The wretched desert takes its form, the jackal proud and tight
In search of you, I feel my way, though the slowest heaving night
Whatever fear invents, I swear it make no sense
I reach through the border fence
Come down, come talk to me
...
Ah please talk to me
Won't you please talk to me
We can unlock this misery
Come on, come talk to me
Peter Gabriel, "Come Talk to Me" Us
— `phfina commentary:
Okay, what are you doing? Why are you reading this post? Go! Go out and buy Peter Gabriel's CD Us (and while you're at it, get Lana Del Rey's Born to Die ... she wrote that album for us, girls; she really did).
I mean, okay: is that guy even human, or is he his name: an angel? There was not one false note on that entire album, so sad, so serious, so super-silly with his "Kiss that Frog" ...
Wait. Is 'kiss that frog' the same as kissing a 'python' because if it is ... okay: eww!
So: "Come Talk to Me." I mean, it starts beautifully, and stays that way: the (bag) pipes strike a mournful chord, and they never, ever stop, the continuous drone in the background of that entire song reminding us all of the hurt that is happening throughout the world, all the time.
And Peter offers a really stupidly simple solution to it all: "Come, take to me."
No, not: "Hear me while I tell you all the solutions to your problems, you idiot."
He didn't say "Listen to me." He said: "Come, talk to me."
And where are we coming from? We're coming from our wretched desert, where Jesus went off to be alone.
We're all alone, all of us so filled with our own pride, our own self-worth, just like that tight jackal, that we can't even hear what another person from the well of their loneliness is saying to us. We'd rather rip their throats out than sit down, look into their being, and listen to them.
But Peter, he reaches through that border-fence that we erect around ourselves, and begs us: "Ah, please, talk to me. Come on, come talk to me."
Sweetheart. You are hurting.
But talking to yourself, locking yourself up into your wretched desert and erecting that border-fence only feeds that hurt.
Please, talk to me. Come on, come talk to me.
I don't have answers ... I mean, I have tons of answers, all the time, and I'm damn sure I'm right, too, 'cause I'm a weak human being, too, so please forgive me my frailty ...
I don't have answers; I don't have help or relief from your pain. But I can reach out through that border-fence, and listen, and cry, hurting with your pain, and love you.
You are alone in this world. I know this feeling very well. Please, talk to me.
I love you.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Bullying
"But I say unto you, That ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also."
Matthew 5:39
— `phfina commentary:
Okay, peeps, you, my dear friends, are getting this verse all wrong. It's your parents' fault for telling you, 'oh, show them that you're better than them,' and it's your fault for cringing down into yourself and saying, 'I can be strong, I can take this,' when you know goddamn well you're a sissy-ninny playing right into their hands, but you want to do what's right, and you want to come home, shattered and broken inside, but you want to tell mommy and daddy you did right for being the coward that you are.
That is what you are. And you know it.
If you look at American high school (and, watching Låt den rätte komma in, then it's more pervasive than just American high schools) through an anthropological lens, it's all about one thing: self-destruction. That self-destruction is manifested in two forms: tyranny and disengagement. Kids in school are either out to hurt somebody they can prey on, or they are banding together in cliques, or, like me, just checking out, so they can avoid being hurt, so they can be safe with their besties or safe in the library in a corner behind a book and avoid it all.
Like I said, self-destruction.
So, the bullies come around and find their little Oskar, their little `phfina, and pick on him or her until, yup, there's another suicide, call in the counselors and let's assemble in the gym for an hour long crisis management session so we can go right back to doing what we were doing.
And little `phfina or little Oskar goes up the the pearly gates, and instead of St. Peter, there's the big J-man himself there, and He doesn't look happy:
"You stupid idiot! I'm sick and tired of you lame-ass turn-the-other-cheek wimps! Go to Hell!"
And little `phfina or little Oskar go straight to hell, scratching their little heads, mumbling in confusion: "But, I didn't do anything!"
That's right: you're going to hell, and you didn't do anything.
... Actually: you're going to hell because you didn't do anything.
