Here's another topic that I feel is important to talk about: pressure. A disclaimer; I am not about to provide anyone with some magical formula on defeating the state of being under pressure. Trust me, I would like to come across said formula, myself. Today, I'm going to be focusing on a specific type of pressure and one that which I have suffered a lot from in the past, and still trying to come to terms with today; imaginary expectations. I actually came across that term while watching Elevation Church's video "Pressure Points" on YouTube. Before watching that video, it was something I had dealt with but had no term to label it with. Anyways, according to Steven Furtick, imaginary expectations are things that we think other people expect from us when in reality, they actually don't. It's us neurotically obsessing over every minor detail to avoid any and every misstep that will hinder us from becoming the person our loved ones wanted us to be-- a concept we decided ourselves. Oh, the irony! There's no point hiding the fact that I tend to be an overachiever and a perfectionist. I will not submit a project if it is in a state that does not meet my criteria. I will have all the materials I need at hand on the hours preceding submission; and I will obsess over perfecting it until the very last second of handing it in. In some cases, I have even risked handing in my work late just because it wasn't enough by the time it was due. I have once even acquired the nickname of Miss Perfect in Art Class for my obsession with dimensions. While others did freehand calculations and bordering, I had with me my arsenal of rulers and pencils to make sure that everything was perfectly symmetrical and the focal point, in the dead center. This neurotic work ethic surely paid off. Top marks were in order. Being at the top of the class was inevitable. Essays, research papers, portfolios-- teachers often regarded them as exemplary work and kept them as reference to be shown to other students in other classes about to embark on similar projects. All these made me feel good simply for the fact that it made my parents proud. Knowing that I have behaved myself as someone my parents could be proud of has always been the most euphoric experience for me. However, with every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. In IBDP 1, I received my first taste of dystopia in the form of a chemistry test result. Before handing our results over, our teacher made it clear that he was a bit disappointed about the collective performance of the class on the test. However, there were 5 students that did better than the rest. I listened to each name before realising that none of those had been mine. Sixth... good but not good enough to be on that top 5. In some ways, I regard that test as the catalyst (get it?) to the emotional decline I suffered from in the 2 years that I was in the IBDP. Without going over the details, I felt that every ounce of victory I have achieved throughout MYP lead to the hyper-concentration of failures I have experienced in the IBDP. The distress I felt every day caused by the fear of facing another failure in school actually lead to the fact that I had spent the majority of my Year 12 at home rather than attend school (which is very wrong, please do not copy this behaviour). By the end of IBDP, my neuroticism pulled me through despite all the challenges (internal, mostly such as anxiety, depression, procrastination, self-doubt) and I graduated at the top of my class. However, it was not a satisfying "win". I was not that proud. In fact, I cried for at least three days upon receiving my IBDP results. I scored 30/45, the same score I had gotten on that fated chemistry test. My parents expressed their pride towards my "achievement" and proudly announced to everyone who inquired that I graduated high school with an International Baccalaureate Diploma-- undoubtedly, a fancy term for such a simple-looking paper. However, I was convinced that their outward projection of pride towards me was, in truth, an act of pity to comfort me for failing and was ultimately a farce. To me, the situation was that I may have gotten the diploma but I have not reached the standard expected of myself despite ranking first in my graduating class. And now we go back to the topic of imaginary expectations. I had a talk with my parents recently that made me realise that I even had imaginary expectations. I presume that at some point of the talk regarding university applications, gap year activities, and whatnot, I started talking in the nervous, self-doubting way I did whenever I felt that others overestimated my abilities. That was when my dad told me, "Justine, you know, you only have one problem-- and that is that you think that we think you're a failure when you're the only one who feels that way. We know that you want to make us proud but you think too much about us wanting you to be X and Y when we never even imposed those expectations on you. We are proud of your achievements, why can't you just accept that?" Why can't I just accept that? That made me think, actually. I couldn't accept it because I thought that I had to win all the time. I thought that I had to only bring home the best scores every time. I thought that the only way I could make my parents truly proud was if I could get an IB score in the 40s and get accepted at a top-tier university straight after high school. I thought that since I have not achieved that IB 40s; and although I have gotten accepted to a top-tier university, I was not able to enroll because I did not get offered a scholarship; and thus I am now on a gap year-- I have not reached their expectations and therefore, have not made them proud. But that was it... I thought. Thinking about it now, my parents never actually said that they expected any of those from me; I just assumed they did. I misaligned my own expectations and standards towards myself as theirs of me. For someone who owns a lot of rulers, I surely miscalculated this one.
