The Black Hole

Sometimes my self-hatred flares up even worse than usual. There's always a low-grade undercurrent of it throbbing through my head, tainting everything I see, hear, and do, but sometimes it rages across me so strongly that it completely stops every other thought and my brain literally feels like it will melt from the acid racing through it. And then I lock up in every area of my life -- sometimes to the point where I literally cannot talk.

It's been particularly bad this semester -- I'm taking eight classes, which I thought I could handle because I did it my last semester, but I failed to realise that last time I took eight classes they were all performing classes. In other words, they were things I have a natural aptitude for and also they don't require papers. This time, they're all academic classes. Which means papers. I may be a writer, but I'm in my third year of post-secondary and I have yet to write a half-decent paper. Academic writing just does not come naturally to me, and that, coupled with my already-crippling perfectionism, is a source of EXTREME stress. I don't have time to actually write the papers either, because I'm attending the eight classes... Add to this the fact that the flat has the LOUDEST heating system ever -- it literally wakes me up every time it runs. And I sleep like the dead. I have three very loud alarms set on my phone every morning and for the past three days I slept through every single one of them. But the heating system in the building wakes me up every. single. time. Add to that my already-near-crippling insecurity about my vocal abilities and the hit my performing abilities in general have taken, and you have a dangerous cocktail.

When I start into serious self-hatred mode, I get into this loop where no matter how much encouragement I receive, its effect is gone within seconds of my receiving it. I learnt long ago how to manipulate people into complimenting me, and though it's one of the things I hate the most about myself, I find myself doing it anyway at these times. This, of course, makes it worse because I already feel bad about myself and then I catch myself fishing for compliments again and then I feel even worse for putting the other person in that spot (seriously, there is nothing more awkward than being in a conversation with someone who is plainly fishing for compliments -- and I hate being that person), plus the encouragement I do get I suck dry within seconds and then start begging for more -- all without giving a single bit back. I'm just a black hole eating compliments and I can't stop it. So I hate myself even more for not being able to stop it, for not being able to live on one compliment a year like every one else does.

Why am I so needy? Why do I have to be that awkward person who takes but never, ever gives? Why does the coveted encouragement only last all of ten seconds before its effect is gone? Compliments don't make my whole day or even my whole minute -- they fade too fast. I'm torn between wanting more, hoping the next one will be the one that lasts and wanting to die so I can stop asking so much of so many and never being able to reciprocate.

Snippets

My thoughts aren't currently coherent enough for me to make a full post on one topic, so I'm going to throw down some sound bites because I miss posting.

So I've been working on a ballet for twelve. I was trying to do it start-to-finish in the month of September... didn't quite work out that way. At this rate I'll be lucky to finish it by the end of October.

Oh, but it is gorgeous. It's turning out even better than I'd hoped. The best I can say is that it's a bit like a symphony. A symphony of dance.

In case it's not obvious from recent Music Day posts, I've been on a HUGE White Heart kick. I have Servant's The Dance (I love this song), Michael Card's The Promise, and David Meece's Early In The Morning all lined up to be choreographed next and all my creative brain wants to do is White Heart, White Heart, and more White Heart. I may just have to knock out that Say The Word duo that's been simmering in my head just to shut it up. (And Early In The Morning has a deadline on it too...)

Okay, I know I've gushed about Rick Florian's singing before, but seriously, anyone who can sing Silhouette without bursting a lung is a truly amazing human being. I tried to sing it the other day and almost passed out (the fact that I had a cold and don't yet have the lyrics memorised is a mere trifle. That song is darn difficult).

NaNoWriMo is coming! I actually have a solid plot idea too -- a tap dancer, an ex-rocker, music, someone recovering from depression, road trip, concerts, touring... it is going to be SO. MUCH. FUN.

And in case I finish that one early (which I think is likely), I also have a second very good idea that'll easily make 50k (famous last words...).

Tap classes -- on Monday my teacher asked if I play an instrument. I said no. She seemed quite surprised and asked if I sing. I said, "A little."

Apparently, according to her, my musicality is very, very good. Earlier in the class, she had said I was a natural. And then she taught me this step -- I think she called it a pullback -- where you jump and while in the air, you tap your toes on the ground. I (mostly) got the hang of it in two minutes (according to the clock in the studio). She was clearly amazed and told me it takes most people weeks to figure it out.

Also, I loathe YouTube right now. Loathe. Excuse me for being in Canada.

Pretty

The word nerd in me recently noticed that the word 'pretty' is hardly ever used anymore except as an adverb (pretty good, pretty stupid, pretty intense...).
And the word nerd found it sad.
As children -- specifically little girls -- 'pretty' is one of the most-used words in our vocabularies. Everything that is a) pink; b) has flowers and/or hearts on it; c) involves dress-up or make-up; or d) looks frilly or lacy is called 'pretty.'
'Pretty' is one of the highest compliments a little girl can receive and it's one of the highest compliments a little girl can pay anybody. It doesn't matter if you're fifty and 300 pounds overweight with whiskers or if you're twenty-two with 'perfect' skin and a seven-year string of beauty pageant championships, if a little girl calls you 'pretty,' you will treasure that forever. (And little girls, if my recollections of the experience are any indication, tend to think of almost all adult women as 'pretty.' Now that I think about it, when and why does that change?)
But somewhere in the teen years, 'pretty' is replaced by 'hot.' Sorry, I mean 'hawt.' Or 'sexy.'
Call me an innocent purist, but none of those have the same sweet ring to it as 'pretty' does.
Let's bring it back, shall we?