Okay, let's take the complete opposite of what Mr. J-man-G said and ask Elie her thoughts:
=-=-=-=
"Oskar, when they hit you, hit them back. Hit them back ... hard."
Oskar: "But there are many of them!"
Elie: "Then you have to hit them back harder."
=-=-=-=
The problem today, in this 'modern and enlightened' day and age is the bullies are now wise to the old turn-the-other-cheek grin-and-bear-it philosophy. They know it, and they target people, you, specifically for that reason.
"They are going to turn the other cheek! That means I get free second hits, and as often as I see that dumb fvck! BONUS!"
They hit you. You don't hit back. Now you two (or three or four or five ... bullies travel in packs: their own self-sustaining support groups!) are bound together in this sweet, little codependent relationship. They win: they get to bully you, and feel better than somebody, and then masturbate themselves into a frenzy of orgasms with the image of your downtrodden, servile demeanor. You win, too: you get to lick your wounds, and say, 'oh, woe is me!' and 'Everybody's so mean to me!' and be right and justified for being a wuss.
Win-win-win! (The third win is again anthropological: it becomes integral into this totalitarian society that we cover with labels, such as: 'school' and 'work' so the society feeds on it, growing this behavior so it's now ingrained).
What the bully is not expecting, is that when he says (or she says, girls can be so mean) something offensive or belittling (and usually both), or when he hits you or she tears your dress and slaps your face, or when he ...
... all that sh-t.
When they do that, they are so not expecting you to turn right back around and give it to them. Double.
And that's what you have to do. 'Have to' in that if you want to play their game, go ahead and take it, pissing yourself and end up crying in a heap in the bathroom, but my 'have to' is a constructive disengagement, which is this:
"If you wanna fvck with me, then you are going to get so fvcked up!"
It's called setting boundaries. A bully likes to erase your boundaries and extend his, or hers, all over your sh-t. Instead of allowing that, allowing the bully to grow bigger and allowing yourself to shrink, you redraw the line, but instead of drawing a tiny, little circle around yourself, you take that sharpie pen, and you draw the line across the floor between you and the bully.
Does it work? Instantly?
Sometimes, I guess.
But it works for me. It so works for me. And here's how.
I suffered through high school. I was that hangdog who literally had a sign on her back that said 'kick me, I'm gay.'
When I found somebody had put that piece of paper on my back, I lost it that day.
And I still went all the way through school doing what's right, because of ...
Because of everything, because I wanted to do what my parents told me, because I didn't want to get suspended, because I was a scared, little girl who didn't want to stand out and get noticed, so I hid in myself, and got picked on.
And I never had a witty comeback to all those zingers my classmates threw at me, so I was the dumb village-picked-on idiot, too.
Then something changed.
I don't know what. I don't know when.
But one day, on the job, I answered back.
You know how it is at work. They tease you 'all in good fun' and the rule is you're supposed to tease back 'all in good fun.'
So this time, I obeyed the rule. It wasn't witty, what I said, or perfect, or anything, ... skill comes through practice.
But it was something. And: shocker! I didn't die, and I didn't get fired, and they went on with their work and their teasing and life, and I went on with mine.
But I didn't go on with my life saying, 'woe is me! everybody hates me!' No, I went on with my life like: 'Hey, ... I did that!'
And they now knew: they can't just say anything to me now and have me take it, just like that. No, now, they say something to me, they get it right back, sometimes really `phfina-hard vindictively, sometimes with a wicked grin on my face and a soft little zinger, and all the guys scream, 'Whoa! Damn, bro'! You got served by little `phfina!'
And, guess what? Work, now, is a lot healthier place, for me, and for them. For me, because I respect myself, and I can hang with my coworkers and not feel like I'm a piece of furniture to be used, and for them, because now they know that they are dealing with a person, a person who demands respect for herself and so they now are more respectful of her and of themselves.
Real: win-win-win. (The third win is again anthropological: the society is now functional, instead of self-destructive)
Let's go back to the Bible verse, and see what it's really saying.
I addressed this in my first chapter of Sappho's Muse, by the way, but nobody reads, so 'that's okay.'
