Pretentious, Self-Righteous Essays

“The castle’s come down times before on many nights much like this night.”

I was 13 and my grandmother was 78 when she passed away.  It was a December when the ambulance came in the middle of the night to take her away.  She was unconscious and remained in the ICU for a couple of months.  I remember spending Christmas in the ICU.  When the money got tight because of all of the extra taxis getting home (we didn’t own a car), we took the bus.  And when we could no longer afford even that, we walked.

She was really weak and had been losing her memory for perhaps a year prior to her going comatose.  I remember being about 12 when she was no longer able to do all of the things that she liked to do on her own, such as garden and cook, and even longer since she’d done things that she didn’t like to do, like walk me home from school or play with me.  She was so serious.

My sister and dad suffer from the same core of afflictions as my grandmother.  Perhaps about a year prior to my grandmother’s admittance to the ICU, my dad had been going through the worst case of his eczema.  At the time, it was the first I’d ever seen it flare up at all.  He couldn’t move without making his skin crack.  I’d seen it with Marlene throughout our childhood, and it was a real surprise to me when I saw him with it.  Anyway, after a while without any improvement, our doctor had him hospitalized.  He was eventually able to come home and we all took care of him.  The doctors had been unable to pinpoint the cause.  All we knew was what we always knew: that it was an allergic reaction.  We blamed his work.  He worked in the factory of a printing company.  The company paid out disability for a while, but eventually stopped.  He wasn’t sick enough to get Ontario Disability Benefits, but was not well enough to make it through a full work day at a new job without being sent home because his employer could see that he couldn’t handle it. This after years of OT and hauling himself across the city by public transit to get the bills paid.  He was only in his 50’s, and he didn’t know how he would make it to retirement.

My mom couldn’t do much better.  She had been laid off from her job years earlier after she took bereavement time to attend her brother’s funeral in the Philippines. She returned to be laid off.  It made for an awkward situation for my sister who would wind up – by a twisted stroke of fate – doing her OAC Co-Op term in our mom’s old department with our mom’s former co-workers.  Anyway, my mom was well into her 50’s by then, so being hired for a long-term continuing position was difficult.  She wasn’t physically equipped to do labour, but she could do a lot of things, and I know she always tried.  Primarily, she did temp work in accounting.  And she put her crocheting skills to work making kippot for some evil man she called “Barrack” who was so rude to her and made her cry that even though we needed the money, we begged her to stop making them.  She even did call centre work in the evenings – there was no shortage of call centre work.  Out of an eagerness for workplace resiliency, I learned to do it myself.  I learned a lot of things from my mom.  Because who knew?  Maybe there would come a time when it was the only opportunity I had at my immediate disposal to make ends meet during times of crisis.  (For the record, such times existed.)   So she applied for hundreds of jobs and got a lot of interviews.  It was hard to watch her.  She was the sort of person who identified herself by her job.  And with every failed opportunity came more and more frustration.

It’s hard to pinpoint the moment things became irreparable for us as a family.  There were hints of self-destruction much earlier than this.  However, I do remember being 12 and being proud as the low-points brought us closer together.  And then I remember turning 16 and writing The Dancing Princess.  It’s scary now when I look back and read A Peek Through Tinted Glassed and The Days of Grey – words I strung together when I was 18 and 20, respectively.

I’m fine now.  My biggest problem then was that I couldn’t control anything.  Now I control everything.  It’s exhausting, and I get really frustrated on days like today when people assume that just because I’m the younger daughter, that I hold no responsibility.  I’m irritable enough without having to deal with ignorant people thinking they have me and my situation pegged.

[Today, today is a special day.  Today I posted explicitly how I felt about something.]

