“The idea that sex is something a woman gives a man, and she loses something when she does that, which again for me is nonsense. I want us to raise girls differently where boys and girls start to see sexuality as something that they own, rather than something that a boy takes from a girl.”
— Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
Friday, May 27, 2016
The Mad One
When there's a moment of gathering , there's a moment of departure.
When there's life, there's death.
Everything is bound to the law of impermanence.
Knowing yourself and knowing what the right thing to do for some is liken to putting a key in a lidless box halfway two centimeters from the inside bottom of the box.
They said the people we think about first thing in the morning are the ones we love. They lied. Each morning i woke up infuriated because i wanted to desperately hurt the ones i hate for the pain they put me through.
This hatred is consummate, it grows everyday like a lilly maturing from a stem to a bloom. It is as if every breath they take is an affront to me. Their mere existence boils my blood to a fiery broth.
But i know it is not my place to determine who lives and who dies. I understand the laws of nature and the cycle of life. It is what bars me from my worst self.
We are all just an angry outburst away from being a monster. Evil is in every one of us. Some wear it like a second skin, others like myself prefer to tuck it away in the far regions of our psyches. We keep our evil under control while some are controlled by the diabolic nature within them.
Circumstances made me what i am.
The Victim Card
People often remember what you did to them, but forgot what they did to you to push you to those limits. It is always easier to play victim than to fess up to being a contributor in the grand scheme of destruction. Nobody wants to be accountable, every one wants to point fingers until fingers start falling off. Then the truth comes out.
When lying can no longer justify hurting people. When the truth stinks so much, running away or manipulating others won't brook any sympathy. It doesn't matter how much one pretends, the true them always comes out eventually and those who sided with the liars' theatrics are put to shame.
So i learned to temper my anger. To quell this monster that grows inside me by rational thinking and cutting myself off from those who stir the inferno within me. I have relinquish my right to control everything that has happened to me, it is what fuels my current frustrations.
I likened my life to me being irritated that it is raining, where my dislike of precipitation means that i am unlikely ever to respond to one by screaming. My annoyance is tempered by what i understand i can expect from the climate. I have no control over it.
We aren’t overwhelmed by anger whenever we don’t get something we want; we do so only when we first believed ourselves fundamentally entitled to secure it – and then oddly did not. Our greatest furies spring from events which violate our sense of the ground-rules of existence.
I found serenity in a healthy dose of pessimism. A tranquility from embracing reality.
I have learnt to disappoint myself at leisure.
To wear my defenses down before the world slaps me with suprises that derails me from my purpose.
I start each day with a twenty minute deep breathing exercises, i train myself to be patient and understanding.
To be slow to judge and snail paced towards anger.
I pity the ones who hate me. The ones who placed a mark of death on me.
They might seem bullishly confident in their rage but i know deep inside they are hurting.
They rage in order to stop themselves from panicking and appearing weak.
They have no faith in their own capacity to survive frustration and recover equanimity despite some perhaps truly significant losses.
They lack a resilient sense of how – with sufficient patience, love and time – error and damage may be repaired, borne and overcome.
I feel sorry for them.
They see life as not growing, changing, evolving, maturing and overcoming.
They see life as merely win or lose.
I think of them with sympathy than scorn.
The Mad One
Crystal A. Evans