Eating Skeptic Monster
Only one day left and the school’s next term will start. I can’t tell you if I’m either excited or apprehensive about that. Maybe both. I always am – or try to be – excited about fresh starts. I’m looking forward to the new semester since that means that’s another 18 or so units decreased from my loads, there are more things to learn and experience, there’s still another chance to start over. Knowledge is always good; experiences are always beneficial. What I’m scared of are my schedule and the new people (classmates and professors) I’d have to interact and work with for the next weeks. I got subjects that would probably blow my brains off and a schedule that is another way of declaring, “Lo and behold, my suicide mission!” I decided to enroll in classes that would fit in my schedule as many as possible, since practicality-wise, if I’m given the opportunity to take a semester without paying for my tuition fee, I’d take it for granted. I’m taking my scholarship for granted, which
isn’t wrong, as far as I know.
Yes, I still got my scholarship – and this one’s better.
Last semester I only had Partial Scholarship, which meant I paid only half of the school fees. This semester I managed to acquire Full Scholarship, which only means I don’t have to pay for the actual tuition and miscellaneous fees. Apparently, the general average I worked my ass off last semester is enough to put me in the school’s President’s List. And I’m grateful. Part of me wants to question the school authorities or anybody why and how I got the grades I got (since I think I procrastinated a lot from June to October), but the bigger part of me is repeatedly slapping me and making me realize that I deserve what I got because I gave everything I could for it. Right now I’m betting my cards against that smaller, dubious, self-degrading part.
It’s a constant internal battle, and for one to win, the other has to lose. It’s never a fight where it ends as a draw – there’s
always a winner. And sometimes the victorious side is the evil one. And it’s bad.
This is like high school all over again, when I was given the news that I was the Batch Valedictorian:
I doubted. After my adviser shook my hand to congratulate me, at first I
cried because the news was overwhelming, and then hugged my best friend. I was so happy that time. After an hour or so, I felt guilty. I questioned the fact; I doubted the happiness I was feeling. I knew I wasn’t the top student that time, and I have this aching feeling that said others deserved it more than I did. I said this to my best friend and he gave me a look and reprimanded me. He said I deserved it, that grades don’t lie, that sometimes I can shine brighter (not these exact words though). I tried to keep that in my mind, but until now that doubt is threatening to stir and travel across my anatomy and take over once it gained enough strength, enough hesitations. It’s crazy and scary. I always have to guard myself and stay planted inside my No To Doubts bubble.
“There is nothing more dreadful than the habit of doubt. Doubt separates people. It is a poison that disintegrates friendships and breaks up pleasant relations. It is a thorn that irritates and hurts; it is a sword that kills.”
© Buddha
Doubting is what I do most of the time (next to reading and ogling over celebrities). I trust and believe in other people’s strength and capabilities (although I learned not to expect a lot to lessen the frustration when proven fruitless), but when it comes to
my strength and capabilities, I compare myself to a
Squib – a magical person who cannot do magic, basically useless when it comes to spells and even handling wands. Not that I’m a person with magic blood, but I guess you get what I mean.
I see myself as a useless person: someone who can’t work efficiently and effectively, and someone who can be spared when it boils down to desperate measures.
I may be having another of my notorious self-pity sessions here, but I can’t help it. Maybe this is my way of not expecting a lot, a natural mechanism to avoid self-disappointment. You can’t blame me to think this way, especially after taking my experiences into consideration. Since I was a child, I’ve been trying so hard to please everyone, and 70% of the time, I disappoint them. I disappoint myself. Sometimes they care and I don’t; sometimes they don’t and I do.
I know I’ve said before (in a blog post like this one) that I don’t care about expectations and pleasing people anymore. I don’t care. I don’t give a fuck if I do something they don’t like and give me that sorry look because of it. Little did I know, I couldn’t stand with that choice. I cannot
not give a fuck. I can say that I don’t care, but deep inside I’m conditioned to do so. I don’t think I can remove that from me anymore; I doubt that practicing will detach me from that persona. Think of a crumpled paper bag: you can unfold and straighten its creases – heck, iron it even – but in the end it’ll still remain wrinkled and imperfect. And you can’t do anything but live with it – or discard it and get a new one.