Several years ago, I was taking a class where I constantly disagreed with the course Instructor.  It was really stressful.  Couple that with the fact that I was enrolled in three courses, and had then just taken on a demanding new full-time position at work, and you get ‘power-trip Carolyn’: the girl who gets a sick pleasure from pointing out all of the ways that her superiors and peers (but never subordinates) are incompetent. She appears mostly in electronic form (i.e. in email, IM, message board posts), but she has been known to appear in person, impatiently ‘telling it like it is’. Anyway, that term, she appeared as an online bully to the course Instructor and TA’s, nit-picking all of their incorrect facts, lack of familiarity with pertinent information, and inconsistent arguments from class.  Through online discussion, she rallied the troops in revolt, fueling dozens of students with the courage [i.e. arguments] to properly defend themselves and file real complaints with the department regarding the Instructor and his TA’s performance.  At the time she thought she was an articulate leader who guided the actions of her peers through thought-provoking wording in her posts.  In retrospect I see that I was just under a lot of pressure, taking it out on the next most available target.  I insult under the guise of concern.  I still do. When I used to write on Misfortunate, I did this as Nylorac, and with strangers I used various other pseudonyms.

I started out the post with the intention of discussing the large discrepancy that exists between one’s online persona and his/her face-to-face one, but instead managed to veer off into the ugly world of regret, where some of my most shameful moments reside.

I’m neurotic about managing emails, calendars, tasks and correspondence, in general. I can take almost any product and make it “usable”, but really, I prefer using Microsoft OutLook 2007, and being on an exchange server.  Regarding how I manage things, it all seems crazy, but everyone who has ever used my systems [whether or not it was because I made her] has seen its advantages and has either raved about it or adopted it.

Anyway, considering how I feel about poor punctuality, I suppose it isn’t a surprise, then, when I say that I feel similarly about  unresponsiveness. Although, I suppose, I do understand that there are other reasons, besides being irresponsible, why one would not respond to me.

This is what I’m referring to…

Example 1:  Having a particular career in mind for your future, and doing everything you need to do to get there.  Sometimes the outcome is happy, and sometimes not.  But in an educational system like the one I grew up in (sure, let’s pick on it, why not?), you’re encouraged to pick a career and do everything you need to get there.  This is all before you even know what having that career really entails.  Again, sometimes the outcome is happy: someone chose a career, drew out the path, went for it, and they enjoy their career.  Other times people are displeased with their premature decisions and either start over or remain miserable out of inertia.  I’m calling the end point of getting the career “making it”, and the journey “faking it”.  We have an end in sight, and we just do what we’re told we’re supposed to do to get there.  We presumably don’t know better.  We may even question why we have to do some of the things we’re told to do (eg. the necessity of electives in university), but we are told to just do it… to “fake it till we make it”.

Example 2: A romantic relationship where one person has decided that he or she /wants/ to be with a specific other person (or kind of person), and concedes at every turn so as to avoid dealing with all of the problems in the relationship.  So, “making it” refers to having a long and happy relationship with this person, and the “faking it” refers to how he/she just goes through the motions to keep the relationship from falling apart.  The truth is, in a relationship (romantic or otherwise), to be genuinely happy, you need to be honest, and you can’t “fake it”.  So, “faking it till you make it” fails in relationships.

Now with respect to math and physics in high school,”faking it” was doing all of the homework (lots of practice) without fully understanding the bigger picture.  It can be useful for homework: “faking it” (doing all of the calculations without the understanding the theory behind it) enough times actually did help students eventually understand the concepts behind what they were doing.

So clearly, the blind guiding principle of “faking it till making it” is not always bad.  There is a lot of good that may come from it.  In the case of homework, it helped students develop their skills to grasp deeper concepts.  In the case of getting a career, it gets you to your career.  And in the case of the relationship, it helps you keep it.  But! the problem in the latter 2 cases was that the end point was reached, but happiness wasn’t guaranteed.  If you made it to the end and wound up not being happy, then you’d have to either start anew or remain unhappy.  It’s in times like this (where I’ve reached a goal and realized that it wasn’t what I wanted) that I regretted ever aiming for it.  I begin to regret having done all of the things (making all of the sacrifices) that got me to that end.  I begin to ask myself if I’m happy that I even did these things and question if the memories of these things make the goal worthwhile in spite of the fact that the end-point turned out to mean nothing to me.  Or would I have been happier if I had not even tried?  …if I had been skeptical of what I was told I was supposed to do, questioned what I was doing BEFORE I reached the end… what if?

