Help needed! A while ago, I was surfing some SG blogs and I found a member that had a Virginia Woolf (at least I think it was Virginia Woolf) quote about books and something about the afterlife, then there was a few pictures of her with books in the background. I can remember thinking the blog was kind of neat and now I can't find it again! I also really liked the quote, and wanted to write it in my journal. Anyone know who this might be or what the quote is?
EDIT: As it turns out. The blog in question is AnnaLee's. Yay!
EDIT: As it turns out. The blog in question is AnnaLee's. Yay!
So an update. I sit here, with all my papers fully complete. All that needs to be done now is for me to scale the mountain of finals that I must correct, then my summer officially begins. I am totally looking forward to this summer, taking extra photos, sleeping in, doing research that I actually want to be doing, and finally getting my chest inked. Sprinkle with a bit of music, a trip to Montreal and a dash of a new lover and this might turn out to be the most rocking summer ever. Now, I just need to find that new lover.
I'm surprised that I rarely think about my ex anymore. And when I do, the feelings are just meh. What helped was remembering how I felt about her from the beginning. I was excited to be in a relationship, this is true. But at the same time, I remember seeing pictures of her, and learning about her and I was kind of iffy about her in general. She didn't really dig art too much, she wasn't into learning about photography (she took lots of pics with her DSLR, but never really want to improve on her talents), she didn't like any decent music and half the bands she liked were from the early nineties grunge era. Don't get me wrong, that decade had some good music, but she never really broadened her horizons. I don't think she had ever heard of bands like the strokes, or vampire weekend, or any decent band since the early nineties. Finally she was pretty plain jane, in terms of her style. There was no pizazz, no hutzpah. Now my thoughts of the ex are a plain and simple, "meh".
Anyways this week is going good. My dad and I are bacheloring it, since my mom is gone for a week. I spent the day cleaning my room and listening to music. I called my niece and sang to her. Then I ate chocolate covered pretzels and settled in to SG land surfing blogs and all of it's interesting and wonderful members. Anyways it's 2:41 and I'm off to bed. Good Night All...Time to rock...
I'm surprised that I rarely think about my ex anymore. And when I do, the feelings are just meh. What helped was remembering how I felt about her from the beginning. I was excited to be in a relationship, this is true. But at the same time, I remember seeing pictures of her, and learning about her and I was kind of iffy about her in general. She didn't really dig art too much, she wasn't into learning about photography (she took lots of pics with her DSLR, but never really want to improve on her talents), she didn't like any decent music and half the bands she liked were from the early nineties grunge era. Don't get me wrong, that decade had some good music, but she never really broadened her horizons. I don't think she had ever heard of bands like the strokes, or vampire weekend, or any decent band since the early nineties. Finally she was pretty plain jane, in terms of her style. There was no pizazz, no hutzpah. Now my thoughts of the ex are a plain and simple, "meh".
Anyways this week is going good. My dad and I are bacheloring it, since my mom is gone for a week. I spent the day cleaning my room and listening to music. I called my niece and sang to her. Then I ate chocolate covered pretzels and settled in to SG land surfing blogs and all of it's interesting and wonderful members. Anyways it's 2:41 and I'm off to bed. Good Night All...Time to rock...
Things are good this weekend. For a while I was kind of depressed and lonely every weekend. I'm not sure what happened that could contribute to my feeling normal again. Perhaps I am just psyched about moving out, and simultaneously distracted with papers I need to be writing. Had a bit of an encounter with the ex on Facebook, it kind of wrecked my whole week, but I'm still proud of myself for not letting it effect me as much as it used to. She told me she was doing a post doc in Neuroscience at my University. Clearly this is false, she doesn't have a PHD nor has she ever been interested in the nervous system. I think she's moving into the city to pursue a Masters in Science degree at my University. Hahaha. I laugh because four months prior I asked her if she would consider moving into the city and pursing another degree or something and she laughed at me, she was trying to make me feel like a fool. The hypocrisy is self evident. Now she has a new boyfriend who happens to have a Masters in Science degree as well. It's as if she forms her identity in accordance with these other guys and lacks any authenticity whatsoever. Why do I still care about all of this? Well, I suppose because I feel she is encroaching on my territory, my safe place, the place that I went to after our breakup and started to heal from her emotional abuse. Now she is going to be around there. I know the University is not actually mine and she can do as she wants. But, upon hearing this news, it felt like she was entering my space.
