Ok, here's another one of my oh-so-insightful, tearful, I'm-so-deep-it's-dark posts. As usual, I'll try to keep it short, but I'll probably end up rambling.
I'm just thinking that every time a friend gets hurt, all the other friends rush in and comfort her and we tell her that she's so much better than the guy that hurt her and that he was a loser anyway. (Side note here: I just want to say that I don't enjoy bashing people simply because I've dated them, because I've actually spent a lot of time appreciating that person and if they're really total idiots, well that means I'm either an idiot (which I don't like being) for wasting that much time on them, or that they had me fooled, which I also don't like. So, no. Someone that you chose to love or like or appreciate is not a total idiot the day you decide it hasn't worked out. It just hasn't worked out. And you're losing something precious. And that's why you're broken-hearted. Except my friend who dated Butt-plug. No, he was a complete idiot from the start and you wasted way too much time on him. End of side-note.) And eventually, she gets over him, moves on, starts over again, because she forgets the pain and the agony of a broken heart and moves on. She can do this, because she knows she is not in the wrong. He was an idiot, and a jerk, and evil, and she does one of two things:
1) accept it, resign to the fact that he was an idiot and a jerk and evil, and move on, because she no longer cares: He doesn't deserve the energy that it takes to care.
2) forgive him, be the bigger person, and feel good about it. And then move on.
They move on.
I can't do that. I can't, because in my story, I am the evil. I'm the one who acted wrong, and there is no one around me that will or can convince me that I am not in the wrong and that I'm the one who should be doing the forgiving. Not even I can tell myself that I apologized and fixed things and that I'm in the clear. Because no amount of "I'm sorry"s can save your sorry ass when everyone else is either too hurt to hear or too happy to bother listening.
And every time I see someone posting a tweet or reblogging a stupid picture of a text with an apology or some form of "take me back, I was an idiot" and longing to receive that text, part of me wants to scream that they will never get that text, that they will never be on the receiving end of it, because it's not the kind of text that you send. And I'm saying it from the perspective of someone who should be sending it. Every time I see one of those pictures, I want to scream that I yearn to send one of them out, to apologize, to try to fix things. And if I can't fix it, to get a reaction of some kind. To get a chance to explain my motivation, my reasons. Because no evil does something for no reason. Even the most evil of evils had a reason behind what they did.
And yet, nothing ever ends well for the evil ones. And even though all the movies and the stories in the world prepared me, I wasn't ready to be on this side of the fence. And I certainly wasn't ready for things to not end well for me.
Saturday 29 November 2014
Sunday 16 November 2014
Back to life
Well, I've been admitted to my program, the one that is adding 1.5 years to my bac (as if the fact that I haven't done my CEGEP and had to do an extra 2 years wasn't enough) and hopefully bringing my cote R up. Strangely, I was over the moon when I got the e-mail, as I wasn't sure I'd get in, even with the ridiculously low admission standards.
And then, I got the e-mail saying I needed to take yet another french test to prove my ability to study in french. Here's what I wanted to write back, but didn't, because I'm a mature adult.
Cher Comité de l'Admission et Bureau du Doyen de l'Université de Montreal,
C'est une honneur pour moi d'avoir été admise à la Mineure des Arts et Sciences, après avoir été admise à l'année préparatoire, que je complète ce semestre, avec exemption des deux (oui, des deux!) cours de français. Ayant déjà passé le test de français requis pour accéder à ce programme, je m'étais promis que plus jamais n'écrirais-je un examen de français. Il me peine donc de voir qu'il me sera obligé d'en écrire un autre, pour prouver que malgré le fait que je suis née au Quebec et que j'étudie strictement en français depuis le dernier examen que vous m'avez demandé d'écrire, je devrai en écrire un autre. Imaginez mon regret quand je me rappelle que si j'avais abandonné mon héritage francophone et que j'avais accepté mon admission a McGill, non seulement aurais-je accéder directement à la première année et que je serais en deuxième année de bac au moment où j'écris cette lettre (au lieu de faire un bac qui me prendra un minimum de cinq ans, sept dans mon regrettable cas), mais que je n'aurais pas eu à écrire non seulement pas un, mais deux tests de français, quand mon programme ne contient absolument aucune Lettres. Je m'insurge particulièrement au fait que certain étudiants étrangers dans ma classe ne comprennent effectivement presque aucun français, et je ne puis que me poser la question de comment ils ont fait pour réussir ce test, que j'ai moi-même trouvé difficile, malgré ma maîtrise du français...