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'How hard could it be?', I thought to myself. 'All you have to do is post pictures of accentuating color schemes and tone (use filters to achieve the effect, if necessary). It could be anything, as long as the schemes match,' was what I deluded myself to believe. Effortless... my ass. Maybe I lacked focus and concentration (probably), I could only stick to a "theme" for a maximum of 3 pictures (which I spend hours upon hours on trying to coordinate). Maybe I don't take enough pictures and so I never have enough that coordinate with each other. Maybe I don't go out to interesting places on a regular basis to actually have plenty of cool shots to showcase (the hard truth, right there). Maybe, I'm just not a good photographer nor artist to actually be decent at creating aesthetics... nahhhhhh, I doubt it 😂. To be honest, as superficial as this whole business is, it bothered me for a while. Everyone else posted great pictures on Instagram that coordinated well with each other. They could pose well in front of the camera. They posted interesting photos of boring and mundane things complete with vague captions and they still looked aesthetic. Aesthetic. Since it bothered me that I couldn't do something that everyone else seem to do on a regular basis, I talked to my friend about it and her response was, "Well, I don't really care. I just post about stuff I love and stuff I want to post. I don't think about whether it looks good or not, it's the memories that I want to share." And those, my dear readers, are words of wisdom. Print it on a shirt and wear it everywhere with the hashtag #Savage. Having said those things, it's pretty clear at this point what the take-away message of this post is. Do not be afraid to be spontaneous. Life is dynamic. Memories are dynamic. Spontaneity rules. Multidimensional rocks. And that is why 3D movies cost more than 2D in the cinema. Be expensive; don't box yourself in (get it? because Instagram photos are like boxes? No? Okay...). SO, have I given up on Instagram aesthetics? I guess so. Will I attempt it again? Hell yeah BUT with my own kind of aesthetics: spontaneous and creative-- like the 'Veni, Vidi, Vici' post I did. Do you still appreciate Instagram aesthetics? Of course, I do. No hate; just because I've given up on it, doesn't mean I have the right to judge people who do it. In fact, tops to those people! I can confirm that that shizz is hard work even when some accounts make it look so effortless like... Look at that consistency! Damn! @soonmoo_cat never disappoints. I'm your no.1 fan! (Let's keep this between us though, okay? I don't want Arima thinking that I'm cheating on him.)
I have a confession to make. I thought I could do this segment weekly but each week, I find myself scratching my head vigorously for new drabble ideas. And more often than not, I feel like I'm just vomiting out nonsensical streams of words in a vain attempt "to drabble". AND EVEN WORSE, my writing has become boring and repetitious. I have managed to post one weekly since starting the blog because truthfully, some of those were things I wrote some time to a long time ago taken from my phone notes, diary, brainstorming notebook, word drafts, and whatnot.
In addition to all that, I have also found myself plagued with ideas on what to post for #FreeThoughtFriday, enough to last for at least the next two months. The major problem is that, some of those ideas stem from events that happened to me recently but since I already have things queued for the following weeks, those ideas would have to be pushed to much later on. By doing that, the post loses its meaning and relevance to what's happening in my life at the moment. If I continue at this state, I feel like I would be forced to write about general floating topics which does not allow me to go in-depth because whatever it is does not relate to my current thinking-state while writing. However, this is not a goodbye to the #WednesdayWritings segment nor an announcement for a halt in blogging activities. The only thing that will change from now on is that I will not be posting drabbles on a weekly basis anymore. It's schedule from here thereon would become more erratic. Instead, I'l be posting normal blog posts (which I used to only post once a week under #FreeThoughtFriday) more