Right now I am biting my finger nails off, some final words on a huge academic fellowship is going to show up in my e-mail. It's about 15,000 dollars, and it would be huge if I got it. My optimistic self wants to think that it's a good thing I haven't got a denial yet and that maybe I am one of the last to be considered for the fellowship, but I don't want to get my hopes up too much.
I'm writing a paper on disability, feminism and sexuality. It's a pretty big undertaking, but I hope to write about philosophy of disability and feminism, and then later talk about sexuality informed by the previous section on disability and feminism. Not too many people write about disability and sexuality, but it should be an interesting paper, that I hope will be published in the future.
Not much else has been going on, the semester is winding down. I am getting a chest piece done at the start of this summer, and then I am going to Montreal for a music festival. I am already in talks of getting a press pass to get backstage to take some photographs. The bands included are huge: Florence and the Machine, The Black Keys, Young the Giant, and so on. I'm looking forward to it.
Finally, I'm moving out at the end of the summer! I have never moved out. The logistics were frightening to me. I have to arrange for care givers to pick groceries up for me, to help with food prep and to clean up a bit. It's nothing too major but I will be in full control of my surroundings and the independence is both exciting and frightening. Will I be able to do this? Will I have to come home again and live with my parents as I conclude my degree? Inevitably it needs to happen, I need to push myself out there into the world. To prepare, I have been reading some interesting narratives on the lives of persons with disabilities who had been in and out of home and residential homes through most of their lives, and who now live their lives with significant independence. These stories and narratives are an inspiration to me, and provide me with enough motivation to think, "Yes, I am scared. But I can do this!"
For some reason I am finding it so hard to motivate myself to write these papers. I am stymied at the prospect, it's as if I'm being blocked from actually starting and I don't know why. I feel this urge to get something out there, but I am terrified at what I might say or what will come about. It's not like I have no ideas. The ideas are there and flowing like leaves in the fall wind, but my own insecurity is keeping me from expressing myself. Ahhh, the agony! But I suppose the only thing I can do is bite the bullet and get something down on paper. And now, I go, I write and I hum to myself in my temple of doom (my room).
Right now I am biting my finger nails off, some final words on a huge academic fellowship is going to show up in my e-mail. It's about 15,000 dollars, and it would be huge if I got it. My optimistic self wants to think that it's a good thing I haven't got a denial yet and that maybe I am one of the last to be considered for the fellowship, but I don't want to get my hopes up too much.
I'm writing a paper on disability, feminism and sexuality. It's a pretty big undertaking, but I hope to write about philosophy of disability and feminism, and then later talk about sexuality informed by the previous section on disability and feminism. Not too many people write about disability and sexuality, but it should be an interesting paper, that I hope will be published in the future.
Not much else has been going on, the semester is winding down. I am getting a chest piece done at the start of this summer, and then I am going to Montreal for a music festival. I am already in talks of getting a press pass to get backstage to take some photographs. The bands included are huge: Florence and the Machine, The Black Keys, Young the Giant, and so on. I'm looking forward to it.
Finally, I'm moving out at the end of the summer! I have never moved out. The logistics were frightening to me. I have to arrange for care givers to pick groceries up for me, to help with food prep and to clean up a bit. It's nothing too major but I will be in full control of my surroundings and the independence is both exciting and frightening. Will I be able to do this? Will I have to come home again and live with my parents as I conclude my degree? Inevitably it needs to happen, I need to push myself out there into the world. To prepare, I have been reading some interesting narratives on the lives of persons with disabilities who had been in and out of home and residential homes through most of their lives, and who now live their lives with significant independence. These stories and narratives are an inspiration to me, and provide me with enough motivation to think, "Yes, I am scared. But I can do this!"