Par contre, j'apprécie votre consécration à l'effort de garder le français une langue fière et propre à l'Université de Montréal. Je refuse de perdre trois heures de ma vie à vous prouver quelque chose que je vous ai non seulement déjà prouvé, mais qui est facilement déductible en regardant les faits: mon éducation complètement francophone, ma réussite du premier test, et le fait que j'ai été élevé de façon québecoise.
merci de votre temps, puisque vous perdez le mien,
une étudiante incroyablement frustrée.
And then, I got the e-mail saying I needed to take yet another french test to prove my ability to study in french. Here's what I wanted to write back, but didn't, because I'm a mature adult.
Cher Comité de l'Admission et Bureau du Doyen de l'Université de Montreal,
C'est une honneur pour moi d'avoir été admise à la Mineure des Arts et Sciences, après avoir été admise à l'année préparatoire, que je complète ce semestre, avec exemption des deux (oui, des deux!) cours de français. Ayant déjà passé le test de français requis pour accéder à ce programme, je m'étais promis que plus jamais n'écrirais-je un examen de français. Il me peine donc de voir qu'il me sera obligé d'en écrire un autre, pour prouver que malgré le fait que je suis née au Quebec et que j'étudie strictement en français depuis le dernier examen que vous m'avez demandé d'écrire, je devrai en écrire un autre. Imaginez mon regret quand je me rappelle que si j'avais abandonné mon héritage francophone et que j'avais accepté mon admission a McGill, non seulement aurais-je accéder directement à la première année et que je serais en deuxième année de bac au moment où j'écris cette lettre (au lieu de faire un bac qui me prendra un minimum de cinq ans, sept dans mon regrettable cas), mais que je n'aurais pas eu à écrire non seulement pas un, mais deux tests de français, quand mon programme ne contient absolument aucune Lettres. Je m'insurge particulièrement au fait que certain étudiants étrangers dans ma classe ne comprennent effectivement presque aucun français, et je ne puis que me poser la question de comment ils ont fait pour réussir ce test, que j'ai moi-même trouvé difficile, malgré ma maîtrise du français...
Par contre, j'apprécie votre consécration à l'effort de garder le français une langue fière et propre à l'Université de Montréal. Je refuse de perdre trois heures de ma vie à vous prouver quelque chose que je vous ai non seulement déjà prouvé, mais qui est facilement déductible en regardant les faits: mon éducation complètement francophone, ma réussite du premier test, et le fait que j'ai été élevé de façon québecoise.
merci de votre temps, puisque vous perdez le mien,
une étudiante incroyablement frustrée.
Tuesday 4 November 2014
Normal
Normal. Definition: conforming to a standard; usual, typical, or expected. According to the definition, there is a normal. According to Blogger, I am typing in a normal size, in a normal font. When I walk down the streets, minding my own business, eyes straight ahead, I am normal. Eating, sleeping, breathing: normal.
And yet, as they say, what is normal to the spider is chaos to the fly. And yet, isn't it normal for the fly to get eaten? Standard. Usual, typical, expected. The fly must know that there are predators out to get it, no? And yet, it still struggles as it is entrapped in the web. Chaos. Normal, expected chaos.
It is "normal" to be allergic to peanuts, or pollen. I always get surprised looks when I mention I'm allergic to carrots. As though my histamines weren't allowed to react to carotene-B.
As someone who always had trouble "fitting in", especially in high school, I've learned that "normal" does not exist. Some people are better are hiding it. They smile at the usual things, walk a typical way, do the expected things. And then they turn around and put butter on crackers. Or pick their noses in private. Or dance in the street, in public. Turns out they weren't so normal, but because they conformed to everything else, people generally let it slip by. If they were "popular" (I hate that word, because to whom are they popular? Themselves? Their group of highly influencable teenage peers?), it would be excused. A little like when you're really good at your job and you mess up, they'll give you a chance. If you slip, they'll help you back up, because you're otherwise "normal", good at what you do.
I had a friend who use to smile at strangers. Whether she were at the mall or on the streets or in school, if she made eye contact with someone, she would smile. Now, there are two scenarios. If she were to seek eye contact, that would be bizarre. Needy. Definitely not normal, definitely weird. However, when she smiled at strangers who just happened to cross her eyes with theirs, they always seemed taken aback for a split second - definitely not a usual event, they were confused- and then they would frequently return it, because although it wasn't normal for someone to smile at them, it wasn't usual, it was pleasant, and didn't necessarily mean that she would stalk them and then kill them in their homes. It was just a nice, sociable, socially acceptable gestures.