often. Consequently, I am still deciding what to do with #FreeThoughtFriday. I'm thinking of either getting rid of it as a segment altogether just because I won't be posting relevant content to it just every Friday any longer, or, changing the type of content that goes under the hashtag-- what change? I don't know yet but something that's enough to distinguish it from my normal posts. In the meantime, I will be blogging with a new schedule, and that's Mondays and Wednesdays. Byee! First and foremost, before you call me a hypocrite, I'll call myself out. Me, vocalising your thoughts before you even comment it: "Hey -------! You're an effing hypocrite!" Also me, while sipping a cup of coffee: "I know, thanks." The me who has achieved enlightenment through acceptance: "Okay, just letting you know." Now that that's done and over with, don't get me wrong... I absolutely love filters. Who would've known I looked so hot as a female dog (get it?)? With some hearts over my head, or maybe a flower crown from Snapchat; I am a goddess. I look pretty cute with that blue-ish filter on Instagram. Snow makes my skin brighter and clearer than it really is. With a smaller face, a smaller nose, and emphasised eyes; I am absolutely irresistible (someone, please agree with me). I turn off the apps and switch to my phone's own camera app and what do I see? I'd hate to use this word, but its the only appropriate word to be said... MONSTROSITY!!! Okay, maybe I exaggerated a little. However, you get what I mean. I have large pores, uneven eyelids (I literally have one monolid eye, and the other has double eyelids), big nose (so much so that when I take selfies, the lighting almost always highlights it), big mouth, gummy smile, braces, messy eyebrows, a stache, and a heck lot of facial moles. Truthfully, I am not your standard beautiful. I probably am no one's #beautygoals nor #bodygoals or #sopretty or #IWishIWasHer. Let's be real, I am probably not #goals material. And THAT... affected me for a very long time. In fact, it's still something that still affects me occasionally. If you read this week's #WriteUpWednesday , it pretty much explains what I still feel some days. I just learned how to better deal with it; and I'm still learning and I'm still coming to terms with the different ways to deal with it. And I write these, to deal with it; to put things into perspective; to create a tangible evidence to help me (and you) realise how ridiculous this whole #Beauty business is. So... what did I realise and what's my take-home advice? a) I am still not your standard Instagram-perfect, influencer-style beautiful. But then I realised, why be a standard when I could become a premium ;) <--- (truthfully, the reason why I gave up on Instagram aesthetics altogether--- but that's for another Friday) b) I am hella cute as a bunny, pig, dog, and cat. And you probably are too. (If you disagree to that, I applaud your powers of self-denial... Or you should probably get Snapchat or Snow and see for yourself.) c) Am I going to stop filtering my pictures? Probably not. It's fun. It's quirky. It gives me confidence. BUT, what I won't do is post filtered pictures exclusively. Basically, the advice is to try and keep it on a down-low and post more natural pictures. As some people on Instagram suggested, add stickers to the background, take pictures in good lighting (near a window has been highly suggested), find your angle----- but try not to alter your face shape, enlargen, or minimise your facial features through photoshop and filters, just let yourself glow. I am not against adjusting the contrast of the picture or whatever, it does make your pictures look sharper (My picture in the About Page has enhanced contrast just because I thought it looked too dull without it.) One word, but it's the most important message of this post: Acceptance.
Am I pretty? I ask no one often when I am in the comfort of being alone, unseen by judging eyes and gossiping mouths. I have troublesome skin, tear-stricken face for every night that I spent thinking of the reasons why I was not made pretty. Although I have a rather decent nose bridge, I have a wide nose which does it no justice. Big eyes that see blurry. A big mouth with a gummy smile. Braces that remain there overdue. A face that is rather angular but not in a very pleasing manner.
