The bitter feeling of purpose

The message started with "Professor" and in short it was a call for help.

I don't remember going through a lot of questioning about being a lesbian when I was a teen.
But then I don't have many memory of that period. It's all a bit vague and fuzzy. In the middle of the fog there will sometimes be a startlingly precise snapshot of a moment. Some good, but not many.
I don't really know how I came to term with loving women. I thought I was bi for a while.
But I don't remember struggling much about it. I had other more pressing matters that kept me busy enough with dread and despair.
I am one of the lucky ones. Though my coming out wasn't the smoothest, it did not have any long lasting consequences. But I have read, and I have witnessed and I have listened.
So when this kid came out to me, so shy they barely said anything, I tried my best.
I tried to be supportive, and reassuring, and helpful.
But we haven't been at school in weeks, so I hadn't had news from them in weeks.
Until yesterday.
In the evening I got a message for an unknown handle on Discord.
But it started with "Professor" and in short was a call for help.
So I stopped everything I was doing and tried my best.

My teen years were, to put it mildly a long and terrifying trek through hell and school had been the source of a non negligible amount of my problems.
I have been told that I am good at my job, and I think this is why.
I never received any formation on how to teach or how to be a teacher. I learnt on the job.
But I remember being a student. and not a good one at that.
I remember the tiredness, the mood swings, the lack of motivation, the stress, the anxiety.
I remember questioning what I looked like, what I wore, what I said, who were my friends.
I remember wanting to do good but being unable to do anything.
I remember the night spent waiting for sleep, and I remember the nightmares.
I remember the pain from the pit that was gaping in my stomach while I tried not to be too much of a disappointment.
I remember other things that I don't care to put into writing. I am at peace with who I was and what I did but it doesn't mean that I like dwelling on it.

So when I look at my students, all I can think of is:
Dear God, don't let them trudge through hell alone like I did.
Let me make their day just a little bit more bearable. Just a little more interesting. Just a little bit less lonely.
Let me spare just one kid from the hell I lived.
This is why I love my job.
It's terribly paid, very frustrating, incredibly draining. It's stressful and though I easily work 50 hours a week I keep hearing that teachers are all lazy.
But it gives me a sense of purpose.

The message started with "Professor" and in short it was a call for help.
So I answered.
To the best of my abilities.
I said Your health and your safety are what's more important.
I said I am proud of you for looking for help. It isn't easy, but you did, and I am glad for that.
I said I know it is hard and you hurt, but you don't have to be alone. There are people here for you. And I'll be one of them if you need me.
I said I know feeling lost in your own body, in your own mind, in your own identity is terrible and it feels hopeless, but I promise it isn't. I promise you will find yourself and you will find balance and you will be happy in the end. Don't lose hope.

There was a call for help and I tried my best.
If I can make their life just a little less terrifying, then it will have been entirely worth it to keep going when I, so many years ago felt like giving up.

A delayed answer to an important question

Photo by Ksenia Chernaya from Pexels

"J'ai quelques difficultés à reconnaître à J.K.Rowling le pouvoir d'arbitrer les goûts, après avoir écrit des livres pour enfants."

It is the study of the stories that move us that allows us to reflect on who we are as people and as a society.
No matter how trivial the story, studying it gives us insight on ourselves as human beings.
Dissecting children's books helps us understand what we taught children, what those children took away from those teachings, what they needed, what they dreamt of, and maybe, just maybe it helps us understand their experiences, traumas and hopes.
Studying Media, any media, gives us the opportunity to empathize with others and to understand their needs and aspirations.
I am not saying that everything has the same value. I am saying that everything HAS value.
Why do people enjoy following the lives of the Kardashians? Well, that's an excellent question! Why?
Do they need to forget about the triviality of their own lives? Do they want to experience, by proxy, how it feels to be rich? Do they want to focus on somebody else's superficial problems rather than contemplate the meaning of their own life? Or the lack of meaning, and therefore cripplingly terrifying vacuity of their existence?
Do they feel disconnected from other media? If so why? Do they feel unworthy of other kinds of media? If so, why? Do they reject other media? If so why?

Studying media is always interesting.
Every book started as "just a book" and it is only what people read in the book and took away from it that made it into a classics or doomed it to oblivion.
Refusing to acknowledge the value of a media on the premise that it is too recent or too easily accessible is just the manifestation of the fear to be outdated. [source]
Once again. I am not saying that all media have the same value. I am saying that all media HAVE value, and subsequently that this value should not be lightly dismissed.
I am saying that STUDYING media, no matter its value, is important and has something to teach us.