For some reason I am finding it so hard to motivate myself to write these papers. I am stymied at the prospect, it's as if I'm being blocked from actually starting and I don't know why. I feel this urge to get something out there, but I am terrified at what I might say or what will come about. It's not like I have no ideas. The ideas are there and flowing like leaves in the fall wind, but my own insecurity is keeping me from expressing myself. Ahhh, the agony! But I suppose the only thing I can do is bite the bullet and get something down on paper. And now, I go, I write and I hum to myself in my temple of doom (my room).
I was pretty pissed off this week. My therapist asked me to write about what I found valuable or positive about my own body. Now, my initial emotional reaction was to feel uneasy and conflicted about such a prospect. But, it launched me into investigating the layers upon layers of historical and social antecedents that has lead me to feel the way I do about my body. As a young child I was bullied about my body. It was not the type of egregious bullying that we are initially confronted with every day in the media, but a subtler bullying which can slip under the radar but can feel just as terrible. Growing up with muscular dystrophy, I could pass as healthy as long as I wore baggy clothes and long sleeved shirts. Muscular dystrophy is a condition that actually makes you skinnier than most people. It is a degenerative muscle condition wherin my body is very different from others. Growing up kids play and eventually, they might grasp onto an arm, leg or limb. The child like reaction was to find it weirdly skinny and say off handed remarks that would make me, the one being touched, feel uneasy. They would take turns grabbing my arms and remarking how weird I was. Flash forward to summer, where the kids would spend the day at the swimming pool. Naturally, being a young boy, I would not have a shirt on, and again kids would make fun of my skinny body. They would call me "skeleton" or give me the advice to eat more. I resolved not to go swimming again.
High school was difficult. This was where I would be consciously aware of how I didn't fit in. I would hide myself in the locker change room, when changing for gym. I would make sure I didn't engage in sexual experimentation, I was scared of someone seeing my bare body, it was frightening to be that vulnerable with someone because in my experience what accompanies baring one's body and limbs was primarily negative. To be naked was to invite the possibility of ridicule, disgust or fear. Eventually, I thought that if I didn't have my body to offer, I would cultivate and develop my mind by reading and studying. I also developed my artistic side, by drawing and spending large chunks of my time in the art room.
In University I shone. I got high marks and my mind was valued. I still knew my body wasn't of value, but at least my mind was. It was this sort of belief that I was asked to challenge in therapy and journaling. The belief that if you don't conform to particular bodily norms, or even natural beauty norms, that your body is to be hidden or that it is perfectly legitimate to feel shame for having a deviant body. The "trick", I learned, was to find something else you were good at, and that could be valued. The shame remained.
In part, the shame had causal links to my experiences of my mother's shame with her body. She didn't go swimming because she felt she was ugly, and did not conform to the sort of body that we typically observe in playboy, billboards or mannequins. She was older, over weight, and struggled with depression. She did feel she had other talents like cooking, cleaning and caring for others. But, she always felt the shame about her body. So her struggle was to acknowledge her positives while hiding or ignoring how she felt about her body. This was her natural reaction to her bodily shame.
I began to journal about some of the positive things that my ex found in my body. I have smooth skin, beautiful eyes, nice dimples, gentle hands, and a wonderfully unique body that can conform perfectly to a woman's curves when spooning. It was as if my body was made to cuddle. I can remember her commenting about my "magical" pelvic bone, that would grind against her clit and bring her to orgasm every time we had sex. These were hidden bodily treasures that society rarely sees or acknowledges. Rather, social preferences seem to be shallow. In other words it acknowledges a narrow group of people. Even when it expands it's vision (perhaps to the natural curves of the statistically normal woman's body) it still excludes most of the disabled community from the possibility of being perceived as beautiful. I began to think about the narrow vision of beauty that the current cultural climate provides us which is inherently exclusionary. It is exclusionary to anyone like myself, and that angered me. I have a lot to offer, yet I am narrowly marginalized because of these standards. I struggled with the anger that I was writing about, I was grumpy for days but then resolved that a less problematic belief was to acknowledge my own discomfort and felt tension. I wanted to be mindful of it, but at the same time acknowledge it as deeply problematic. I would not accept these norms for myself, rather I would broaden my vision of beauty to be more inclusive of deviating bodies. To seriously consider a disabled, scarred, curvy, flawed body as beautiful and just as human. A paradoxical beauty that would allow for greater acceptance of others, and perhaps eventually myself. It is not easy, most of the time I am sucked back into it all. The self deprecation begins every time I look at the news stands, or billboards and realize that I am not represented there. Something I can identify with is missing there, and my identity is not acknowledged.
