DAY 1
I think too much. How is that a bad thing you may ask? Well I keep a mental list of things I have to do in my head (in addition to my planner) and constantly go through them to double check I’m not forgetting anything. I plan (or at least try to) every little thing in my life, whilst constantly making lists on my laptop. I’m also superbly indecisive, because I like to weigh the pros and cons of everything before deciding to buy something, which sometimes mean I spend half an hour contemplating whether or not I want to buy that jacket which is over my budget or if I should buy a papaya or blueberries. Even thinking about what I want to eat for lunch or dinner is anxiety inducing, not to mention the amount of time it takes me to come up with ideas for my artwork and homework assignments, because I can’t decide what would be the ‘best’ idea. Moreover, if things don’t go the way I planned, I immediately try thinking of solutions to fix the rest if my plan and how to work it in. So basically, my mind is just constantly running at a hundred miles per hour. I literally can not stop thinking and sometimes (all the time really), I wonder how I’m still able to function without turning into a sobbing wreck. But so far (luckily), it hasn’t happened yet! So I guess I’ll keep with this overthinking and only time will tell whether it will raise me higher – or send me crashing down.
DAY 2
Every year (more like every day now in my sleep-deprived zombie like state), I vow to change my life and get it “back on track” – not that it ever was. And sure enough, I’m able to follow that resolution for a day or two (in which I feel immensely proud of myself), but eventually that will all come crashing down, in which I am then sent spiraling into a never-ending cycle where I’m always falling behind and constantly finishing my work at the last minute because I’m never able to catch up no matter how much I want to. That is, until the next holiday where I take a breather and (again) vow to get my life on track.
Unfortunately, I’m very acquainted with this incredibly unhealthy process because I’ve been unable to escape it since my last year of high school. It’s like being stuck in the middle of a heavy and sticky batch of quicksand. You can feel yourself slowly sinking down to a place of no return and no matter how desperately you try to crawl out, it won’t happen and the only thing you can do is wallow in the pits of despair while you wait for your impending doom. What a pleasant image right?
Right now, I’m at the stage of just barely teetering over the point of no return and the point where I still have a chance. It’s only the second week, but the next few days will decide my fate for the rest of the semester and whether or not I will finally be able to escape this vat of quicksand. But this time I am determined. While I might have one foot in, it’s not too late to pull it out and I swear I will do everything in my power to never step in again.
DAY 3
Poofy. Frizzy. Curly. Bushy. A constant weight hanging from my head, brushing against the back of my neck. Throughout my life, I’ve had a very conflicting relationship with my hair. On one hand, I love it for its uniqueness, but on the other, I hate it for its abnormality.
In fact, I used to hate my hair because of how different it was. Living in Hong Kong and being half-Chinese, half-Indian, I was self-consciously aware of my skin color and hair. Even though I identify as Chinese, I definitely look more Indian. With iron-straight silky-smooth hair as the norm, my frizzy, unruly hair made me stand out. I longed to have straight hair and pale skin like everyone else, loathing the wild beast on my head, feral and untamable; maintenance painful and tiring.
This love-hate relationship with my hair was symbolic of the cultural conflict I struggled with for the first half of my life. I have always felt disconnected with my Indian and Chinese heritage, never truly belonging in either culture. I remember staring at family pictures and being self-conscious about how the paleness of my skin stuck out in photos with my mother’s family, while the darkness of my skin stuck out with my father’s family.
So I stuck to my Chinese roots and ignored everything Indian, living in a bubble of ignorance until high school. Seeing my Indian classmates so familiar with their culture, doubt began forming at the back of my mind, until it finally bursted out during a dinner with friends. “Wait, you don’t know naan? Aren’t you Indian?” The shame creeping up my neck was hot and sticky. I quickly changed the line of conversation, but it refused to leave my mind, latching onto my insecurities like a parasite waiting for the kill. Consumed with regret at my previous narrow-mindedness, I resolved to embrace my Indian heritage. Now, whenever someone says: “Wow! Your hair’s gorgeous!” I don’t hesitate to cheerfully reply “Thanks!” It’s an expression of my identity and a sign of my connection to a culture I am proud to be part of.