I’m open to changes, to stripping my layers off just to get to the core of this damned behavior and rip it off clean and whole. I want to be free from it, but I guess it’ll take time and a whole lot of effort. In the meantime, I’d try to work my ass off again this semester and keep getting scholarship till I finish college. And keep reading, of course.
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a woeful & chaotic diary since 071409
Eating Skeptic Monster
Only one day left and the school’s next term will start. I can’t tell you if I’m either excited or apprehensive about that. Maybe both. I always am – or try to be – excited about fresh starts. I’m looking forward to the new semester since that means that’s another 18 or so units decreased from my loads, there are more things to learn and experience, there’s still another chance to start over. Knowledge is always good; experiences are always beneficial. What I’m scared of are my schedule and the new people (classmates and professors) I’d have to interact and work with for the next weeks. I got subjects that would probably blow my brains off and a schedule that is another way of declaring, “Lo and behold, my suicide mission!” I decided to enroll in classes that would fit in my schedule as many as possible, since practicality-wise, if I’m given the opportunity to take a semester without paying for my tuition fee, I’d take it for granted. I’m taking my scholarship for granted, which
isn’t wrong, as far as I know.
Yes, I still got my scholarship – and this one’s better.
Last semester I only had Partial Scholarship, which meant I paid only half of the school fees. This semester I managed to acquire Full Scholarship, which only means I don’t have to pay for the actual tuition and miscellaneous fees. Apparently, the general average I worked my ass off last semester is enough to put me in the school’s President’s List. And I’m grateful. Part of me wants to question the school authorities or anybody why and how I got the grades I got (since I think I procrastinated a lot from June to October), but the bigger part of me is repeatedly slapping me and making me realize that I deserve what I got because I gave everything I could for it. Right now I’m betting my cards against that smaller, dubious, self-degrading part.
It’s a constant internal battle, and for one to win, the other has to lose. It’s never a fight where it ends as a draw – there’s
always a winner. And sometimes the victorious side is the evil one. And it’s bad.
This is like high school all over again, when I was given the news that I was the Batch Valedictorian:
I doubted. After my adviser shook my hand to congratulate me, at first I
cried because the news was overwhelming, and then hugged my best friend. I was so happy that time. After an hour or so, I felt guilty. I questioned the fact; I doubted the happiness I was feeling. I knew I wasn’t the top student that time, and I have this aching feeling that said others deserved it more than I did. I said this to my best friend and he gave me a look and reprimanded me. He said I deserved it, that grades don’t lie, that sometimes I can shine brighter (not these exact words though). I tried to keep that in my mind, but until now that doubt is threatening to stir and travel across my anatomy and take over once it gained enough strength, enough hesitations. It’s crazy and scary. I always have to guard myself and stay planted inside my No To Doubts bubble.
“There is nothing more dreadful than the habit of doubt. Doubt separates people. It is a poison that disintegrates friendships and breaks up pleasant relations. It is a thorn that irritates and hurts; it is a sword that kills.”
© Buddha
Doubting is what I do most of the time (next to reading and ogling over celebrities). I trust and believe in other people’s strength and capabilities (although I learned not to expect a lot to lessen the frustration when proven fruitless), but when it comes to
my strength and capabilities, I compare myself to a
Squib – a magical person who cannot do magic, basically useless when it comes to spells and even handling wands. Not that I’m a person with magic blood, but I guess you get what I mean.
I see myself as a useless person: someone who can’t work efficiently and effectively, and someone who can be spared when it boils down to desperate measures.
I may be having another of my notorious self-pity sessions here, but I can’t help it. Maybe this is my way of not expecting a lot, a natural mechanism to avoid self-disappointment. You can’t blame me to think this way, especially after taking my experiences into consideration. Since I was a child, I’ve been trying so hard to please everyone, and 70% of the time, I disappoint them. I disappoint myself. Sometimes they care and I don’t; sometimes they don’t and I do.