@_@
Jesus said, 'turn the other one,' because if somebody hit you on the cheek, it was, of course, with their right hand (the left was used to wipe). So they struck you with an open hand: a master, striking a slave, ... hitting you and asserting their dominion over you at the same time: conquering Romans hitting subjugated Jews.
But if you turn the other one, showing him your other cheek then that Roman would have to close his fist, and punch you.
A closed fist means only one thing: a man, fighting a man — equal, to equal.
When you turned the other cheek, it was not a sign of submission. It was a sign of defiance, you fucking turn-the-other-cheek idiots! (I'm counting myself in this crowd here, girls, so hate me for telling you the truth that I lived).
When you turned the other cheek, it told your oppressor, 'You hit me again, you have to acknowledge me as your equal.'
It made the Romans insane with fury, because they couldn't do that. That would redraw the map.
So that means they couldn't hit you anymore. So that means every time they saw you after that, they knew 'Oh, that was the guy I tried to oppress, but he wouldn't let me, so I can't pick on him anymore.'
Sweetheart, listen to me. You let a bully walk all over you, not only does that give him permission to find you again, every time he can (and girls are so good at this, too), but it also emboldens him to find the next doormat that used to be a person and walk all over them, because you enabled that behavior in him.
Every person that bully hurts after you? Your fault.
So, okay.
So, you strike back. Hard.
Happily ever after?
Sometimes, maybe.
Sometimes, the bully turns around, and hits you three more times, hard, and then calls you an a-hole, laughing at winded you as you lie on the floor trying to suck breath back into your lungs.
Sometimes, he goes away, and comes back a few days later, ... with some of his friends.
That happened to Oskar, after all.
But no matter what happens. YOU took a stand for something, and not just for 'something,' but for the most important thing in the world: you. You stood up for yourself.
And he now knows that. And he now has to think twice before picking on you, because he now knows it's going to hurt him. No more free lunch money from you.
And more importantly: you now know that. And nobody can take that away from you, ever again.
Matthew 5:39
— `phfina commentary:
Okay, peeps, you, my dear friends, are getting this verse all wrong. It's your parents' fault for telling you, 'oh, show them that you're better than them,' and it's your fault for cringing down into yourself and saying, 'I can be strong, I can take this,' when you know goddamn well you're a sissy-ninny playing right into their hands, but you want to do what's right, and you want to come home, shattered and broken inside, but you want to tell mommy and daddy you did right for being the coward that you are.
That is what you are. And you know it.
If you look at American high school (and, watching Låt den rätte komma in, then it's more pervasive than just American high schools) through an anthropological lens, it's all about one thing: self-destruction. That self-destruction is manifested in two forms: tyranny and disengagement. Kids in school are either out to hurt somebody they can prey on, or they are banding together in cliques, or, like me, just checking out, so they can avoid being hurt, so they can be safe with their besties or safe in the library in a corner behind a book and avoid it all.
Like I said, self-destruction.
So, the bullies come around and find their little Oskar, their little `phfina, and pick on him or her until, yup, there's another suicide, call in the counselors and let's assemble in the gym for an hour long crisis management session so we can go right back to doing what we were doing.
And little `phfina or little Oskar goes up the the pearly gates, and instead of St. Peter, there's the big J-man himself there, and He doesn't look happy:
"You stupid idiot! I'm sick and tired of you lame-ass turn-the-other-cheek wimps! Go to Hell!"
And little `phfina or little Oskar go straight to hell, scratching their little heads, mumbling in confusion: "But, I didn't do anything!"
That's right: you're going to hell, and you didn't do anything.
... Actually: you're going to hell because you didn't do anything.
Okay, let's take the complete opposite of what Mr. J-man-G said and ask Elie her thoughts:
=-=-=-=
"Oskar, when they hit you, hit them back. Hit them back ... hard."
Oskar: "But there are many of them!"
Elie: "Then you have to hit them back harder."
=-=-=-=
The problem today, in this 'modern and enlightened' day and age is the bullies are now wise to the old turn-the-other-cheek grin-and-bear-it philosophy. They know it, and they target people, you, specifically for that reason.