Why is everyone making such a fuss about Harry Potter?
Because it is the closest thing its readers had of a universal experience.
A whole generation of children grew up reading those books.
This series, no matter how superficially or how deeply, influenced its readers. It influenced what traits the children reading it, associated with heroism, it influenced who those children looked up to, it influenced what values those children came to cherish, it influenced their perception of the world.
And the fact that they are Children books is crucially important because it influenced their readers at the moment where they shape who they are and who they want to be.
It doesn't matter that they were not "big books", or "smart books" or even "good books". What matters is that they echoed with their readers. They moved the readers.
Maybe they didn't do much: maybe they just provided a nice story to spend the afternoon on.
or maybe they did a little more: maybe they provided a nice break when reality was tough.
or maybe they did even more: They gave children who felt excluded or lonely something to feel like they belonged. They gave the children something to talk about and to share.
or maybe they gave children a taste for more. More than just reality. A taste for reading. It's important, right?
or maybe they offered food for thoughts for the children who felt a little lost.
or maybe they offered role models to children who didn't know who they wanted to become.

Those are mediocre! It's just stories for children.
The stories we tell children today are the stories that will shape tomorrow's society. That's the point of education. That's the power of education.

What do people find in those books?
They found something. A little something or a big something. Not the same something for everyone.
And this is what matters.
Not the quality of the writing,
Not the "literary value"(whatever that is).
But that it brought SOMETHING to the readers.

I know it did.
It was a story that allowed children to dream and play and imagine things.
It told children that being a good student is GOOD, even though it is difficult.
It told girls that they were allowed to be heroines alongside boys. It told girls that they were allowed to shine. Allowed to be loud and bright and not always ladylike and not always nice or kind.
It taught children about poverty. That children are not responsible for the poverty they grow up in. That poverty shapes the people who grow up poor, that nobody should ever use poverty as a lever for shame.
It taught children that small acts of kindness or of bravery matter.
It taught children that no, adults are not always right. That adults can't always be relied on. That adults can't always be trusted.

It taught me, personally, the me that you know, that you talk to, that you sat across from, that there was more to life than what I was going through.
It taught me, that family can be toxic and that it is not okay.
It made me want to be smart, to know everything, to learn everything, to try everything.
You think I am smart and interesting? Thank Hermione for that.
It made me forget about the world when life was so fucking hard I wanted to end it. And Oh Boy I wanted to end it.
It gave me words for the pain and the ache of losing someone I loved.
It gave me role models.
It still does.
Today, as a grown up, as an adult, as a woman, it gives me role models. As a teacher I want to be like Remus Lupin. I want to captivate my students, help them learn and make it an enjoyable experience. I want my students to remember my classes fondly. My teachers did not provide that for me. School was hell. Remus Lupin provided that for me.
I want to be like Minerva McGonagall. I want to inspire respect because I am strict but fair. Because I want the best not just of my students but for my students.
Those books matter because they told me that being rejected by my family for who I am and what I am would not be the end of me.
It helped because my dad was violent. It helped me because I grew up in a loving but utterly dysfunctional family.
It helped me when I came out as a lesbian. Which I am. Even today. It helped me hold my ground when my father, the man who had carried me on his shoulders, the man who had made me dive in the sea, the man who loves roller-coasters as much as I do but who has a drinking problem, who had a severe anger problem, the man who slapped me countless times, the man who had broken both my wrists once because I had lost a glove, the man whom I love but grew up terrified of, yelled at me. Yelled obscenities. Yelled that no, Me, his daughter would not be a lesbian. That he hadn't done anything wrong. That he would not allow that.
Me, 16 years old, 1,72m and 38kilos, I stood my ground.
I had grown up reading about children who saved the world, who were afraid but did what they had to nonetheless.

Studying Harry Potter then, later, as an adult, allowed me to become more aware of all this, more aware of how those books had impacted, me and everybody else, though differently.
It allowed me to question my perception of motherhood and to evaluate what expectations I had of being an adult woman, because it allowed me time and an opportunity to ask myself: " Is Harry Potter a feminist series" and to look for arguments.
It allowed me to understand why my generation seems to be so wary of politicians and so distrustful of the government and politics. We did grow up learning that adults could not be trusted and that it's not because an institution says something that we shouldn't question it.
We didn't learn it from 1984, because though it is a classic, it is also absolutely boring and not accessible to young children. We learnt it with Harry Potter, with His Dark Material, with Divergent, with the Hunger Games.
The millenials, no matter how flowed generational separations are, grew up at a moment where children's literature was all about questioning power and fighting oppression.
And don't get me started about the next generation. They've been fed with more diversity in the media they had access to, than anyone before, so much so that today, they teach me about which direction society could take.

Saying that a book is not worthy of the attention people give it or of being studied
Is willfully deciding not to empathize with other human beings.
It is deciding that their experience is not worth understanding.
It is saying that they, their lives and existences are not worthy of being acknowledged.
This got Trump elected.
This is the conscious alienation of a population on the basis that "they are not worth it."
This is cold.
This is sad.
And somehow, this is wrong.
Refusing to empathize with others? To understand them?
I cannot, for the life of me, accept that.
Understanding brings knowledge and peace.
That's what I grew up to believe.
And I grew up to believe that because of all the things that shaped me. Harry Potter is one of them.

I could be richer.
I could have a brilliant career in Marketing, make tons of money.
I know I can: I am good at it. It's easy.
But I grew up to be someone for whom money and ease were not as valuable as the impact I have on other people's lives.
I want to make a difference.
And this comes, at least in part,  from reading Harry Potter and later studying it.
And I am not the only one.