There were also many times when I did hesitate.  I didn’t do what I was told; I didn’t act on blind faith.  I didn’t trust the advice of whoever it was that was “guiding me”.  And in retrospect I saw that if I had just shut up and done what I was told, I would have been able to reap the rewards of my obedience.  I would have come to see the wisdom in their advice. … And then there were other times when my insolence was vindicated.

So when I said “but not even he made it.  I don’t think some things ever become clearer.“, I was saying… =D

[Note: the above two examples were provided for illustrative purposes only.   Any number of examples could have been used.]

I went to a Catholic High School that had a dress code, and uniforms.  A lot of the time, I wasn’t even in class, and so I rarely wore that uniform.  My high involvement in extra-curricular activities put me outside of the classroom for a good percentage of the time, and the general awareness of my activities by the faculty meant that I was rarely bothered about not being in uniform.  It was generally assumed that I had a good reason, or so I imagine this was the case.  I was nearly never questioned about it, but then I didn’t, after all, take advantage of this trust.

Anyway, in the eleventh grade, the same unpopular peer of mine that I referred to in Reasons often complained to me about how he should have been granted special privileges, such as not wearing the complete uniform all the time, or being late, or generally being an insolent teenager.  His argument was that he had earned it: all of his hard work in the extra-curriculars (we had rallied to bring one that had been canceled back into existence), and his high grades from class warranted his exemption from the rules.  (I can’t help but wonder if there’s any way of bypassing this juvenile attitude, or if we’re all condemned to adopt it until we grow out of it.)

It’s hard to know what will garner thanks and praise, and even what sort of appreciation is appropriate.  One thing that is for certain is that it cannot be the goal.  Recognition is just a bonus.

At work, I try to provide good customer service, meet my goals, complete my tasks on a daily basis, but it is always a pleasant surprise when a colleague gives me something to show appreciation.  My co-worker gave me a gift the other day – a bottle of red wine.  A gift was the last thing I expected.  After the last couple weeks I’ve had, it made me really happy to know that at least one person genuinely appreciated my effort and cared enough to show me.

In thinking more about people who disappear from our lives and leave us hanging, I recalled a conversation that I had had back in twelfth grade with an unpopular peer of mine.  He was complaining about how others had left him hanging for what he deemed “no good reason”.  He hypothesized that it was because they preferred to “be cool”, and went on to say that this was why they partook in substance abuse, or didn’t do their homework.  His conclusion was that he should feel vindicated in their lack of success due to substance abuse, but didn’t because they discarded their friendship in favour of “being cool”.  There were just too many things wrong with his reasoning, but I decided to stick with only one when I replied with “Is it just so inconceivable to you that perhaps they had other reasons, ones that you don’t understand?”  There are so just many roads to becoming an addict of the self-destructive sort.  How dare he be so selfish as to think that he was one.

The truth is we can be so inclined sometimes to be selfish and think that we are the cause of someone’s behaviour, neglecting the existence of the real possibility that often has a non-zero probability that it has nothing to do with us.  We sometimes just don’t know the whole story, and with our limited resources, we can make a selfish guess.  The irony is that we demean ourselves when we do this.  We have to remember: we are not at the centre of the universe.

In my previous workplace, people tended to stress their youth.  All day, I’d hear about how well they were doing for someone their age.  Perhaps not explicitly, but it was implied!  Here they stress their seniority.  In every other (ok, perhaps less) email or conversation, someone alludes with pretentiousness to the length of their work history.  (Aside: I know and you [hopefully] know that there is just so much that is wrong with making sweeping generalizations, but I’m still going to make them and refer to them because a prevalent theme is still a prevalent theme, regardless of whether or not any measure of said prevalence exists.)  There is also a larger female to male ratio in my previous department than in my current one.  (This is easily measurable and proven.)  And while there is undoubtedly a whole host of things that differentiate that department and this one, I’ll stop at these two.

