dear diary, i’m 17 again
this is the second time i write this entry. the first one was lengthy and full of rage, hope, and desperation. i went on this victim-induced rant about how i’ve always perceived myself as less because of my childhood background & how i pushed aside all these big expectations certain people had of me in favour of becoming my family’s self-fulfilled prophecy of a useless loser, clone of my father, married to mediocrity & misery—a burden & a leech—, but i guess we’re all tired of my public displays of victimization. i like to complain & i like to assign responsibility to those who are due, but it’s about time for me to just… stop.
two weekends ago, i did what neville goddard calls a past revision. don’t think of me as a fool, i’m aware of our earthly limits and we all know we cannot change most of the material past; but we can change our emotional memory from those past events. i’ve revised before (many times last year, in order to deal with my newfound trauma), but this time it was a slightly different experience from the usual. i felt like i was dying. for a moment, my breath shortened & i got on the verge of a panic attack, and then… calmness. i felt this feeling akin of a warm & slow wave hitting my ankles. something was telling me “it” was done. what exactly is “it” i don’t know.
i went back to my 17s, early march, to my drowsy mornings & sad high school lectures & i shook myself & punched my guts, screaming at my teen-self to get a grip and live before it was too late. i told myself everything i’d dreamed to listen—don’t give up, do it again, try harder, you can and you will do it, i won’t leave your side until you get it done. i told myself to go to my algebra teacher and ask him for help because i wanted to be great & he would help me—he believed in my potential.
i’m learning to believe in myself too.
i’ve been thinking (now that i’m at peace with the fact that i’m allowed to make choices & i don’t need a permit to do what i want), about how far i could go. i’ve never tried finding my threshold beyond the well (it wasn’t needed), but now, this curiosity grew into a piece of craving, an itch i can’t scratch. “if i could be anything in the world, what would i be?” what is my dream? what is my talent? where is my ithaca?
as i said, this is the second time i write this entry because the first one was closer to a choleric rant than a piece to read. there is, however, a story from that first draft that’s worth telling:
when i was 5, i drew the ugliest, skinniest yellow-magenta-acid-green dog i’ve ever seen. i remember nodding and thinking “yep, this is good,” as i analysed its wobbly legs and red tongue. two years later, i watched this james baxter’s tutorial video and tried replicating it. safe to say, i couldn’t. my motor & drawing skills weren’t polished enough at the age of 7 to draw something of that calibre. i got angry and gave up. there was nothing i could do. three years later i picked up the same tutorial, confident that “i’d improved enough to do it,” but i didn’t. the same feeling punched my guts, but this time my spirit was thwarted, crushed, destroyed. i tore papers, broke pencils. i was frustrated beyond recognition because “if i can draw so well, why can’t i draw this?!” (as if drawing that kind of drawing was an easy task). whenever i got the chance, you would find me with pencil, eraser, and sheets of paper under my arm, repeating the same shapes relentlessly, refusing to accept defeat. i drew a hundred horses, followed the instructions, but still, i was nowhere near my goal. i changed pencils, erasers, papers, i tried improving everything i could (mind you, with no drawing or learning knowledge at all—i’ve always been self-taught, for better or for worse). for months i drew the same horse in the same position countless times, but it was by the end of the year that i finished the first one that i was proud of—the one that was good enough. it took me a year to achieve what my heart desired. i traced that horse’s line art with black ink and painted it bay with white socks & a white blaze, and i carried it everywhere with me like a prize. i was astonished… “i drew this,” i’d think (to this day i still feel this sentiment of disbelief when drawing… like, you are able to create from your own hands—that’s yours, all yours. you did that). after that horse, the following ones were a breeze. i moved on, playing with what i knew, testing different poses & variations. i drew them bucking, sitting, rearing, kicking, stomping, from the front, from the side… i had finally mastered what i wanted to master, and i never forgot it! i still draw horses quite well to this day! even better with references.
i try not to forget the frustration i’d felt—that hunger, that thirst, that impatience to reach a goal i knew i certainly could (and would) master. to have something that was mine and mine only & nobody could take it from me. to prove to myself that i could do it alone, that i, alone, were enough.
my algebra teacher used to tell us, “when you’re about to decide your career, don’t think ‘ah, that course is not for me…’” and i’d never understood that sentence until now. it means that if you want something, if you hear you heart aching for it, then it is something worth pursuing even if it seems impossible.
this entry is already getting long, and there’s lots of things i’m still not done deciphering, but, reader, i’ve never felt better. the desire i feel isn’t jittery with anxiety, it’s firm and steady and confident. i know exactly what i want and i know i can (and will) have it. finally, after years of mindless wandering, of jumping through fences, wasting mine and other’s time, fasting my spirit from its nourishment, looking at anything and everything as if it would fill the in my soul & me the answers i’ve been seeking my entire life, i know what i need (i hope so!)
i’ll tell you next year, if everything works out. but if it doesn’t, i’ll be fine. i will be content with the fact that i did my best.