A discussion on pride, interest and mental health

We had one of those conversations again. Those that last hours and I get out feeling like I just wasted time because I learnt nothing. I still don't understand you.
We don't deal with our demons the same way and I am at loss when it comes to understanding how you function.

I say often that I live in denial, but it is just a useful lie to make it easier to explain how I deal with my demons. It might look like I ignore my problems and pretend everything is okay, but if this blog shows us one thing, it is that I actually spend quite some time dissecting my problems.
I know them. I know what stresses me, I know what hurts me, I know what haunts me.
How could I ignore them when I spend hours feeling like my ribcage is caving in, when claws burrow in my guts, when my bones are made of lead?
When I say I hurt, it is not a metaphore. I hurt. Physically. Those are not just images, those are the very real pains that plague me.
Not all the time,
Not everyday.
But often enough.
That's depression for me. The phantom pains of my emotions. Of numbness, of emptiness, of fear, of self depressiation. They weight me down and wreck my brain enough that I can feel them.
But I refuse to let them affect me. Because they are only emotions, because I know my demons and I just refuse them to hold me back.
I rationalize everything. I recognize that yes, I am procrastinating because that task stresses me, then I take a deep breath and I kick myself into doing it. I get my shit together and get stuff done. That's what I do. It hurts, but that's what I am good at: gritting my teeth and ignoring pain. I used to dance on broken feet. I used to run with broken ribs. It's fine. I can deal with the pain, with the nightmares, with the panic attacks, because I know how to rationalize them, put them in a box small enough that I can live my life carrying them.

You on the other hand, I don't understand. You once told me that you knew yourself and that you knew your demons. But time passes and I wonder. Do you? We talk for hours, slightly unearthing things that keep you down, that prevent you from living.
You turn a blind eye to them and function the best you can. As long as you don't look too closely at them you can function. you can wake up and go to work and when you are not at work you drown yourself in comics and videogames hoping to hold the shadows at bay. Is this really all you expect from life?
I fell in love with your passion and your curiosity and your imagination. You used to create, now you only consume. You used to shine and make me feel challenged.
I don't feel that way anymore.
You said you used to have nothing to loose and maybe that's what made you shine. Perhaps you felt freer then and enjoyed life more.
Now you are afraid of losing all those things that you finally managed to get. A job that challenges you, a place of yours and a long and healthy relationship.
But I'm not sure you'll keep that last one for long the way things are going.
You hate yourself for not being good at your job but whatever spare time you have you squander trying to avoid thinking about how bad you feel for not being good at your job.

Anyhow. We all deal with our demons the best we can.
I don't know any better.
I am just not sure I can settle for what that makes of you.

Finals are coming

As most of you know, I am working on too many things at the same time. How surprising, right?
And it's this time of the year when I suddenly realise that the finals are in fact pretty close and that If I want to study it would be about time to do it.
I usually don't.

Usually I rely on the fact that despite not listening in class and mostly not studying, I am able to hear the course and to remember it and understand it without much of an effort. That's very probably what I am going to do for the Chinese finals. Since I am going to class every day, I hear Chinese, I read the texts, write the new vocabulary, and even if I'm far from being a model student, my brain picks up most of the necessary information.

But my French degree is completely different. I don't have classes, I don't have a teacher I can vaguely listen to. No, I just have my books. And to me, that's a real Challenge.
That's the first time I have to study that way. When I used to take extra classes or distance courses, I always had someone to read the material with me and discuss it with me. At this time, I used to live with people far more brilliant than me and they did all they could to make sure I got the best out of education. They read material to me when I could not focus enough to read it myself, they'd literally do the class if I needed, and I'll be forever grateful for that.
But I don't have this anymore. Now I live on the other side of the world, like an adult. and I have to act like one and force myself to study. Because I might have a good brain, but if I don't give it anything to process, it won't be able to produce anything.

So, Right now, I should really start to study. I have a year worth of material to read and I... haven't started yet

Yup, so much homework.

Yeah, I know... My finals are in three weeks and I feel helpless to face the coming catastrophe.
My ability to focus has been on a roller coaster for weeks (okay, months) and I seem unable to do anything to make it any better. I just watch the days as they go, thinking "I should really be studying right now."
But no matter how seriously I try, I can't.

 

And that brings me to another subject (me failing my finals aren't exactly my favourite topic): The ability to focus.

I've been talking about it quite a lot and yet I still get some remarks like "but can't you just read the materials and try to takes a few notes, you know, just an hour a day. it's not that hard."
And that Ladies and Gentlemen gives me murderous ideas.
 