"They are going to turn the other cheek! That means I get free second hits, and as often as I see that dumb fvck! BONUS!"
They hit you. You don't hit back. Now you two (or three or four or five ... bullies travel in packs: their own self-sustaining support groups!) are bound together in this sweet, little codependent relationship. They win: they get to bully you, and feel better than somebody, and then masturbate themselves into a frenzy of orgasms with the image of your downtrodden, servile demeanor. You win, too: you get to lick your wounds, and say, 'oh, woe is me!' and 'Everybody's so mean to me!' and be right and justified for being a wuss.
Win-win-win! (The third win is again anthropological: it becomes integral into this totalitarian society that we cover with labels, such as: 'school' and 'work' so the society feeds on it, growing this behavior so it's now ingrained).
What the bully is not expecting, is that when he says (or she says, girls can be so mean) something offensive or belittling (and usually both), or when he hits you or she tears your dress and slaps your face, or when he ...
... all that sh-t.
When they do that, they are so not expecting you to turn right back around and give it to them. Double.
And that's what you have to do. 'Have to' in that if you want to play their game, go ahead and take it, pissing yourself and end up crying in a heap in the bathroom, but my 'have to' is a constructive disengagement, which is this:
"If you wanna fvck with me, then you are going to get so fvcked up!"
It's called setting boundaries. A bully likes to erase your boundaries and extend his, or hers, all over your sh-t. Instead of allowing that, allowing the bully to grow bigger and allowing yourself to shrink, you redraw the line, but instead of drawing a tiny, little circle around yourself, you take that sharpie pen, and you draw the line across the floor between you and the bully.
Does it work? Instantly?
Sometimes, I guess.
But it works for me. It so works for me. And here's how.
I suffered through high school. I was that hangdog who literally had a sign on her back that said 'kick me, I'm gay.'
When I found somebody had put that piece of paper on my back, I lost it that day.
And I still went all the way through school doing what's right, because of ...
Because of everything, because I wanted to do what my parents told me, because I didn't want to get suspended, because I was a scared, little girl who didn't want to stand out and get noticed, so I hid in myself, and got picked on.
And I never had a witty comeback to all those zingers my classmates threw at me, so I was the dumb village-picked-on idiot, too.
Then something changed.
I don't know what. I don't know when.
But one day, on the job, I answered back.
You know how it is at work. They tease you 'all in good fun' and the rule is you're supposed to tease back 'all in good fun.'
So this time, I obeyed the rule. It wasn't witty, what I said, or perfect, or anything, ... skill comes through practice.
But it was something. And: shocker! I didn't die, and I didn't get fired, and they went on with their work and their teasing and life, and I went on with mine.
But I didn't go on with my life saying, 'woe is me! everybody hates me!' No, I went on with my life like: 'Hey, ... I did that!'
And they now knew: they can't just say anything to me now and have me take it, just like that. No, now, they say something to me, they get it right back, sometimes really `phfina-hard vindictively, sometimes with a wicked grin on my face and a soft little zinger, and all the guys scream, 'Whoa! Damn, bro'! You got served by little `phfina!'
And, guess what? Work, now, is a lot healthier place, for me, and for them. For me, because I respect myself, and I can hang with my coworkers and not feel like I'm a piece of furniture to be used, and for them, because now they know that they are dealing with a person, a person who demands respect for herself and so they now are more respectful of her and of themselves.
Real: win-win-win. (The third win is again anthropological: the society is now functional, instead of self-destructive)
Let's go back to the Bible verse, and see what it's really saying.
I addressed this in my first chapter of Sappho's Muse, by the way, but nobody reads, so 'that's okay.'
@_@
Jesus said, 'turn the other one,' because if somebody hit you on the cheek, it was, of course, with their right hand (the left was used to wipe). So they struck you with an open hand: a master, striking a slave, ... hitting you and asserting their dominion over you at the same time: conquering Romans hitting subjugated Jews.
But if you turn the other one, showing him your other cheek then that Roman would have to close his fist, and punch you.
A closed fist means only one thing: a man, fighting a man — equal, to equal.