Beauty is a problematic thing, but it seems to me that it is only contingently problematic. That is to say, it could be otherwise if we are more mindful and critical of these standards, and if we deconstruct these problematic assumptions that remain so hidden. These assumptions are subtle and they can slip under our radars in such a way that we internalize these notions and use them in ways that are unknowingly harmful to ourselves and others. I do think I am and can be beautiful, but at this point it is only paradoxically so.
High school was difficult. This was where I would be consciously aware of how I didn't fit in. I would hide myself in the locker change room, when changing for gym. I would make sure I didn't engage in sexual experimentation, I was scared of someone seeing my bare body, it was frightening to be that vulnerable with someone because in my experience what accompanies baring one's body and limbs was primarily negative. To be naked was to invite the possibility of ridicule, disgust or fear. Eventually, I thought that if I didn't have my body to offer, I would cultivate and develop my mind by reading and studying. I also developed my artistic side, by drawing and spending large chunks of my time in the art room.
In University I shone. I got high marks and my mind was valued. I still knew my body wasn't of value, but at least my mind was. It was this sort of belief that I was asked to challenge in therapy and journaling. The belief that if you don't conform to particular bodily norms, or even natural beauty norms, that your body is to be hidden or that it is perfectly legitimate to feel shame for having a deviant body. The "trick", I learned, was to find something else you were good at, and that could be valued. The shame remained.
In part, the shame had causal links to my experiences of my mother's shame with her body. She didn't go swimming because she felt she was ugly, and did not conform to the sort of body that we typically observe in playboy, billboards or mannequins. She was older, over weight, and struggled with depression. She did feel she had other talents like cooking, cleaning and caring for others. But, she always felt the shame about her body. So her struggle was to acknowledge her positives while hiding or ignoring how she felt about her body. This was her natural reaction to her bodily shame.
I began to journal about some of the positive things that my ex found in my body. I have smooth skin, beautiful eyes, nice dimples, gentle hands, and a wonderfully unique body that can conform perfectly to a woman's curves when spooning. It was as if my body was made to cuddle. I can remember her commenting about my "magical" pelvic bone, that would grind against her clit and bring her to orgasm every time we had sex. These were hidden bodily treasures that society rarely sees or acknowledges. Rather, social preferences seem to be shallow. In other words it acknowledges a narrow group of people. Even when it expands it's vision (perhaps to the natural curves of the statistically normal woman's body) it still excludes most of the disabled community from the possibility of being perceived as beautiful. I began to think about the narrow vision of beauty that the current cultural climate provides us which is inherently exclusionary. It is exclusionary to anyone like myself, and that angered me. I have a lot to offer, yet I am narrowly marginalized because of these standards. I struggled with the anger that I was writing about, I was grumpy for days but then resolved that a less problematic belief was to acknowledge my own discomfort and felt tension. I wanted to be mindful of it, but at the same time acknowledge it as deeply problematic. I would not accept these norms for myself, rather I would broaden my vision of beauty to be more inclusive of deviating bodies. To seriously consider a disabled, scarred, curvy, flawed body as beautiful and just as human. A paradoxical beauty that would allow for greater acceptance of others, and perhaps eventually myself. It is not easy, most of the time I am sucked back into it all. The self deprecation begins every time I look at the news stands, or billboards and realize that I am not represented there. Something I can identify with is missing there, and my identity is not acknowledged.
Beauty is a problematic thing, but it seems to me that it is only contingently problematic. That is to say, it could be otherwise if we are more mindful and critical of these standards, and if we deconstruct these problematic assumptions that remain so hidden. These assumptions are subtle and they can slip under our radars in such a way that we internalize these notions and use them in ways that are unknowingly harmful to ourselves and others. I do think I am and can be beautiful, but at this point it is only paradoxically so.