 

As it happens, No, I just cannot do that, no matter how hard I try. Sitting at my desk, no computer on, no music to distract me, phone on silent mode on the bed, and yet, I can't read. The letters, the words make no sense. No matter how many times my eyes pass over them, they don't register, they don't mean anything. It's like reading a language I don't speak. The simple action of reading no matter what I am trying to read takes me minutes, hours. On a really bad day, reading texts on my phone becomes difficult, let alone typing an answer.
My brains works just too fast, the thought pass so fast, jumping to the next one even before finishing the first one. the world feels like it's moving in slow motion and I don't register anything of it anymore.
Nothing catches my attention for more than an instant.
I can't watch a movie or an episode without needing to make several pauses and do something else. I can't listen to music because my brain tries to register the lyrics while I can't hear them and any known rhythm bores me to death. I have trouble keeping ideas for more than minutes, finishing a task is excruciating.
People who don't know me well might overlook the impact such a situation has on me.
It hurts.
A lot.
On those days the only thing I feel I can do is lay in my bed, hug my dinosaurs and sleep. unfortunately sleep isn't really an option for me. So I just lay on my bed, restless, hoping I'll find the strength to do something. hoping something will catch my attention, hoping it will get better. My head buzz with activity and I feel like I don't work on the same level as the world.
It's painful and crippling.
I live ten thousand kilometres away from my loved ones. Our communications are all written. And on those bad days, I can only follow conversations that go as fast as my attention dwindle. Short text messages with people who can follow my train of thought.
Luckily enough, those really bad days are rare, and I just have trouble focusing on reading and writing. I can still function pretty normally. But it severely impairs my ability to study.
And fore someone who values time and knowledge as much as I do, It's extremely frustrating.

I don't really have a conclusion to this article. I'm sort of surprised I managed to write it. It took me the evening, but I wrote it.
This is what it means when I say I have a low attention span and an attention disorder.
It doesn't help me with my finals, but at least it might give you some clues on what I am going through when I tell you that "it's a bad day", "I'm bored" or "I can't focus on anything".
It's not for fun, I'm not looking for excuses. I'm being serious. And sometimes just sometimes, it's also a way to call for help.



We had forgotten

We had forgotten that the world is at war. We lived in our bubble, thinking that it couldn't happen to us. And we were wrong.
We were protected by our luck, to be born in the right country, where we could go to bed at night without being afraid or being killed by a bomb during the night.
We were safe because people are keeping us safe. doing their job, doing their best, so we could stay safe. We were so lucky some of us didn't understood what it meant to be at war. to flee your country because you fear for your life.
But we are not so lucky anymore.
I used to live in Paris. To take the metro everyday. And I remember wondering "how long before our peaceful existence ends?"
Last night, terrorist killed some people. That's it. People who only believe in violence to gain power over their fellow humans. They are not Muslims, they are not of any nationality. They are children of a sick sad world and they only believe in Power and Violence.
I am sad. Oh I am so sad. Sad because no one deserved that. Sad because people died, because families are grieving, because it hurt to be forced to accept reality. the world is at war and it has been for years.
And I am afraid. Oh so afraid. I am afraid that it will never stop, that other people will die, that innocent lives will be wasted. I am afraid of people idiocy and lack of judgement. I am afraid that people will ask for blood to clean blood. I am afraid of those who call for revenge and for more violence. I am afraid for those who will be wronged because assimilated to those who hurt us, when they are just as afraid, just as sad and just as innocent as the rest of you.
I don't live in Paris anymore, but my family and friends still live there. At 6 this morning, My flatmate Lea came to wake me up, telling me to check on my folk. We listened to the radio, looked for more information, waiting for our friends and family to give us a sign, to tell us they were okay. And the French student sent each other messages, to check on each other. None of us lost anyone.
Does it feel reassuring? Yes. We are not grieving. But people died last night. People I didn't know and will never know. People who should have lived. People who had a name, a live, a situation, who were sons and daughters, maybe fathers and mothers. People died.
I am afraid for the future.
And yet, I am hopeful.
Because I know there are good people out there. Who will answer to those atrocities with kindness and patience. People who will teach kids that violence is born from hatred and ignorance and that we should be able to talk to each other instead of killing each other. People who will help the helpless and who will give their blood and sweat and to make this world a better place.
I wish people would be more tolerant and think twice before calling for blood. I wish people would be decent enough to let the dead rest in peace and the living grieve. I wish we would stop being so mean.
Be safe, people. Be tolerant and patient and take care of yourself and of those you love.