Am I pretty? I often ask myself but receive no answer. There were days when I would want to answer yes. There were days when I felt like I could actually answer yes. And days when I actually, excitedly answered yes. But among those were days when I shook my head sadly, mumbling no. Days when I laid my head down and sighed, thinking no. Days whn I cried myself to sleep, knowing that the answer was no. Am I pretty? I thought as I close the camera app in favour of Snow and Snapchat which has filters to make me look better. Filters to hide the flaws, the unevenness of my face, the asymmetry, the ugliness. Maybe if my eyes were bigger I could actually be cute. Why is my hair never like I want it to be? It is sometimes too straight or too frizzy. Maybe if my nose was any smaller I could actually be pretty, a less messier set of brows, a prettier set of lips. Am I pretty? I tried asking others. They were either friends and family, of course. They said, yes, you’re pretty. But it never did satisfy me. Why do I still feel ugly when the outside validation is there. I don’t believe them, theyre just saying that--- I somehow often manage to convince myself. I am not pretty, they’re just being nice. Am I pretty? I look to the internet for answers. I post a selfie to see if anyone would comment or like. But as usual no one comments and those who like are the same people everytime—friends and family who never fail to reassure my dwindling self-esteem although it’s not working. Am I pretty? Am I? Because I want to feel like I am... I first learned of the word "autonomy" in my Year 9 History class when we were studying about World War I. How is this related to what I'm about to say? Nothing. None at all. I just wanted to mention it. ;)
. . . Anyways, I turned 18 last April, on the day before my first IB exam. I just finished high school, I graduated last May. I am, according to law, of legal age. I am, however, according to my current state, still very much a kid. I am more like a responsible kid, per se. I can live alone in terms of taking care of myself. I can cook. I can clean. I can wash and iron my own clothes. I have no problems contacting any authorities or establishments for anything. I can cross the road. I can ride a taxi. I can set up a doctor's appointment for myself. I can go on a medical check-up by myself. However... I've barely crossed the street alone. I've only ridden the taxi alone less than 5 times; and by alone, I meant, with a friend and I didn't ask my parents permission to do it-- I called them when I was already in the taxi. I have to call my parents whenever I ride a taxi. I can't drive. I've never gone grocery-shopping by myself. I'm chauffered to 98% of the events I go to. I've set up a doctor's appointment and attended the check-up alone, just once. And so based on all that, I can safely say I'm just about 25% adult and 75% child. I have no one and nothing to blame for it. That's just my situation. I do say that I feel less autonomous and capable of independence than most of my friends, especially the ones from the Philippines. Since my batch was the last one to be permitted to attend university even after only completing until Year 10 of secondary education. most of my Filipino friends and former classmates are now already in their 3rd year of undergraduate studies while I am here, not even in university yet. My usual stance on the topic is a state of indifferent acceptance. I studied under an international secondary curriculum which ends in Year 12, and so, it is only natural for me to start university later than my Filipino peers. However, I would have to start university even later because I am taking a gap year (that may be something I rant about some other time). Speaking of my Filipino peers, since they have been in university earlier than I am, and therefore, have already been living independently for quite some time while I still am not, I do get a sense of insecurity sometimes. I feel that I have a lacking of sorts, like I'm weak and incompetent compared to them. My consolation is that the circumstances that I am in are partly responsible for the reason why I am not like them; and my confidence, is in the fact that I am ready to take on a life of autonomy once the circumstances permit. I am in no particular hurry, however. I recognise that with autonomy comes the fact that I will be leaving behind my family. Alas, for now, I'll enjoy living in the moment. I crave a sense of autonomy, I believe that would be a freedom most gratifying. However, I also already long for the comfort of being surrounded by my family, and Arima. That is my curious issue with autonomy. I was afraid for neither had I wings to fly nor my own two feet to walk in--- never without the support of overbearing hands which held my every move, anticipated my every thought—caring they were but learning I could not do. I was afraid that I could account to no more than this for I was dependent on the way that my life that was lead even though there was a tug that has been increasingly distracting and harder to ignore with each passing day that I near independence. I was afraid I would not learn for I was told that I was always scared. I was afraid that they were right, that I am what they said I am and not what I think I could become. I was afraid and I was hesitant for what flowed out of my hands in the words were not mine but of a created self that I have to assume when I am in the sights of others. I was afraid that I’d always be afraid for it had always been the role that I assumed although there were times that I never truly was afraid but rather just excited however I have tricked myself into thinking that I was… afraid… very afraid… ever so afraid… And then I realized that the only thing I was afraid of was the fact that I could not release myself from the imaginary prison I’d had assumed that somehow I had to be afraid.
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Notes from the author: If you'd like to have a conversation with me about anything I've written in this blog, JoJo's Bizarre Adventure, memes, or anything at all, slide into my DMs at:
The cover artwork featured above is used with special permission from IG: @squackoud
Special hashtags to watch out for:*** the following are specialised blog entries that have no set schedule compared to the usual bi-weekly postings.
#WednesdayWritings - drabbles, poetry, prose, short stories--- creative and expressive writing in no one's style.
#ThrowbackThursday - the cringey, the I-did-that? moments, the tear-inspiring, and the embarrassing moments of the past gone by--- available only here so shhhh...
#FreeThoughtFriday - a collection of 3AM thoughts for your collective amusement and might get you asking wtf?!
to see older posts:To view some of my older posts, there is a "previous" button hiding just below the bottom left corner of the last post of this page.
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