"I was on my bike, waiting to cross an intersection, worrying about things, and doubting myself. Then a random girl turned to where I was at and smiled. On her shirt were the words: "Things will turn out fine." - myself, on 21 April 2012
As I read it again today, one word popped into my head: "Really?"
It comes appropriately, I would say, as I am due to graduate tomorrow morning from my Master of Laws (LLM) program. And I do not know exactly where that would take me, if it'd take me anywhere at all.
Next month, in October, I might possibly finish another graduate program, which I had taken up simultaneously with my (LLM), given that no problems would go with my research on the European Union. And then, what?
Perhaps, like what most people had been telling me as I was worrying about my LLM thesis, I worry too much and needlessly. I was a shoo-in for graduation, they had said. I might even deliver one of the best theses and defense. I didn't have that much faith in my abilities, though. I always thought my work was insignificant and substandard. Even while on my 18-day long vacation, which has left me broke and broken, I constantly worried and nitpicked on every single error I could remember - glue stains, grammatical lapses, stylistic issues, and the likes. D-day came and I was the last to present. After hearing panelists throw insults and harsh criticisms over footnotes, stylistics, content, skewed arguments at my colleagues all day, I walked up the podium with dread all over my system. But as I took each step, bits and pieces of hesitation and fear fell away. When I began my presentation, I felt nothing. I thought of nothing. Everything became mechanical. I was an unthinking, unfeeling robot, programmed to deliver and finish the presentation I had prepared just the day before.
They asked me legal, absurd, hypothetical, and practical questions. Still numb, I answered without thinking too much. I was spared of the bloodbath. Like all my friends and "supporters" had told me before, I did fine and quite well, if I can say so myself. 'See,' they said, 'we told you there was nothing to worry about.' I merely nodded because there was nothing more I could say.
Hours later, I found other things to worry about - a much larger thing, actually: the future. I voiced these worries out. I got the same response, which echoes the girl's shirt back in April: Everything will turn out fine. And other assurances that go along those lines.
As these friends' and supporters' assurances and words had always turned out to be right, it would make a lot of sense for me to finally believe them now. However, the fear of hoping comes back. I am afraid to hope. I am afraid to be positive as the fall might break me into pieces. I am afraid to think that yes, everything will surely turn out fine, as I feel that I would be deluding myself all too much. And then later on, what then?
Don't get me wrong. I do want everything to turn out fine. But I also do not want to feel the sting, at the very least, of disappointment. Once I do fail and fall, I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to hope anymore.
As I read it again today, one word popped into my head: "Really?"
It comes appropriately, I would say, as I am due to graduate tomorrow morning from my Master of Laws (LLM) program. And I do not know exactly where that would take me, if it'd take me anywhere at all.
Next month, in October, I might possibly finish another graduate program, which I had taken up simultaneously with my (LLM), given that no problems would go with my research on the European Union. And then, what?
Perhaps, like what most people had been telling me as I was worrying about my LLM thesis, I worry too much and needlessly. I was a shoo-in for graduation, they had said. I might even deliver one of the best theses and defense. I didn't have that much faith in my abilities, though. I always thought my work was insignificant and substandard. Even while on my 18-day long vacation, which has left me broke and broken, I constantly worried and nitpicked on every single error I could remember - glue stains, grammatical lapses, stylistic issues, and the likes. D-day came and I was the last to present. After hearing panelists throw insults and harsh criticisms over footnotes, stylistics, content, skewed arguments at my colleagues all day, I walked up the podium with dread all over my system. But as I took each step, bits and pieces of hesitation and fear fell away. When I began my presentation, I felt nothing. I thought of nothing. Everything became mechanical. I was an unthinking, unfeeling robot, programmed to deliver and finish the presentation I had prepared just the day before.
They asked me legal, absurd, hypothetical, and practical questions. Still numb, I answered without thinking too much. I was spared of the bloodbath. Like all my friends and "supporters" had told me before, I did fine and quite well, if I can say so myself. 'See,' they said, 'we told you there was nothing to worry about.' I merely nodded because there was nothing more I could say.
Hours later, I found other things to worry about - a much larger thing, actually: the future. I voiced these worries out. I got the same response, which echoes the girl's shirt back in April: Everything will turn out fine. And other assurances that go along those lines.
As these friends' and supporters' assurances and words had always turned out to be right, it would make a lot of sense for me to finally believe them now. However, the fear of hoping comes back. I am afraid to hope. I am afraid to be positive as the fall might break me into pieces. I am afraid to think that yes, everything will surely turn out fine, as I feel that I would be deluding myself all too much. And then later on, what then?
Don't get me wrong. I do want everything to turn out fine. But I also do not want to feel the sting, at the very least, of disappointment. Once I do fail and fall, I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to hope anymore.
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1 comment:
My dear, we never lose hope. It is something as crucial and as imperative as breathing.
There are always moments of despair, fear and frustration.
But we have to push ourselves onward. When all else fails, all we have is hope. It will prove itself to us even when we least expect it.
It will bring us to that "someday" we have constantly dreamed about.
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