Subliminal message

Lea gave me a book to read, and I think there was a subliminal message. It's called " La femme parfaite est une connasse". The whole book is a succession of small texts about how no one is "the perfect woman", the one we see in films and magazine or on pinterest. The book describes this legendary creature of the woman who is polite, kind, stylish, cooks her meals from locally grown vegetables she bought from a solidarity market, the one who's nails and hair are always perfect, but it looks effortless, etc.
And Lea said "sometimes, you remind me of her". Apparently, I am sort of a Connasse. which sounds quite true, since, indeed, I try my best to get closer to an ideal I gave myself as a goal. So yeah, sure, I try to eat sort of healthy (well, to eat, which is a good start, somewhat regularly, which is something and sort of healthy, which is quite a challenge when living in China.) And It's true, I know how to do many things. I am not an expert, but I can somewhat sew, or knit, or write, things like that. I just try to learn as many things as possible. It was after all part of my education: those who raised me wanted me to be an independent woman, with many skills and talents. Some are more unexpected than other. I learnt more than what my initial lady-like education foresaw for me. I watched and learn as many things as possible and tried to give myself as many tools to succeed in life and give myself as many opportunities as possible. And apparently, as I learn more, I remind Lea of the Connasse, the one that can do anything and everything. Is it such a bad thing?
It seems to surprise quite a lot of people how many skills you can accumulate in 24 years. I tried as many things as possible, and it made me grow and helped me built myself.
I met a friend of Lea and Carine and she seemed properly astonished of what I had done in 24 years, and I felt quite self  conscious, being the weird kid again. She teased me about it, asking what I couldn't do, as if my abilities were somewhat fake or not to be taken seriously. She didn't intend to be mean or anything, but it sort of hurt anyway. Being the know-it-all, the weirdo that one don't really take seriously. "you can't really do all these things, right". I didn't feel legitimate, whatever I was doing. It felt like I was cheating, since people seemed to consider that it should be hard of require work and effort and time. To me it felt natural, and somewhat evident. I learn practical things by watching people, without really thinking about it. I study because it's easy and because it helps me keep busy. I don't see it as a special gift or talent. I just learn. It's me. the compulsive learner. So since I never had to put a real effort on it, it felt fake.

Then I realized that I can't do anything about it. I did learn all these things. I didn't have to work a lot, maybe, but I had the curiosity and the right mindset. I couldn't prevent me from doing it, for the life of me! Then why should I me the one feeling inadequate and and fake? why should I be self conscious about learning skills by just watching people.
My awesome twin has been saying it for quite a while, but I guess it needed some time to sink in.
Yeah, I can speak several language, and I can sew, and cook, and knit, and make furniture, and cut hair, and write books, and run 10 kilometers in less than an hour, and I can dance, and I can sing, and I play the violin, and the cello, and so many other things. I'm no expert, sure, but I can do all these things.
doesn't make me less legit than people who took years to learn it. It doesn't make me a weirdo, just a somewhat skilled girl.I guess it will take some time to sink in, but I don't intend on stopping learning things, and I will definitely not blush about it.

China - Two days after arrival

Oh good lord! I can't believe only arrived two days ago. It feels like a week already. (Because of the way brain register more information on something that is new to it and it's way to process everything give the impression that time is passing slowly.)
My registration at Wuhan University is almost done, thank to Lea, who helped me throughout the process. China is a bureaucracy and you've no idea the amount of paper involved in my registration.
That was yesterday's program: my registration, and then going to the supermarket so I can buy the basic necessities that I couldn't put in my luggage (a mug, some pillows, etc etc)
And today I went to my first class!
Lea had negotiated for me to be in an intermediary class, saying that I'd die of boredom in the beginners' class. It was a nice idea... but definitely not a good one!
I haven't practiced my Chinese in two years, after I passed my first year of Chinese under-graduation. with my marketing master degree and all the rest I hadn't time to keep on working on it, so... I sort of lost most of my Chinese.
So this was a complete failure! I tried, and the result is crystal clear. I don't have the level.
I took 10% of the class, maybe slightly more. I couldn't read most of the characters of the text we studied and felt utterly stupid. which was not pleasant. At all.
I don't often lose faith in what I can do, but in there, I understood that if I stayed in that class, there was no way I could make real progress. I'd just get drowned while the rest of the class goes on.
So the smart move is to change class, go for a lower level, to strengthen the basis, put all the odds on my side, work as hell to make sure I'll go back in the intermediary class next semester feeling like I own the place.
So it will be a studious semester! I finally have a nice challenge to feed my brain with and you've no idea how I missed it!

