone I could like.

Until then, I’m going to need the plastic face to get through the day- or have you ever tried to drop-kick a co-worker? Guess what, there’s at least one touchy-feely person I’d love to knock out sometimes.

This girl can dream, can’t I?
—————-
Listening to: Brian White – Someone Else’s Star
via FoxyTunes