I am finally breaking out of this rut I've been in. I've been journaling like crazy and getting some real psychological results. Sure, sometimes I'm kind of bitchy for some days after I spill my feelings out on the page and get down to my deep and dark emotions, but a few days afterwords I feel better. I have also been doing some of the exercises the therapist talked about, like looking in the mirror and telling myself I accept myself and love myself. It's crazy because I used think that people like that were fucked up, or not metal enough, or a wimp, but after doing it for a few weeks it really works. I feel more motivated, because I'm not as scared to fail (I know if I do, I will treat myself kindly now). I'm less in my shell than normal, I am funny sometimes, and I can look people in the eye. l feel like I might actually be getting somewhere, slowly but surely. I also feel a little too open with my sisters or close friends, I just spill my guts out to everyone. I should probably tone that down a bit. Therapy is weird.
Anyways, that's what's up. I talked to a few graduate students today, it was kind of cool. The one girl I have a crush on in my class, the PHD student in biology, I am pretty sure has an engagement ring. Lame! Ah well, I feel like there would be a bit of language barrier anyways. I mean, I could learn Turkish, but that language is fucking hard.
Classes are going okay, although I think a few of my students have a crush on me. One of them is dropping by my office regularly, even though she is getting pretty much full marks on each assignment. Another, knows my name, says it regularly and offered to push my wheelchair to class (that's a bit weird right?). I politely declined then we had a discussion about some crazy cult leader she's been reading. I told her she should probably read something else, and recommended a few books. Hahaha, really I can't encourage someone to read stuff that makes no sense, and would probably pollute her mind.
In other news, I'm feeling good. Going to therapy regularly and trying to take charge of my health, so I'm doing physio again and preparing to move out on my own. I feel like things are progressing in a forward direction now, and it feels nice.
Anyways, that's what's up. I talked to a few graduate students today, it was kind of cool. The one girl I have a crush on in my class, the PHD student in biology, I am pretty sure has an engagement ring. Lame! Ah well, I feel like there would be a bit of language barrier anyways. I mean, I could learn Turkish, but that language is fucking hard.
Classes are going okay, although I think a few of my students have a crush on me. One of them is dropping by my office regularly, even though she is getting pretty much full marks on each assignment. Another, knows my name, says it regularly and offered to push my wheelchair to class (that's a bit weird right?). I politely declined then we had a discussion about some crazy cult leader she's been reading. I told her she should probably read something else, and recommended a few books. Hahaha, really I can't encourage someone to read stuff that makes no sense, and would probably pollute her mind.
In other news, I'm feeling good. Going to therapy regularly and trying to take charge of my health, so I'm doing physio again and preparing to move out on my own. I feel like things are progressing in a forward direction now, and it feels nice.
Busy, busy, busy. I really haven't had any time to reflect on my feelings or my ex, perhaps I also had little time to feel sad as well. This could be a good thing, but I'm not sure yet. I started TAing a moral philosophy course this week. Things are pretty rough going. I had no idea that students entering University really know so little about moral philosophy. Really, we start with the basics of what a good argument is, not to mention we talk about what subjectivism is in conjunction with relativism. Really? Students don't know what it is for something to be subjective? What are they teaching these people?!
I wheel into class, and I feel like I'm just stumbling around, not knowing what the fuck I'm talking about. As I'm talking, I think, "this can't be right. What I'm saying at the moment is totally false." I talked about this with my professor, and she said "welcome to teaching philosophy!"
I can recall in my undergraduate days, every teacher seemed to know everything and could knock down an argument at will. Here I am, standing in front of my class, stumbling over words, backpedaling, revealing my total puzzlement about the material. Not sure which view is correct. I think my problem is trying to wing it too much. While I have notes to look off of, I try to be too informal. I need to tighten up the hinges, and make sure I present myself as someone who actually knows what he's talking about. Because, in truth, I know this stuff. I just get stymied in front of a class.