When you turned the other cheek, it was not a sign of submission. It was a sign of defiance, you fucking turn-the-other-cheek idiots! (I'm counting myself in this crowd here, girls, so hate me for telling you the truth that I lived).
When you turned the other cheek, it told your oppressor, 'You hit me again, you have to acknowledge me as your equal.'
It made the Romans insane with fury, because they couldn't do that. That would redraw the map.
So that means they couldn't hit you anymore. So that means every time they saw you after that, they knew 'Oh, that was the guy I tried to oppress, but he wouldn't let me, so I can't pick on him anymore.'
Sweetheart, listen to me. You let a bully walk all over you, not only does that give him permission to find you again, every time he can (and girls are so good at this, too), but it also emboldens him to find the next doormat that used to be a person and walk all over them, because you enabled that behavior in him.
Every person that bully hurts after you? Your fault.
So, okay.
So, you strike back. Hard.
Happily ever after?
Sometimes, maybe.
Sometimes, the bully turns around, and hits you three more times, hard, and then calls you an a-hole, laughing at winded you as you lie on the floor trying to suck breath back into your lungs.
Sometimes, he goes away, and comes back a few days later, ... with some of his friends.
That happened to Oskar, after all.
But no matter what happens. YOU took a stand for something, and not just for 'something,' but for the most important thing in the world: you. You stood up for yourself.
And he now knows that. And he now has to think twice before picking on you, because he now knows it's going to hurt him. No more free lunch money from you.
And more importantly: you now know that. And nobody can take that away from you, ever again.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
"You have such potential!"
Dear Diary,
You know what I hate?
I hate it when people tell me: "You have such potential!"
You know why I hate it?
Because they are right. And I know it.
Let's face it girls, when somebody tells you 'you have such potential!' what do they think they are saying? Well, they're saying you're talented, smart, kind, caring, hard-working, beautiful, and they see that, all of that, in you, and the words just burst out of them, and you see their bursting because they're smiling hugely at you as they say this.
But what do you hear? You hear: "Well, you're certainly going nowhere with the gifts God gave you ... when're you gonna get off your duff and do something?"
Yeah, me, too. I hear those words that they speak, and instead of being complimented and encouraged, what I want to do is scratch their eyes out of their faces ...
... for starters.
But why?
It's called a conscience.
That little voice inside me gets very, very quiet when someone tells me, 'you have such potential!'
And after that person leaves or after I leave, and I control my breathing, and make sure the tears are wiped away, that's when she speaks.
"They're right, you know," she says quietly.
They're right, you know.
You know who don't get the 'you have such potential!' comments?
Rosalie.
She had no potential. You know why?
I'll tell you why: when she saw something she wanted, she was in motion. She worked toward that goal, every step of the way, and she didn't care if she had to fight every man, woman, and child and dig a tunnel through a mountain or walk over the top of it. She didn't care. She what she wanted, and she went for it.
"But, phfina, Rosalie's a fictional character! Who cares who said what to her, because she doesn't exist."
Guess what, girls: that's true for every one of us.
We tell ourselves stories, every second of every day.
"I'm not like that."
"I never could do that."
"I'm not that kind of girl."
"I can't do that."
Then we tell each other stories:
"You can't do that!"
... and we forget that they are all just stories that we tell ourselves and each other. We made pretend, when that chilling, crushing thing happened when we were four or five, that we were such and so, because if we are such and so, then they hurt wouldn't've happened, or, well, we realize, after we make pretend, that hurts happen anyway, so we make more pretends and forget we just playing a game, be it 'don't hurt me' or 'I'm cute!' or 'Math is hard' or 'don't leave me!' or 'love me, mommy, please ... please.' or ...
What happens is we end up by being the pretense, and then the pretense becomes our ego, so we can relegate to our id all those scary monsters that come out anyway so we can add more buttresses to our ego so we can pretend that the hurt doesn't really hurt because we're this or that.
And 'this or that' is not who we are, nor who we can be, it's a safe, little unreality box for safe, little us ... who love, who care, who are smart, and talented and beautiful, ... but if we extend ourselves at all, and write a review in Swedish, then somebody, 5,000 somebodies, in fact, notice us, and when they notice us, then we're opened up, and when we're opened up ... and then hurt can ... hurt us, again.