With regard to gender ratios, I never used to think that this was something that would ever matter to me.  However, in consideration of such nonsense as sexual harassment, crazy co-workers who cross sacred lines, or the concern that my generally pleasant demeanor may be (as it has been) misconstrued and used against me, why can’t I believe that the staff gender ratio is a major contributing factor to my potential happiness in a workplace?  Admittedly, I speculate (probably correctly) that it is so much more than just the high staff female to male ratio at Executive Programs that made it such a wonderful place for me (and the rest of the staff) to go to every day.  But there is so much to be accounted to it that I’d be a fool to overlook it.  I viewed the senior leaders, who are all women, as mentors and aspired to be like them.  In my most recent role, I had the great fortune of being able to work directly under their guidance.  The entire staff (senior leaders included, of course) is composed of beautiful, intelligent, accomplished, hard-working, women who acknowledged with pride their roles as mothers, wives, daughters, sisters, etc…  I think that being the former home to The Judy Project had a big impact on the attitudes found there.  But that only accounts for their success and pride as women, and not of the non-existence of ageism that is also found there.  I was never made to feel inexperienced, young, or too girly.  I knew that my opinion was valued, and felt capable of effecting positive change.  All of our opinions were valued.  Everyone had and shared their opinions.  There are some who would say that this was a negative thing, making for unproductive staff meetings where we each gave our two cents, but I would say that they loved it in spite of the long meetings.  They are and always will be dear friends to me.

In spite of how wonderful the social atmosphere was there, it had its downside.  The experience filled my head with crazy ideas such as a sense of pride, and notions of self-worth.  They led me to believe that I’d be able to either find or recreate the atmosphere anywhere.  In consideration of my prior work history, I should have known better.  At least I can say that I never took it for granted – neither then nor now.  It was both an honour and a pleasure.

I remember being in high school and taking the TTC there and back every day.  Well, most days.  In the warmer months, I liked to walk the 4.5 kilometers home.  In winters I would hitch a ride from friends.  In both cases, the purpose was to save the money allocated to bus far and use it for more fun and social things, like going to Eaton Centre after school, or on the weekend.  In the months where I calculated that a Metropass would not be to my benefit, I would purchase tickets/tokens, and sometimes I would use cash.  I still have a distinct memory from high school of having left my bus fare in a neat stack on my desk, walking away to do something, and returning to hear my peers joking:

One person: “Whose pile of coins is that?”

Another: “Who else’?  Do you know anyone else in this class who suffers from OCD?”

They would have continued in this fashion, but I jumped in to point out that one neither has nor hasn’t OCD, and that there’s a scale – a degree to which one suffers.  Then we all laughed heartily until the joke got boring or another topic started, I presume.  I can’t say for certain now what really happened next, or even if I`ve misquoted my high school peers.  But this scenario makes sense and the options for the ending put forth are suitable and likely candidates so I’ll contentedly move on.

All I really wanted to get at was that I never really concerned myself with what others thought of me.  It was always too troublesome to point out their folly.  On occasion I would, but then it was out of boredom.  I had the time to explain myself fully.  There were, of course, some persons whose opinions mattered to me.  There were many reasons why this was the case, the most important one of which being that I respected them.  But for all others, even when I disagreed completely with their opinions of me, I couldn`t be bothered to correct them.  I can barely even bring myself to exhaustively explain now while typing to myself on this blog.  I just that feel these things should be obvious.  You should know that I can`t be concerned about what you think if I don’t respect you.  (And that if I don’t ask for your opinion, well, … )  You should know that I’m not going to invest time in explaining myself to you if your opinion of me matters little to me.  You should know that I feel that my efforts would be fruitless because I don’t expect you to understand, anyway. The subsequent frustration is worth avoiding, and the disappointment from having my time wasted, unnecessary.  So I don’t bother.  Only out of boredom would I bother [to explain something so obvious to someone who can't understand it].  It pains me greatly to even type this out.  (I feel I should point out that in theory, then, it should be difficult to differentiate between when I’m bored, and if I am showing respect to you.  This is a burden that I have to bear.)