In other news, I'm learning turkish a bit. There's a turkish girl in my philosophy of science class (I detected her accent) who I have a bit of a crush on, and I want to say hello to her, and ask her how she is in her own language. Hahahaha, is this creepy or cute? I can't decide. I will attempt the "hello", tomorrow when she walks into class. Everyone else just ignores her (they are all awkward philosophy guys, so it's no surprise), so I thought I'd make her feel welcome. We'll see.
I wheel into class, and I feel like I'm just stumbling around, not knowing what the fuck I'm talking about. As I'm talking, I think, "this can't be right. What I'm saying at the moment is totally false." I talked about this with my professor, and she said "welcome to teaching philosophy!"
I can recall in my undergraduate days, every teacher seemed to know everything and could knock down an argument at will. Here I am, standing in front of my class, stumbling over words, backpedaling, revealing my total puzzlement about the material. Not sure which view is correct. I think my problem is trying to wing it too much. While I have notes to look off of, I try to be too informal. I need to tighten up the hinges, and make sure I present myself as someone who actually knows what he's talking about. Because, in truth, I know this stuff. I just get stymied in front of a class.
In other news, I'm learning turkish a bit. There's a turkish girl in my philosophy of science class (I detected her accent) who I have a bit of a crush on, and I want to say hello to her, and ask her how she is in her own language. Hahahaha, is this creepy or cute? I can't decide. I will attempt the "hello", tomorrow when she walks into class. Everyone else just ignores her (they are all awkward philosophy guys, so it's no surprise), so I thought I'd make her feel welcome. We'll see.
In the movie "The Visitor", near the beginning of the movie the central character seems lost. He is smart, and intelligent, but the character that is presented reflects a deep lacking in a close human connection. He is trudging through life, sitting alone at the dinner table in the cafeteria, distant in meetings, and tries but fails to learn how to play piano. His heart seems damaged and lacking. It is at this stage that I felt I was at and to some degree still am struggling with. Some say that it is possible to die of a broken heart, but little is said about living with one. Sometimes it feels like I am living with a broken heart. It's not that intense feeling that we feel right after a break up, the intense sadness that brings you to tears. It's not intense, I can even laugh and make jokes. It was a penetrating sadness I have never felt before. Although I must say, with counseling I am beginning to feel stronger and more connected. Weekends are still difficult, there is not a lot to do but study or do some art. I suppose I could put more of an effort into finding something, anything to do that might be fun for the weekend, but the truth is I'm busy lately and by the end of the week I'm pretty tired.
Perhaps once I get in the semesters groove I'll take some photography or art classes or something. Something to do on the weekends to connect more.
Perhaps once I get in the semesters groove I'll take some photography or art classes or something. Something to do on the weekends to connect more.
It is the end of the week again! I had a wonderful counseling session on Monday where I recounted some of the emotional abuse in my past relationship. It was difficult, but still confirming that a mental health professional could identify my pain, sadness and anger. After I had left I felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. The next day, however, I had a rough time. I felt sad, angry and hurt, but my sister and parents said it is all part of going to see a counselor. They said "it gets a little worse before it gets better." I hope they are right.
This is my last weekend before the new semester starts and I start tutoring undergraduates in moral philosophy. I am a little nervous and a little excited about this prospect. I am also taking a few more pictures lately and continuing learning about photography. I am also actively looking at apartments online because I want to move out this summer. Hopefully, if all goes well, I'll have my new place once classes end. I hope that in my new place, I can work on art, and be less distracted with other things that I worry about here, at my parents place. It will be difficult, but I can already taste the freedom and independence that goes along with that.
I was told by my counselor to think about what I fear, the deeply rooted beliefs that I have about myself that keeps me from being more secure with myself. I had never really thought about this, but I did start to journal and hopefully I can come to a clear realization about what those are.
This is my last weekend before the new semester starts and I start tutoring undergraduates in moral philosophy. I am a little nervous and a little excited about this prospect. I am also taking a few more pictures lately and continuing learning about photography. I am also actively looking at apartments online because I want to move out this summer. Hopefully, if all goes well, I'll have my new place once classes end. I hope that in my new place, I can work on art, and be less distracted with other things that I worry about here, at my parents place. It will be difficult, but I can already taste the freedom and independence that goes along with that.