my life for the next weeks

Friendship

I had a very precise idea of what I wanted to write, but now I'm not so sure anymore.
We've been talking about this event for month (literaly) and I've been looking forward to it, because I haven't seen my best friend in ages.
I have been working on my dress for days. I even canceled appointements to be able to finish it on time. Friends appointments. Medical one too.
We were finally going to do something together, that wouldn't include any of my friends except her. I'd have been only here for her, and we'd have had so much fun.
But she just canceled because one of her friends who lives abroad (like on another continent) is in Paris for only a week and they only have this sunday to see each other. They haven't seen each other in years (4 to be precise).
And I understand. I'm happy she's able to see friends, because I know she has been very lonely this last year, and it has been very tiring for her. And I understand that it's only ill luck that it should happen on this precise day. We'll have other opportunities, ans they won't have so many.
But I'm tired and sick to be the second choice. the one that get discarded when one need to find some room in one's agenda. I'm sick of appointements being cancelled. There are always good reason, and I understand, I really do. I can rationnalise almost anything. but it doesn't erase the feeling, the excruciating pain of being the one put aside.
I am tired of being the one who starts the conversation, who makes the efforts to know how people are, to try to make everything work for every one. I'm tired of apologising for feeling mad when someone canceles. Again. And I'm sick of reminding myself that I can't blame anyone if I'm lonely, I should make more efforts. People won't magically come at me and say "hi! how are you today?" If I want something, I have to fight for it and to make it happen.
Doesn't mean I like it.
Is it selfish to be upset? to be sad? to be empty enough to sleep when I should be working and to be writting when I should sleep?
I'm tired of being the one starting the conversation, and changing my plans to make everyone happy.
I'm ranting on a blog so I won't pain my best friend with that. how crazy is that?
She doesn't read it, so I'm not really taking any risk.
I'm leaving the country on 2 month, and I wonder. who will actually miss me?
That's a question which comes back every now and then. who will miss me? really? Who will miss my voice when I'm talking too loud, who will miss my crazy kitty moves, or my passionnate rantings?
Are there people out there who actually think about sharing something with me? like "Hey, it made me think about you" or "I wanted to share this with someone!"
Not her, She's got a boy friend, and well, he gets the messages first.
Who then?
I have other friends, some of with I consider to be the closest to me. But even them, there rare and I feel guilty of asking to much of their time. Of intruding. Of meing the one who always need attention.
It's hard to have second thoughts when thinking about talking to a friend.
"will they get bored?" "when was the last time I spoke to them?"
Who could I call in the middle of the night after a nightmare? There are people out there who clame to me friends with me, but is it true really? would you call me in the middle of the night? would you share something with me? would you miss me?
How long would it take you to realise that I'm not there anymore? that no one heard about me for sometimes? who would come and talk?
I feel like I'm an intruder.
I am not saying no one likes me. I know that much at least. it helps.
I'm just writing down some of what is spinning in my head. better writting that other things. But hey, I grew up, no need to worry. I'll handle it. that's what I do.
I handle things and make them right and shinny for everyone to be happy. I'd just like someone to do the same for me. Is it that selfish?

Hit the book

There are so many things to study and to learn.
And looking crazy is not really a problem. I like crazy.
I grew in a strange familly. One of it's best side was that we were encouraged to try and learn as many things as we wanted.
If we (Me and my sibblings) liked something, our parents would find a way to help us.
You like to draw? Why don't you take classes?
You like to read? Here is a library card, go grab some books.
You like music? What about learning more about it? play an instrument?
 My mother would bring us to museums every so and then, We didn't really enjoyed this at the time, but I got to discover lots of famous painters, sculptors, artists. I didn't always liked them, but at least I know who they are.
I was lucky, My parents could afford family holidays during which we travelled, through and out of the country. We went to many very different places. we learnt more about  their history, geography, arts, everything available. Museums, historical monuments and hicking, that was the usual program.

I learnt that I don't know everything. In fact I learnt that I don't know anything untill I actually studied it.
I grew up to be curious, to enjoy learning new things.

Then I moved, left the family and joined another one.
There it was a bit different: I got to study more. It was less about cultural exhibitions, and more about actually studying.
I got to study as many things as I wanted, related to what I was doing in hightchool or not.
Some classes from medical school, some philosophy, physics, history, biology. psychology, anthropology. You name it.
I also learnt many languages too. I couldn't talk, but understanding was the basis. We were all able to speak many languages and the game was to understand everything.
There were also all sorts of practical knowledge I got to learn. Played another instrument, different sports and activities.
It was all about learning. A day during which I hadn't learn something was a wasted day.
But Studying was a serious business. If I wanted to be accounted for what my knowledge, I had to earn it.
Through books, through classes.
I had to proove that it was not only showing off, but actual knowledge.
They'd try me through discutions, and debates, pushing me as much as they could, to make connections between the things I knew, to learn always more, to go deeper.. It was challenging and exciting. I was the dumbest in the room, and I got to learn a lot. They never diminished what I had learnt and were very supportive about making progress.

I left them too.
I never stopped studying, trying to learn everything, to live by their standards.
But I miss it. The long debates, learning and sharing.
I miss those challenging talks. I miss learning from others.
So whenever I can, I talk, I debate. An opinion is only as good as you've built it through debating, compared it to others'.
I'm happy I met new people I can share that with. Some crazy folk who share my thirst for knowledge. It's only too rare.

A tribute

I thought about writting something about you, writting something to you. But you'll never read it, so it's sort of useless. You never come here anyway. Why should I bother.
You've know idea what is happening.
It's like global warming: slow, imperceptible. You can't really see it. There are some signs, but if you don't pay attention, you won't see them.
Or maybe you just don't want to see them.
But as invisible as it may seem, it's here, and getting worst.
you've no idea of what is growing inside me, the dangerous volcano that slowly comes back to life.

I don't talk, I don't ask.
I don't make much noise.
I try to be as invisible, sweet and small as possible.

I tamed the fire inside long ago. I burnt myself and learnt to fear it.
But it never went extinguished.

I am bored of being kind. I'm tired of being mute, I'm tired of being easy-going and always available. I'm tired of being the one who cares.
I care. I love you and I care for you.

But I don't have time for that.
It's partly my fault for I keep you in the dark.
Shutting up is my way to defend myself.

If I don't tell you anything about me, you won't be able to hurt me.
By telling people you're not supposed to.
By forgetting and consequently being tactless.
Or just carelessly hurting me.