DAY 4
I’m a feminist because I’m tired. I’m tired of having to be wary about walking home at night alone, of never being able to feel safe of constantly being self-conscious and worrying about how I look of having low self esteem because I don’t fit society’s standards of beauty, of all the expectations I have to live up to, having to hear about how I should act in order to be a proper women and being seen as lesser to men. I hate that girl is an insult, that it’s associated with weakness and I hate that sexism and injustice is so ingrained in our society that people have accepted it. I’m tired of waking up everyday and reading about a new rape case. I’m tired of victim blaming, of slut shaming, of the conservative attitudes of the older generation. She was asking for it…no she wasn’t. I’m tired of watching movies where women who don’t conform to conventional standards of beauty always have to undergo transformations in order to be loved by men again. I’m tired of being expected to marry, of the stigma towards single women, of the narrative that our lives are unfulfilled until we find a boyfriend, that a woman’s life isn’t complete without a husband and at least one child and that by the time we reach the age of 30 we’re done for. I’m tired of seeing women being objectified in the media of our worth being determined by our looks and not our ability. I’m tired of patriarchy, of the silence and indifference towards feminist related issues just because you don’t experience it doesn’t mean other people don’t. I’m tired of the ignorance of men, of the sexist scumbags who complain and look down on women and I hate that women are never given equal opportunities as men – no matter how qualified we are. I’m tired of the word feminism being synonymous with angry feminist – as if we don’t have anything to be angry about. But most of all, I’m tired of being helpless because I don’t know what to do. We need feminism because no matter what we do, we can’t win, not if things keep going this way.
DAY 5
I stared at my pointe shoes and savored the sight of its worn out soles and the black scuff marks that marred the shiny satin material. I slip them on and grab the frayed edges of the ribbons, tying them around my ankle in a clean knot. My loyal companion for many years, these were the first pair of pointe shoes I owned. I still remember when I got them at age fourteen and the joyful giddiness I felt when I first tried them on and felt like a genuine dancer. Putting on the shoes was like undergoing a transformation, with my spine straightening, my legs tightening and my smile brightening. Dancing itself was like drinking coffee and I would feel rejuvenated, as if I was coming off an adrenaline rush. I may not be the best technical dancer nor the most flexible, but ballet has been one of the constants in my life since I was a child. It’s what kept me sane all those years in high school, so while I may not be able to do all of those fancy moves (even though I really wish I could) and I still can’t do a proper pirouette to save my life, I never want to give it up. Forever longing for the exhilarating feeling of properly executing a routine and being able to express myself in ways I would normally never dare.
DAY 6
Isn’t it strange that when you’re a child all you want to do is grow up, but when you’re older, all you want to do is go back to being a child? Oh to be free of responsibilities and not having to worry about anything and just enjoy the pleasures of life…
Similarly, in my last year of high school, I was so excited for university life. Living by myself without my overbearing mom lecturing me about everything I do and being able to make my own decisions and do what I want to do. Unfortunately, in my haze of excitement, I neglected to think about what it actually means to be an adult. Cleaning everything by yourself. Cooking (and deciding!) all your own meals. Keeping track of your finances. Doing your own laundry. Basically all the things I used to take for granted. Whereas before I could just sit in my room all day and work, now I have to break concentration to make lunch and dinner, wasting a lot more time than before. And due to the lack of space in my room, I find myself constantly having to clean up and reorganize things because everything gets cluttered annoyingly fast. It’s especially frustrating when there’s so much work you have to do and you don’t want to care about anything and just focus on doing your work. Of course, my tendency to overthink and plan doesn’t help things at all either.
So while it was liberating in the beginning, once the initial excitement of moving to NYC and living without my mom faded, these responsibilities quickly weighed down my life and I would find myself longing for the old days and lamenting to my mom about the frustration I felt. However, I’m perfectly aware that nothing’s going to change. As I get older, these responsibilities are just going to increase and I can never go back to those carefree days again. Eventually (I hope), it will even become second nature to me. But until that happens, I’m just going to keep complaining to my mom and waiting for summer break, where I can go home and relax.
DAY 7
In the essay On Keeping a Notebook, Joan Didion reflects on the reasons of keeping a notebook. I personally believe that a notebook is here to help us keep in touch with everything, both the past and the present. It’s like your own personal record of history – something that we already know to be extremely important in preventing mistakes from happening.
One particular line that really captured my attention was: “I think we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not.” It’s an idea I’ve never really considered before, but thinking about it more makes me realize how important it is to know who you used to be, because you can easily forget about things and go through life not realizing how much you’ve changed – which can be dangerous in some ways. It’s also extremely valuable to just see how much you’ve grown and changed as a person, because it is an undeniable fact that we are constantly changing and for those who are trying to actively trying to change themselves or their habits in a certain way, it can give them an idea of how to do it.
Another thing that really resonated with me was how she described the memory of the day on Fire Island where she made sauerkraut coming back to her just from seeing the recipe for sauerkraut in her notebook. That has actually happened to me multiple times going through my old notebooks, where something triggers my memory of a particular moment in my childhood. I find that extremely interesting and useful because I get a glimpse at who I used to be, especially since those notebooks were from my early childhood which my memory of is extremely vague. Moreover, as you get older and your memory fades even more, you can always go back and read your notebooks to trigger your memory. In a way, it’s like a photo album, only more personal, because it can not only trigger a memory of an event, but also provide you with insight into what you were thinking at that time.
Beautiful!