A second friend, B, met said friend A, and made a comment on how bizarre it was for her to always be smiling at people she didn't know. By this time, A was a very close friend of mine that I'd spent quite a bit of time with. I shrugged at B's comment and said "Yeah, but that's just A." I've since then realized that people see normalcy as what is not a threat to them, and in society, there are standards or normalcy in order to get accepted. Excentric people can only be called excentric if they have something else to offer: great money, great talent, great opinions. Otherwise, they're not excentric. Only dangerous, or weird.
Putting butter on crackers: eventually acceptable. Picking your nose: still gross, even after many years, but the more we see it, the less we make a big deal out of it. A simple shiver with a disgusted look suffices to communicate to our peers that this behavior is not one we condone. Dancing on the street? There are shared opinions, but people tend to protect themselves and mention that it is bizarre, even as they smile condescendingly at a stranger's happiness.
I've learned that fighting society is exhausting. And while I still have my quirks (blatantly lacking tact when I talk to someone I don't like, for example (ain't no time for picking out words and sugar coating the truth if I don't appreciate you) ) I've learned to tone it down. I will sing into my phone, instead of out loud outside. I will keep my dancing confined to my room. ect. And it turns out life is so much easier like that.
And yet, as they say, what is normal to the spider is chaos to the fly. And yet, isn't it normal for the fly to get eaten? Standard. Usual, typical, expected. The fly must know that there are predators out to get it, no? And yet, it still struggles as it is entrapped in the web. Chaos. Normal, expected chaos.
It is "normal" to be allergic to peanuts, or pollen. I always get surprised looks when I mention I'm allergic to carrots. As though my histamines weren't allowed to react to carotene-B.
As someone who always had trouble "fitting in", especially in high school, I've learned that "normal" does not exist. Some people are better are hiding it. They smile at the usual things, walk a typical way, do the expected things. And then they turn around and put butter on crackers. Or pick their noses in private. Or dance in the street, in public. Turns out they weren't so normal, but because they conformed to everything else, people generally let it slip by. If they were "popular" (I hate that word, because to whom are they popular? Themselves? Their group of highly influencable teenage peers?), it would be excused. A little like when you're really good at your job and you mess up, they'll give you a chance. If you slip, they'll help you back up, because you're otherwise "normal", good at what you do.
I had a friend who use to smile at strangers. Whether she were at the mall or on the streets or in school, if she made eye contact with someone, she would smile. Now, there are two scenarios. If she were to seek eye contact, that would be bizarre. Needy. Definitely not normal, definitely weird. However, when she smiled at strangers who just happened to cross her eyes with theirs, they always seemed taken aback for a split second - definitely not a usual event, they were confused- and then they would frequently return it, because although it wasn't normal for someone to smile at them, it wasn't usual, it was pleasant, and didn't necessarily mean that she would stalk them and then kill them in their homes. It was just a nice, sociable, socially acceptable gestures.
A second friend, B, met said friend A, and made a comment on how bizarre it was for her to always be smiling at people she didn't know. By this time, A was a very close friend of mine that I'd spent quite a bit of time with. I shrugged at B's comment and said "Yeah, but that's just A." I've since then realized that people see normalcy as what is not a threat to them, and in society, there are standards or normalcy in order to get accepted. Excentric people can only be called excentric if they have something else to offer: great money, great talent, great opinions. Otherwise, they're not excentric. Only dangerous, or weird.
Putting butter on crackers: eventually acceptable. Picking your nose: still gross, even after many years, but the more we see it, the less we make a big deal out of it. A simple shiver with a disgusted look suffices to communicate to our peers that this behavior is not one we condone. Dancing on the street? There are shared opinions, but people tend to protect themselves and mention that it is bizarre, even as they smile condescendingly at a stranger's happiness.
I've learned that fighting society is exhausting. And while I still have my quirks (blatantly lacking tact when I talk to someone I don't like, for example (ain't no time for picking out words and sugar coating the truth if I don't appreciate you) ) I've learned to tone it down. I will sing into my phone, instead of out loud outside. I will keep my dancing confined to my room. ect. And it turns out life is so much easier like that.
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