My teacher once said, that the key to live in with this cruel, hateful world is to become flexible, enough to ignore one’s saying that might hurt you, and enough to take in what motivates you, makes you who you are. The concept of flexibility, she added up, varies from person to person, yet the only belief that you want to adapt to, might even changes the way you look to the world.
I was a kind of person who easily be affected by the smallest judgements, whether it meant good or bad. Yet the only way I faced it, was to think about it, a lot from times to times, and ends with no improvements and a tired mind. I took up the advice from the internet, which is to meditate as it may strengthen your mental health. The funny thing is, those time that I meditate were just to make up more time for me to think about what bothered me, helped me to countdown the time when my brain did stop.
I ‘think’ a lot. Much more than you were expected me to, and much more than I was expected I would. I had insomnia just because I couldn’t stop thinking at night, the time when everything was out of distraction, the time when even the loudest sound was less remarkable than those sounds in my head. It just kept talking, muttering, with hundreds of flash backs of those embarrassing moments, of those when you failed, of those I hided the most. It all came back. In every single night.
Focus on your breath, one says. Yet I was only the one who made the breathing more difficult. Focus on what you’re hearing, another says. Yet nobody else but me made my ears become much heavier, by the weight it’s caring, and by the pressure of going to sleep. Sorry ears and lungs, I left it to my eyes. Those eyes were full of shadows beneath, like all the shadows beneath my head, like all the shadows I imagined when one asked, what your future looks like? For me, any routes or opportunities leading to my future, were blocked with stones and metals which forced me to go on with dying motivation, with teared body parts. Rather going on, I stopped there, and wait.
“So I moved to California with $700 in my pocket and my toddler.” Taraji P. Henson, on the event of 2016 Women in Film Crystal and Lucy Awards. People do whatever they want when they’ve reached that high. “I had to fight the good fight because people are telling me I can’t. You can’t do this, are you crazy? You’re moving to California with your son? You’ll never make it. I was 26 when I decided to come here. There’s the age thing: ‘oh you’re too old.”
And I’m too young to start anything. I looked at her, as a mirror reflecting myself, I looked at the 16-year-old girl, who’s been said: “She’s too young. She can’t do the job. She doesn’t have enough knowledge,” with expressionless faces coming from the internet, behind those computers she hasn’t seen.
“What if I believed those people who told me when I became pregnant in college that I wouldn’t finish? I walked across that stage with my son my hip and I collected my degree. My diploma. I didn’t hear the naysayers when they were like ‘you’re too old to go to California. If you don’t hit by 25, you’re not going to make it.” She added up.
“I will be 46 this year. I am just touching the surface. I am just getting started”.
Those words flourished into my mind, like a fish received its mother’s gifts, the fish turned itself into the water. Then the fish is the water.
I cried. Ever since I was born, never have I listened to such words, those words that needed to be mine.
“If you listen to people and if you allow people to project their fears onto you,
You won’t live.”