So, am I who you think I am?  I’m not going to answer that.

It should always be seen as tragic when good advice falls on deaf ears.   But it happens so often that we expect it to.  We expect to have no influence on others.  We expect others to not heed our advice.  We expect the least from each other, and it brings out the least in us.

Maybe it’s the optimist in me, but I still always give my two cents.  Or maybe it’s my self-righteous desire to be in a position to say “I told you so”.  Maybe both – it can be hard to tell.  Irrespective of the reason, it’s a fruitful practice.   You can never regret thinking up your opinion then sharing it.  It’s the most honest and generous thing one can do.  I potentially effect positive change.  It’s valuable at/for every level and type of relationship: friend, boyfriend, work.  We only do a disservice to the people around us when we deprive them of useful feedback.  That’s what it is – useful feedback.

As of late, I’ve been bluntly honest with a lot of people around me.  This is partly because it’s really difficult to tolerate nonsense when you have no spare time, but I’ll admit that so much of it is because I get a sadistic pleasure out of being brutally honest to the point of being downright cruel.  Well, this plus all of the reasons mentioned above.  Maybe I’m not a “nice” person, but at least there’s some service I do for the recipient of my power trips. *Maybe*

I used to pull all-nighters.  Perhaps not all the time, but I did them.  I could do them.  Now it’s just too painful.  When I’m tired, I couldn’t keep myself awake even if my life depended on it.  Well, I know from experience that an energy drink would fix that, but the subsequent physical discomfort from being fatigued and wired isn’t worth the restoration of my temporary alertness.  Why be awake if I won’t be ‘all there’, anyway?

I no longer even compromise a minute of my sleep.  I don’t like to.  I don’t stay up late.  I try to and usually do fall asleep roughly 7.5 – 8 hours before I need to awake.  I don’t drink coffee after a certain time in the day.  I don’t drink more coffee, or caffeinated beverages than I know I can handle.  I exercise.  I usually put on some relaxing instrumental music when I get into bed just before I go to sleep.  At present, I’m quite partial to the more serene pieces on the Gladiator soundtrack.  I don’t watch television so that I won’t get stuck to it.  I don’t surf the net for the same reason plus there’s the fact that the fan in my laptop makes just enough noise to ruin a good night’s sleep.  I also try not to read before sleeping.  I usually get my minimum of one hour per day of reading done earlier on when I’m more alert, but mostly I do this because I’ll dream of what I was reading about, and likely grind my teeth in the process.  (Ah, sweet dreams of the influence of Newton and Goethe on Nineteenth century physics… Just what I want to dream about!) I don’t turn off my phone, but I do put it on a different profile to ensure that I’m not awakened by any emails.  I keep alarm, phone, and SMS functions working just in case I need to be contacted for any emergency.  I don’t have a land line, and you never know what could happen.

As I’ve said, I wasn’t always like this.  I used to do whatever it took to finish … anything.  I remember doing this for school, and especially work.  I know that it wasn’t good for my health, or my success, but I used to think that it was.  I would kill myself for schoolwork just to have the perfect [insert school assignment here].  And I used to stay up all night for work, come in to the office after staying up all night, work like an animal, and feel it was somehow “impressive” that I could ignore all of the signs of fatigue that I was showing just so I could say to my co-workers with absolute certainty “You don’t work as much or as hard as I do.” (On this, I think I had, and to this day still do, put too much stock in leading by example.)

But what was the point?  I fabricated a measure of “success” that I could meet, then met it.  It feels foolish now.  I wanted to work harder, and party harder than everyone.  It was exhausting.  I couldn’t handle it.  I spent four straight months in the summer of 2005 sick, even after taking antibiotics for the cold.  I look at pictures, and I can see that I was killing myself.  It makes me uncomfortable to look at them.  For the most part, I’ve just gotten rid of any pictures of myself from that time.

I didn’t instantly improve, but I have improved substantially and continue to.  With every passing year, and every better habit I adopt, I increasingly and unfailingly find:

If you interrupt my sleep, I will hate you.