So we close ourselves up, and forget we read a story 8, 9, 10 times, laughing, crying, and being joyful in that moment, and, in that joy, giving a girl a reason to live, for just one more day ... just one more day, or two more years that she would've lived if you hadn't opened yourself up and told her you loved her, and that you will always love her.
So you shut down, so that's safe.
But playing it safe? being careful? You see those girls at parties (that is: me), sitting in a far corner by herself with her drink and a very tight smile plastered on her face, but you've read her writing, so you go up to her, and enthuse: 'you should publish this stuff! This is amazing! Write more! I love it! Imagine who you'd impact if you reached a broader audience! But why are you writing fan-fics? When are you going to branch out and write your own works instead of copy stuff that's already derivative? You're better than that! You know that!"
And that girl lets that all wash over her, and hands that dude her drink and runs to the bathroom to puke her guts out, then leaves the party, trying to hide her tears.
Why? Fear? What's fear? It's nothing, right? It's being afraid of nothing, because why? Fear is fear of something that may happen, and it seldom does, right, girls? You know that. And when it does, what happens? It happens, and nobody cares, and after it happens, you don't care either, because it happened, it's in the past now. It doesn't need to run your life now, because it happened then, it's not happening now.
But that's what 'you have such potential!' is, isn't it? It points out that you could be there a star or authoress or ... whatever, but you're here, and the only reason you're here is because you're afraid of going there.
Oh, yeah: I went there.
Steph Meyer went to 28 publishers before that last one picked up Twilight.
28 publishers. How many would I have gone through? Easy: zero! Because I'm afraid of going to even the first one. How many more would Steph had gone through?
Oh, come on! She went through 28 already ... that tells me that she was going to get her story published come hell or high water, because she had that much confidence in her story.
Because she had that much confidence in herself.
"Easy for you to say, `phfina: 'Oh, don't be afraid and just do it.'"
Yup, easy for me to say, because I've seen in, too: in my Nana. She was 95 when she died, and she volunteered at the hospital and at the local school until she got terminal cancer at 94. She was a force in motion, always doing something, always in motion.
Nobody told her that she has such potential, because she was in action, all the time.
And it was just so simple for her: time to garden. Time to feed the family. Time to volunteer at the school. Time to grab the fighting boys (my uncles) by the ears and give them what-for. Time to bury Pepe after he killed himself.
She had a hard life, her whole life, including raising a family of eight during the Depression, but she never complained, she was just too busy to complain, because she had something to do, because she saw a need, and she just took care of it.
And that's it, isn't it? You have something, a beautiful voice, a way of writing words, or painting, or a will and determination or a business sense. You have something. And you can put things, life, whatever, between you and you doing something with this something that you have, and be very busy and very successful, and very sad and angry when people tell you have such potential, or you can be just as busy using what you have and creating the world how you see it, how it should be, because you, you call the shots here, because you said so.
And that world that you do create? You created it, and it can be filled with the things you put in the way of yourself, and of others, and you have this nice, safe, little fence around yourself. Or you can just git-r-done and let it rip and not give a flip about what anybody else says, because that's all they do, stand around the water cooler, and that's great, because they can talk, as long as they stay out of your way, because you are woman, strong, beautiful, empowered, talented, and you are going places and making things happen.
Your choice (your ... 'potential').
"But, `phfina, what am I supposed to do?"
Oh, come on. You know the answer, even as you ask the question.
The world is the world.
And you are you.
And there's this huge thing between you and the world, and how you see the world as it should be.
That huge thing? It's nothing to what you can do. I just wrote a few words on paper and published them, and look what happened? I did nothing but a little tiny something, and I have letters in my treasure chest from people telling me how I saved their lives or how they found love or hope.
You put your foot to that first step forward, and your other foot will follow.
And the world will change around you. It has to. Doesn't mean it won't be easy, but you already know what the alternative is like.
It sucks. It sucks a big fat sucky potential suck.
