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I don't even.
We human beings have such pitiful memories. Some of us are severely lacking in the ability to listen - especially when it concerns someone close to us. Maybe it's too personal because I'm flesh and blood; but on the flip side, it's precisely because I'm flesh and blood that the reaction should be quite different, if not entirely different.
Apparently the end of the world is upon me. If the maternal unit were to be believed, I'm now supposed to react in embarrassment, self-pity, and dig up all sorts of nonsensical excuses for this outcome, none of which actually makes any sense if you think about things rationally. Insofar as the pride has been damaged, it would be nice to have a different outcome.
But it is what it is. Focusing on the damaged pride is myopic, and it also ignores everything that I've told her since PLC. I really don't know what else to tell her anymore, if, after the freak out sometime last year that saw me running to Boat Quay (ironic but true), she still doesn't get it. If I'm immature for being idealistic, I'd like to remain immature for the rest of my life. I'm sorry (actually, I'm not sorry at all) I'm not a realist; I can't measure my life in terms of dollars and cents; and I need to feel for what I do, or else it's just not going to cut it.
She thinks I have an attitude problem, that I somehow am so fucking stupid that I went around throwing temper tantrums at work. Apart from how this accusation insultingly undermines my intelligence, I can't even begin to grasp the inherent stupidity in such a baseless, idiotic suggestion. Maybe it'd make sense if I were, say, 14; but the train has left that station 10 years ago. Her charge of my immaturity, incidentally, has nothing to do with this fresh accusation.
The truth is, I kept my temper in check; I kept my feelings to myself; and I sure as hell did not display, consciously, how I really felt about things. Is it really my fault that I'm an open book? I'm pretty sure I inherited that from one of the parental units - in most likelihood, I inherited this unfortunate personality trait from the maternal unit. More importantly, like I've told her countless times, I just cannot perform when doing something that I'm indifferent towards at best. I think it should be obvious by now, judging from the moments at which I chose to excel in school. Is there nothing to be gleaned from the fact that I made Dean's List in Year 4, when I didn't take a single so-called "substantive" law module? What about the number of times I came home in a bad mood and refused to talk to anyone? What about that day, last year, when I ran off to Boat Quay and cried by myself and the parents had to come looking for me?
See, human memory is fragile, and at times like these, it's downright pathetic. You focus on one setback and forget everything else - you forget who I am. You forget the things I tell you. You forget what I like, what I dislike, what I hate. You forget everything that I tell you about the kind of person that I am. You forget that I deserve to be happy, that it's not always about money. You forget that I am not stupid. You forget that I am your daughter, and by the very virtue of that fact, my happiness should be paramount.
When Roger loses a match his fans forget that he's won over 600 matches in his entire career; the "pundits" forget that he's the GOAT, that he's got this, that he's won 16 fucking Grand Slams. They forget his records, they forget his talent, and above all else, they forget his grit, his determination, his drive - they forget his love for the game, the very thing that's propelled him to the top.
And in the process of forgetting, you start to wonder: Is it really so bad to fail? Because - how can it be bad if it finally wakes you up, and possibly propels you to something bigger, better?
Roger lost matches after matches during the US hard court season early last year. Horrible losses to Murray and Djokovic (smashed racquet in Miami. Remember that?). Multiple horrible losses to Murray and Djokovic. As usual, we all thought he'd never win another Slam, that it was the end of the road for him; but then Madrid rolled around, he registered his second victory over Nadal on clay, and the French Open started and at the end of it he found himself hoisting that elusive trophy for the first time in 5 attempts.
Am I sorry now that he lost all those matches in Indian Wells, Miami, Monte Carlo, Rome? Not really. Because they paved the way to bigger things for him.
And that's how I choose to look at this.
Okay, anyway. What I really wanted to say:
In a sadistic way, I was hoping for this. Apart from how I was honestly quite tired of everything, I was even more tired of having everything work out without me so much as trying. I was tired of coasting through everything. It's easy, for sure; but what's the point if you can't appreciate it? The thing about me is that I wasn't able to appreciate any of my good fortune or whatever because I didn't feel like I even tried. I say this over and over and I will say it again: the last time I was genuinely and enthusiastically proud of an achievement was when I got my A Level results. Since then, I've been breathing underwater at best, and sleepwalking through my life at worst.
I didn't feel like I owned any of this, like I had a stake in it. I felt constricted, trapped, and it was a burden that weighed so heavily down on me that I didn't even realise how bad it was until it was lifted off my shoulders this evening. Like I told Wei Chuen, I honestly felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. What is the point of staying the course if the course made you so unhappy? What is the value of pride if it doesn't bring you happiness?
I've been subconsciously unhappy with myself for quite a while now, perhaps a few months shy of a year. It's disappointing not living up to the promises that you made to yourself at the time when you felt most invincible, as if you had the world trapped beneath your feet. I read one of my JC diaries last night and I couldn't help but think, negatively, that I was letting that person down. The girl with so much hope, such grand ambitions, that wanted to take on the world.
I haven't been that person in a really, REALLY long time. I think some shades of her came back to me in my last year of law school, when I grabbed hold of my idealism and remembered who I am. But I've been detached, dispassionate, disinterested, and just plain sad. A shell of the person that I ought to be - the person that I know I can be.
I'm too tired to continue. Suffice it to say that I'm quite relieved, actually, and was in a good mood until my mom ruined it. Oh well.
I'd also just like to say that I love my boyfriend very very fucking much. He's the best. It amazes me how much he puts up with my bad temper and gives in to me and tries to do things my way. I don't want anyone else; all I want is him.
And I miss him all the time. Especially today, when I was still reeling from last night's sad, teary conversation.
I'm really tired. Going to shower and then sleep now.