As some of you may know, Im preparing for the GMATs. Not the easiest thing to do while balancing visiting my dad everyday who is still in the hospital. I was talking to The Boyfriend, trying to remember how it was that I had so much discipline as a 17 year old girl studying for the high school exams.
I used to manage waking up early in the morning, going to school, coming straight back home and studying non-stop until nightime. I remember how my parents used to get worried and would ask me to take a break, to come downstairs and watch tv. I worked like clockwork, changing subjects every hour. I went through a mountain of revision books left behind untouched by my brother and sister. My weekends were a blur of science, history, math, additional math, literature, economics, Islamic studies, english, national language, accounting...
I was pretty well prepared for the exam that year.
I remember now, how I managed to do it. I was heartbroken, shattered. Cradling-remnants-of-a-broken-soul-crying-and-hating-the-world-wishing-I-was-dying-heartbroken. He was my first love, a boy back in high school. Tall and lanky with dark skin. I used to skip classes and stay with him in the back of an old ice kacang stall by the river. Used to sit with him and his friends and watched as he smoked a ciggie near me. Laughed as he and his friends talked about the boys and the girls and their experiences in school.
I loved him. Very much. Our parents found out about us. His parents moved him to a faraway state. I pined for him like you can imagine any 16 year old girl would pine for her first love. Saved up money so that I could feed the public phones to speak to him. He wasnt very good to me, that one. Wasnt a very positive effect on me. We used to argue on the phone and he will just hang it on the side, and I would sit there, crying, on the other line, hoping he would pick up the phone again. I would wait for him, sometimes just sitting there quietly for an hour. Hoping. I would spend my time in between classes to try and call him.
Then one day I realized, he never called me back. One day I realized I had put my heart and soul into this relationship and he had barely raised a finger. One day I realized we fought more than we loved. I cried far more than he ever made me laughed.
One day I realized that no man could be good for you if he makes you hate yourself more than anything in the world.
No man is worth it if he makes you feel worthless.
So one day, I called him, and I broke it off with him. We cried, enough to seal the seedlings of our youthful love. And then I stopped all contact with him.
I channeled everything. My pain, my anger, my sadness, my frustration. Everything. Into studying. I moved out of myself and relied on structure and practice and organization to get through my day. To heal I spent one hour at a time, looking at questions, finding the solutions, one subject at a time. Then it became 3 hours in the day, 5 hours in the day, and the days just melted by.
My best work comes when I am most depressed, when I feel the worst. Because there is nothing else for me to lose. There is nowhere else for me to go. You destroy yourself so that one day you can rise again like a pheonix in the sky. Hopefully this time stronger. Hopefully this time wiser.
But I think about it now, and I wonder. How healthy is it for me to destroy my soul, to reach into that deepness of pain and hurt and anguish just to singe my skin off and be reborn. How many times can a pheonix rise before the ashes engulfes him through and through.
How many times can I go through this? At what cost? At what expense? Broken hearts dont mend so well. But a broken soul... a broken soul takes years to heal, if any. A broken soul metamorphosises into something different, every time it comes back. It changes like the winds that carry it back into you, with remnants curling off and away never to return.
I cant help it still. I still seek solace in what is known, what is organized, expected, scheduled. Structure helps keep me sane especially when I am in a sea of fog. But I want to try this time, to move up slowly, to take it one step, one ladder at a time. Sometimes to fall and falter, but to be ready to pick myself up.
I am tired of my pheonix wings burning. So tired that if I let it burn this time, it may never come back.
I used to manage waking up early in the morning, going to school, coming straight back home and studying non-stop until nightime. I remember how my parents used to get worried and would ask me to take a break, to come downstairs and watch tv. I worked like clockwork, changing subjects every hour. I went through a mountain of revision books left behind untouched by my brother and sister. My weekends were a blur of science, history, math, additional math, literature, economics, Islamic studies, english, national language, accounting...
I was pretty well prepared for the exam that year.
I remember now, how I managed to do it. I was heartbroken, shattered. Cradling-remnants-of-a-broken-soul-crying-and-hating-the-world-wishing-I-was-dying-heartbroken. He was my first love, a boy back in high school. Tall and lanky with dark skin. I used to skip classes and stay with him in the back of an old ice kacang stall by the river. Used to sit with him and his friends and watched as he smoked a ciggie near me. Laughed as he and his friends talked about the boys and the girls and their experiences in school.
I loved him. Very much. Our parents found out about us. His parents moved him to a faraway state. I pined for him like you can imagine any 16 year old girl would pine for her first love. Saved up money so that I could feed the public phones to speak to him. He wasnt very good to me, that one. Wasnt a very positive effect on me. We used to argue on the phone and he will just hang it on the side, and I would sit there, crying, on the other line, hoping he would pick up the phone again. I would wait for him, sometimes just sitting there quietly for an hour. Hoping. I would spend my time in between classes to try and call him.
Then one day I realized, he never called me back. One day I realized I had put my heart and soul into this relationship and he had barely raised a finger. One day I realized we fought more than we loved. I cried far more than he ever made me laughed.
One day I realized that no man could be good for you if he makes you hate yourself more than anything in the world.
No man is worth it if he makes you feel worthless.
So one day, I called him, and I broke it off with him. We cried, enough to seal the seedlings of our youthful love. And then I stopped all contact with him.
I channeled everything. My pain, my anger, my sadness, my frustration. Everything. Into studying. I moved out of myself and relied on structure and practice and organization to get through my day. To heal I spent one hour at a time, looking at questions, finding the solutions, one subject at a time. Then it became 3 hours in the day, 5 hours in the day, and the days just melted by.
My best work comes when I am most depressed, when I feel the worst. Because there is nothing else for me to lose. There is nowhere else for me to go. You destroy yourself so that one day you can rise again like a pheonix in the sky. Hopefully this time stronger. Hopefully this time wiser.
But I think about it now, and I wonder. How healthy is it for me to destroy my soul, to reach into that deepness of pain and hurt and anguish just to singe my skin off and be reborn. How many times can a pheonix rise before the ashes engulfes him through and through.
How many times can I go through this? At what cost? At what expense? Broken hearts dont mend so well. But a broken soul... a broken soul takes years to heal, if any. A broken soul metamorphosises into something different, every time it comes back. It changes like the winds that carry it back into you, with remnants curling off and away never to return.
I cant help it still. I still seek solace in what is known, what is organized, expected, scheduled. Structure helps keep me sane especially when I am in a sea of fog. But I want to try this time, to move up slowly, to take it one step, one ladder at a time. Sometimes to fall and falter, but to be ready to pick myself up.
I am tired of my pheonix wings burning. So tired that if I let it burn this time, it may never come back.
The best I ever did at high school was in Form 4, coming in a close second in the entire school. How I did it - my grandma was sick at the time and instead of focusing on that I studied and studied and blocked out everything but revision books and chemical equations and algebraic questions. It's funny the things that we use to as tools to overcome grief. *hugs*
phoenix
your fear.
only makes you human.
imperfections
can sometimes be
beautiful.
and inspiring.
thus,
be kind, love.
solace will find you.