So, read this. Say 'eh, whatever,' and go back to your potential.
Or, read this ... then write me when ...
... or you publish your story ...
... or you manage a multibillion dollar mutual fund, and you're 21 ...
... or you start the next Google or eBay or Amazon ...
... or someone tells you you saved their life.
... or whatever that huge thing is in front of you, and you climb over it (literally) or bust through it or hold it in your arms and tell her you love her.
I love you. You have such potential, and I love you, right now, right as you are, because you, in your potential have done things, and touched hearts, and you, in your potential, are a person. A person who reached out to me, and cried that someone told you these hurtful words, and I cried with you, hurting with the same hurt, and you let me do that. And loved me, little me, in all my stupid fearful, paralyzing potential, and you didn't judge: you loved.
I love you.
You know what I hate?
I hate it when people tell me: "You have such potential!"
You know why I hate it?
Because they are right. And I know it.
Let's face it girls, when somebody tells you 'you have such potential!' what do they think they are saying? Well, they're saying you're talented, smart, kind, caring, hard-working, beautiful, and they see that, all of that, in you, and the words just burst out of them, and you see their bursting because they're smiling hugely at you as they say this.
But what do you hear? You hear: "Well, you're certainly going nowhere with the gifts God gave you ... when're you gonna get off your duff and do something?"
Yeah, me, too. I hear those words that they speak, and instead of being complimented and encouraged, what I want to do is scratch their eyes out of their faces ...
... for starters.
But why?
It's called a conscience.
That little voice inside me gets very, very quiet when someone tells me, 'you have such potential!'
And after that person leaves or after I leave, and I control my breathing, and make sure the tears are wiped away, that's when she speaks.
"They're right, you know," she says quietly.
They're right, you know.
You know who don't get the 'you have such potential!' comments?
Rosalie.
She had no potential. You know why?
I'll tell you why: when she saw something she wanted, she was in motion. She worked toward that goal, every step of the way, and she didn't care if she had to fight every man, woman, and child and dig a tunnel through a mountain or walk over the top of it. She didn't care. She what she wanted, and she went for it.
"But, phfina, Rosalie's a fictional character! Who cares who said what to her, because she doesn't exist."
Guess what, girls: that's true for every one of us.
We tell ourselves stories, every second of every day.
"I'm not like that."
"I never could do that."
"I'm not that kind of girl."
"I can't do that."
Then we tell each other stories:
"You can't do that!"
... and we forget that they are all just stories that we tell ourselves and each other. We made pretend, when that chilling, crushing thing happened when we were four or five, that we were such and so, because if we are such and so, then they hurt wouldn't've happened, or, well, we realize, after we make pretend, that hurts happen anyway, so we make more pretends and forget we just playing a game, be it 'don't hurt me' or 'I'm cute!' or 'Math is hard' or 'don't leave me!' or 'love me, mommy, please ... please.' or ...
What happens is we end up by being the pretense, and then the pretense becomes our ego, so we can relegate to our id all those scary monsters that come out anyway so we can add more buttresses to our ego so we can pretend that the hurt doesn't really hurt because we're this or that.
And 'this or that' is not who we are, nor who we can be, it's a safe, little unreality box for safe, little us ... who love, who care, who are smart, and talented and beautiful, ... but if we extend ourselves at all, and write a review in Swedish, then somebody, 5,000 somebodies, in fact, notice us, and when they notice us, then we're opened up, and when we're opened up ... and then hurt can ... hurt us, again.
So we close ourselves up, and forget we read a story 8, 9, 10 times, laughing, crying, and being joyful in that moment, and, in that joy, giving a girl a reason to live, for just one more day ... just one more day, or two more years that she would've lived if you hadn't opened yourself up and told her you loved her, and that you will always love her.
So you shut down, so that's safe.
But playing it safe? being careful? You see those girls at parties (that is: me), sitting in a far corner by herself with her drink and a very tight smile plastered on her face, but you've read her writing, so you go up to her, and enthuse: 'you should publish this stuff! This is amazing! Write more! I love it! Imagine who you'd impact if you reached a broader audience! But why are you writing fan-fics? When are you going to branch out and write your own works instead of copy stuff that's already derivative? You're better than that! You know that!"