I was told by my counselor to think about what I fear, the deeply rooted beliefs that I have about myself that keeps me from being more secure with myself. I had never really thought about this, but I did start to journal and hopefully I can come to a clear realization about what those are.
It is new years eve and I have just returned from a short Christmas vacation that I spent with family. I am trying not to dwell on the fact that I am doing nothing this new years but sitting at home, watching movies and reading. I have no idea why such things would bother me internally, but it does for some reason. I have never really been one for partying on new years, it was always something low key and it never bothered me before. Sometimes I would spend my time with family, sometimes with friends watching the new years ball drop on TV, but this year it feels different. This year, for some reason, I crave going out and doing something interesting. Perhaps I crave the high intensity of a party, perhaps I crave the dressing up and feeling like I am sharing some moment with a group of people, or perhaps I just want to be able to say I did something for new years.
I am different this holiday season. It feels like my eyes have been open to people's suffering and neuroses. I feel like everyone, in some way, has some past traumatic experiences that they are trying to desperately manage, control or cope with. It is astonishing how many words and deeds are done with an effort to maintain one's own self esteem, at great costs to others and ourselves. What are the costs? We tend to become more narcissistic, self involved, self righteously angry, defensive, manipulative and more likely to blame others for our emotions and failings. All of this in an effort to feel good about ourselves. This is not the type of person I want to become. I want to recognize my own and others fragility, I want to be kind, compassionate, and warm. I certainly don't want to be humble and self depreciating but I want to build myself up, love myself and accept myself. I want to be self compassionate, but oh my god is it hard within the contemporary cultural climate. We live in a society that suggests a large ego, an inflated sense of self worth, and a high self esteem are the key to happiness with oneself. But this "happiness" has it's own drawbacks with how we engage with the world; in short, we seem to engage with it less realistically, and more in terms of our schemas we set up for ourselves. We don't let information in that could be potentially damaging towards our self esteem, but we also avoid tasks and goals that we may fail at. We cling to our generalizations about others to make ourselves feel evaluatively better, more unique and more ambitious than everyone else. Self compassion is an attempt to abandon this way of engaging with the world, it stops the evaluations we give about others and ourselves, and recognizes our shared humanity. We start engaging with ourselves like a friend and encourage ourselves to seek that which makes us happy and be kind to ourselves when we fail. It is a difficult thing to get a hang of, this thing called "self compassion", but nonetheless I hope and believe it is a much better alternative than seeking and maintaining a high self esteem.
I am different this holiday season. It feels like my eyes have been open to people's suffering and neuroses. I feel like everyone, in some way, has some past traumatic experiences that they are trying to desperately manage, control or cope with. It is astonishing how many words and deeds are done with an effort to maintain one's own self esteem, at great costs to others and ourselves. What are the costs? We tend to become more narcissistic, self involved, self righteously angry, defensive, manipulative and more likely to blame others for our emotions and failings. All of this in an effort to feel good about ourselves. This is not the type of person I want to become. I want to recognize my own and others fragility, I want to be kind, compassionate, and warm. I certainly don't want to be humble and self depreciating but I want to build myself up, love myself and accept myself. I want to be self compassionate, but oh my god is it hard within the contemporary cultural climate. We live in a society that suggests a large ego, an inflated sense of self worth, and a high self esteem are the key to happiness with oneself. But this "happiness" has it's own drawbacks with how we engage with the world; in short, we seem to engage with it less realistically, and more in terms of our schemas we set up for ourselves. We don't let information in that could be potentially damaging towards our self esteem, but we also avoid tasks and goals that we may fail at. We cling to our generalizations about others to make ourselves feel evaluatively better, more unique and more ambitious than everyone else. Self compassion is an attempt to abandon this way of engaging with the world, it stops the evaluations we give about others and ourselves, and recognizes our shared humanity. We start engaging with ourselves like a friend and encourage ourselves to seek that which makes us happy and be kind to ourselves when we fail. It is a difficult thing to get a hang of, this thing called "self compassion", but nonetheless I hope and believe it is a much better alternative than seeking and maintaining a high self esteem.