I know I’ve said before (in a blog post like this one) that I don’t care about expectations and pleasing people anymore. I don’t care. I don’t give a fuck if I do something they don’t like and give me that sorry look because of it. Little did I know, I couldn’t stand with that choice. I cannot
not give a fuck. I can say that I don’t care, but deep inside I’m conditioned to do so. I don’t think I can remove that from me anymore; I doubt that practicing will detach me from that persona. Think of a crumpled paper bag: you can unfold and straighten its creases – heck, iron it even – but in the end it’ll still remain wrinkled and imperfect. And you can’t do anything but live with it – or discard it and get a new one.
I’m open to changes, to stripping my layers off just to get to the core of this damned behavior and rip it off clean and whole. I want to be free from it, but I guess it’ll take time and a whole lot of effort. In the meantime, I’d try to work my ass off again this semester and keep getting scholarship till I finish college. And keep reading, of course.
← older / top / newer →
a woeful & chaotic diary since 071409
Profile
Already several months had passed, and I am missing
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry more and more each fleeting day. There are just some things in life that we can never forget – especially that something that had given us knowledge, skills, strong relationships and a second home. I am glad that everything in the magical world is now at peace, since Voldemort (yes, I can now say his name; no need to be afraid) had died. I had secretly admired Tom Marvolo Riddle (Voldemort’s birth name) though, because of his intelligence, passion and love for magic. Wasn’t he very clever to think of and conjure his seven
Horcruxes to preserve his life, or form a clan of
Death Eaters who were very loyal to him and would give up their lives just for him to succeed? Not everybody can acquire that much loyalty from people these days. I do not, however, admire him for the way he had carried out all of his plans. He had a good agenda, his means just weren’t morally right. But he still is one of the darkest wizards of all time… and let’s leave it that way.
Oh, for all those who are baffled of what I’m saying here and who the heck I am, my name is
Christine Faye Ordas, and I am an alumnus of Hogwarts. I came from the bronze-and-blue-clad house of the smart ass witch Rowena Ravenclaw and her dictum
“Wit beyond measure is a man’s greatest treasure.” And yes, I know the wonderful Luna Lovegood (she’s such a darling) and Harry Potter’s first crush Cho Chang. I had just left Hogwarts last May. Right now I am trying to pursue a career in magical researches, literature and writing. It’s my dream to inscribe intellectual books, publish and sell them in
Flourish and Blotts for the future Hogwarts students’ use. I am also planning to credibly write for the
Daily Prophet, the magical world’s primary news bulletin. And of course, I will be very much honored to contribute to Mr. Xenophilius Lovegood’s
Quibbler (hence, my interest in magical researches). I have always found the Lovegoods a fascinating family, and I bet working with and for them will be very exciting. Or maybe, in Merlin’s beard’s time, I can write legends and bedtime stories like the famous – and wickedly brilliant – Beedle the Bard.
And that’s how my life goes these days. I am utterly missing my old school, my friends, the Great Hall, the bronze eagle knocker just outside the Ravenclaw common room, Professor Flitwick (the head of our house), Hogsmeade, the Quidditch matches (although I didn’t actually play for the house), the moving portraits, the castle ghosts, the pumpkins on Halloween, the giant pine trees on Christmas, Rubeus Hagrid’s (Hogwarts’ gamekeeper) tea and treacle fudge – even the crabby Argus Filch (Hogwarts’ caretaker) I miss. Maybe I can visit the school grounds sometimes and see how the magical world’s been doing since Voldemort died (I’ve been spending my months in the muggle world, you see). I’ve heard everybody’s been moving on and starting all over again; the ministry is back on work under Kingsley Shacklebolt; and Harry Potter’s scar haven’t been disturbing him since.
All is well, indeed.
And because of that, we should celebrate and drink firewhisky! Oh, I still don’t drink firewhisky; I can take butterbeer or tea or pumpkin juice – just not firewhisky, please.
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