And that girl lets that all wash over her, and hands that dude her drink and runs to the bathroom to puke her guts out, then leaves the party, trying to hide her tears.
Why? Fear? What's fear? It's nothing, right? It's being afraid of nothing, because why? Fear is fear of something that may happen, and it seldom does, right, girls? You know that. And when it does, what happens? It happens, and nobody cares, and after it happens, you don't care either, because it happened, it's in the past now. It doesn't need to run your life now, because it happened then, it's not happening now.
But that's what 'you have such potential!' is, isn't it? It points out that you could be there a star or authoress or ... whatever, but you're here, and the only reason you're here is because you're afraid of going there.
Oh, yeah: I went there.
Steph Meyer went to 28 publishers before that last one picked up Twilight.
28 publishers. How many would I have gone through? Easy: zero! Because I'm afraid of going to even the first one. How many more would Steph had gone through?
Oh, come on! She went through 28 already ... that tells me that she was going to get her story published come hell or high water, because she had that much confidence in her story.
Because she had that much confidence in herself.
"Easy for you to say, `phfina: 'Oh, don't be afraid and just do it.'"
Yup, easy for me to say, because I've seen in, too: in my Nana. She was 95 when she died, and she volunteered at the hospital and at the local school until she got terminal cancer at 94. She was a force in motion, always doing something, always in motion.
Nobody told her that she has such potential, because she was in action, all the time.
And it was just so simple for her: time to garden. Time to feed the family. Time to volunteer at the school. Time to grab the fighting boys (my uncles) by the ears and give them what-for. Time to bury Pepe after he killed himself.
She had a hard life, her whole life, including raising a family of eight during the Depression, but she never complained, she was just too busy to complain, because she had something to do, because she saw a need, and she just took care of it.
And that's it, isn't it? You have something, a beautiful voice, a way of writing words, or painting, or a will and determination or a business sense. You have something. And you can put things, life, whatever, between you and you doing something with this something that you have, and be very busy and very successful, and very sad and angry when people tell you have such potential, or you can be just as busy using what you have and creating the world how you see it, how it should be, because you, you call the shots here, because you said so.
And that world that you do create? You created it, and it can be filled with the things you put in the way of yourself, and of others, and you have this nice, safe, little fence around yourself. Or you can just git-r-done and let it rip and not give a flip about what anybody else says, because that's all they do, stand around the water cooler, and that's great, because they can talk, as long as they stay out of your way, because you are woman, strong, beautiful, empowered, talented, and you are going places and making things happen.
Your choice (your ... 'potential').
"But, `phfina, what am I supposed to do?"
Oh, come on. You know the answer, even as you ask the question.
The world is the world.
And you are you.
And there's this huge thing between you and the world, and how you see the world as it should be.
That huge thing? It's nothing to what you can do. I just wrote a few words on paper and published them, and look what happened? I did nothing but a little tiny something, and I have letters in my treasure chest from people telling me how I saved their lives or how they found love or hope.
You put your foot to that first step forward, and your other foot will follow.
And the world will change around you. It has to. Doesn't mean it won't be easy, but you already know what the alternative is like.
It sucks. It sucks a big fat sucky potential suck.
So, read this. Say 'eh, whatever,' and go back to your potential.
Or, read this ... then write me when ...
... or you publish your story ...
... or you manage a multibillion dollar mutual fund, and you're 21 ...
... or you start the next Google or eBay or Amazon ...
... or someone tells you you saved their life.
... or whatever that huge thing is in front of you, and you climb over it (literally) or bust through it or hold it in your arms and tell her you love her.
I love you. You have such potential, and I love you, right now, right as you are, because you, in your potential have done things, and touched hearts, and you, in your potential, are a person. A person who reached out to me, and cried that someone told you these hurtful words, and I cried with you, hurting with the same hurt, and you let me do that. And loved me, little me, in all my stupid fearful, paralyzing potential, and you didn't judge: you loved.
I love you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