So I keep you in the dark.
I don't answer your questions anymore, but you're too busy to notice.
It's easy. I even started to lie.
But I feel the fire inside and it hurts.

Taking the time to be supportive, to cool down before talking, to always be nice and smilling is actually costy.
I don't have time for that. I don't have energy for that.

But why do I even write? You won't read.
Oh my dear, one day, this is going to go wrong.

Boredom

It won't go. It never goes. the feeling of emptiness, of uselessness. Doubting to have the strengh to do something, anything. Writting and erasing a hundred times, never happy.
Fighting the inevitable, fighting that voice that will come before sleep, reminding you that whatever you did, it wasn't good enough. It's never good enough. They're better than you, they're stronger than you, they're more beautiful, more intelligent. They're faster and smarter.
And alone in the dark all you can do is grit your teeth and hold on.
then Guilt comes in, and you feel ashamed not to be able to enjoy what you have and who you are. And then pride will shout back, saying that you're better than that! You're better than this self-deprecation.
And here you're are. in the middle of the storm, desperately looking for something to hold on.

And you're running forward, trying to get yourself tired enough to make the voices go. and sometimes it works. When every cell of your body aches, you finally find peace. For a moment, the voices are quiet.

I'm bored.
The voices overwelmed my brain, and here I am. There are so many things I should be doing. And yet I'm here, hoping that something will happen.
Letargy robbed me of my strengh, any kind of motivation.
I'm bored.
And now, I'll have to deal with the voices.
It will be a long night.

Procrastination et lassitude

Nanowrimo Jour 19: Je n'arrive plus à écrire.

Voilà, c'est dit.
Je me suis lancée dans la rédaction d'une histoire, avec une préparation insuffisante et j'en paie aujourd'hui le prix.
Je n'arrive pas à avancer. J'ai des idées, ce n'est pas le problème, mais rien n'est vraiment construit et finit dans ma tête. Ce qui est l'équivalent chez moi du boss de fin de niveau: Je me lasse.
A force d'écrire sans savoir où je vais, j'ai finis par me lasser.
Alors je procrastine au lieu d'avancer dans mon histoire. Je n'ose pas admettre que je me suis perdue, car si je veux tenir le rythme du nano, je ne peux pas vraiment revenir en arrière pour analyser à quel endroit j'ai pris la mauvaise décision.
Il faut donc que j'essaie de réunir mes idées, que je les couche sur le papier et que je réussisse à déterminer quel serait la meilleure stratégie pour arriver jusqu'au dénouement de l'histoire. Et autant dire que ce n'est pas facile.
Depuis le début du mois, l'écriture est un peu le centre de ma vie: quoi que je fasse, il y a toujours une petite voix dans ma tête qui me rappelle que je dois écrire.
Sauf que sans un plan de bataille, là, je ne vois pas quoi faire.

Manque d'inspiration

Je devrais être en train d'écrire pour le NaNoWriMo. Nous ne sommes que le 5 et je suis déjà en retard. Je n'arrive pas à avancer. Il me reste 1400 mots à écrire d'ici ce soir, et je n'ai pas la moindre idée de ce que mes personnages vont bien pouvoir faire.
Je suis en manque d'inspiration. J'ai une idée, je sais globalement ce qui doit se passer, les grandes lignes du début à la fin. Mais là, tout de suite, je ne sais pas quoi faire.
Alors je me retrouve à écrire ici, pour me morfondre sur combien j'ai du mal à écrire en ce moment.
Je lis beaucoup, et j'aimerais être capable d'écrire des histoires aussi passionnantes que les romans que je dévore, mais rien n'y fait. Je suis au point mort.

Je vous ai déjà dit combien la linguistique est une matière démoniaque?

Ceci est un cours de linguistique. Merci Jack!

Boss de fin de niveau: les Partiels.

Demain, Lundi 3 janvier, commencent pour mes amis et moi, une terrible épreuve: Les PARTIELS.
Bons, les mauvaises langues diraient qu'on est supposés s'y préparer depuis le début du semestre. Mais on sait bien ce que c'est: En septembre on sort pour voir les copains qu'on a pas vu de l'été, en octobre on loupe des cours à cause des vacances de la Toussaint, en novembre, on sort pour décompresser parce que 3 mois de cours, c'est dure et en Décembre, impossible de réviser, ce sont les fêtes de fin d'année.
Résultat on est dimanche soir, je n'ai encore rien foutu et les partiels s'annoncent... épiques.

Et quand on finit par s'y mettre, tout devient prétexte pour fuir.
"Oh ça fait longtemps que j'ai pas MAJ mon blog", "Tiens, ma chambre est en bordel et si je rangeais" ou "ah, y a de la poussière sur ma bibliothèque" si ce n'est pas " Oh, un message sur FaceBook"
Vous l'aurez compris se mettre aux révisions est terriblement difficile.
On se retrouve ainsi face à plusieurs réactions:

Il y a les gens qui y vont les mains des les poches en disant "Bah, on verra bien" (mais qui intérieurement savent bien que la seule chose qu'ils verront c'est un mur)
Il y a aussi les gens qui essaient de réviser... mais dont l'attention est attirée sur tout ce qui ne concerne PAS les cours, ainsi nous auront vu des gens faire les poussières, faire l'inventaire de leur trousse, etc etc
Il y a ceux qui se disent "je ferais ça plus tard" c'est à dire que la veille au soir on se dit qu'on fera ça demain dans les RER, et dans le RER on bouquine de la SF en se disant "je relirais mes cours avec un café une fois arrivé"

bref... ah tiens, faudrait peut être que je m'y mette moi...
ouais... faudrait... vraiment...

Alors on cherche des solutions:
1. Aller bosser à la fac.
c'est une bonne idée. mais bon, moi j'ai une heure et demie de transport, donc pour trouver la motivation c'est dure. Et puis l'appel de la cafétéria est extraordinairement puissant et les étudiants ont tendance à faire des échecs critiques quand à la résistance à l'attraction de la caféïne.

2. Bosser chez soit.
avec beaucoup de volonté, ça doit être faisable.
...
Perso, j'ai jamais réussi.

3. Bosser à plusieurs sur Skype:
Bonne idée: chacun son tour raconte ce qu'il a retenu du cours et on se complète les uns les autres en débattant. problème, ça a rapidement tendance à partir en live et les digressions vont bon train.

4. Aller bosser dans une bibliothèque Publique.
ça ne fonctionne que si on ignore où sont les rayons SF/Fantasy/BD

Ils font comment en fait les qui révisent?

Ah tiens, faudrait peut être que je révise...

"Madame, je crois que j'ai pas compris"

Il me faut vous parler de quelque chose d'important, de vital, de terrible, je dois vous parler de linguistique.
Qu'est ce que la linguistique? à vrai dire, ça fait deux ans que je l'étudie et je n'arrive toujours pas à savoir précisément de quoi il s'agit. C'est une sorte de science occulte où on dessine des formes de graphiques démoniaques en essayant d'invoquer un savoir millénaire.
A raison d'une heure et demie par semaine, La linguistique n'est qu'une des nombreuses matières que j'apprends mais elle fait partie des plus mystérieuses. *et pourtant j'ai jamais séché un cours*
Ma prof est une jeune brunette tout à fait agréable à l'œil (qui aurait mérité de figurer en tant que 25 septembre selon certains (c'est à dire Choupi et Mr Fall)) avec un humour décapant (la seule prof dont la totalités des exemples de cours portes sur les différentes manières de tuer bo, po, mo, et autre prénom monosyllabique finissant en o) qui essaie d'aider ses élèves autant qu'elle le peut, bien que les élèves en questions n'aient pas l'air particulièrement passionnés par le découpage syntaxique d'une phrase dite ambiguë ou de savoir ce qu'est un verbe a-pronominal.

ou encore a étudier le découpage syntaxique de phrases telles que "Insanity is knowing what you are doing is completely idiotic but that you just can't stop it" ce qui me fait dire que notre professeur sait parfaitement que la linguistique est une science pour le moins "insane".

Ces cours sont donc le théâtre d'un certain nombre de délires plus ou moins psychotiques tels que faire des lapsus entre "pote" et "pute", boire du sirop énergisant non dilué, dessiner des BD d'une case, raconter n'importe quoi et écrire des articles (oui, je le confesse, y a un ou deux articles ici qui ont été écrits dans un moment d'égarement pendant le cours de linguistique) Bon, certes, ce n'est pas la faute de la professeur si la majorités des élèves fait autre chose que suivre le cours, c'est juste que non, la linguistique, c'est presque plus simple que la structure syntaxique chinoise. Ou pas.
en sachant que ce cours vient juste après la pause déjeuner, et juste avant un cours d'oral/phonétique, il est assez aisé de comprendre pourquoi ce cours nous sert à tous de récréation. (oui, parce que la phonétique est un art encore plus démoniaque et terrifiant que la linguistique, mais je vous en reparlerais plus tard.) On dort, on dessine, on fait des mots croisés, mais dans le calme s'il vous plait, nous ne sommes plus des lycéens.

Comment vous dire que ma vie est fascinante?

Ouvrir un blog pour parler de soi, c’est quand même extrêmement égocentrique. J’avoue qu’il m’a fallu un moment pour me décider à finalement ouvrir ce recueil de pensées malades.
Depuis de nombreuses années , je noircis des cahiers, des carnets et des feuilles volantes pour y coucher les idées tordues, théories pourries et autres hypothèses foireuses que peut pondre mon cerveau malade.
Non que je me sois soudain mise à me préoccuper d’économiser du papier pour préserver la forêt amazonienne, mais je trouvais que garder ça pour moi sans vous en faire profiter était égoïste de ma part.
Depuis des siècles que je m’adresse à  mon papier, il était temps que je passe enfin à quelque chose de plus moderne, à la vie 2.0 et que je vous fasse voir un peu à quel point parfois, le tissu de la réalité est proche de la rupture.

My life is  so amazing that it deserves to be on the web.