fuckatherine

This summer seems to a revival of the old giants: dolls, war crimes, the tyrants of 2015 Youtube. I generally despise the sequel and, even worse, the remake because sometimes simply no one asked! It is nice however to be able to conceptualize a generation's feelings, albeit broadly, regarding our childhoods. 

I enjoyed Barbie much more than I had expected. I got some good laughs in (the Lou Reed line lol) and basked in the flow of the movie which is truly all I think is necessary for a good viewing experience. Leaving the theater I recognized that whatever qualms I had about the movie and Greta Gerwig as a person and a director came down to the fact that I would simply never find what I was looking for in her films.

Think Francis Ha, think Little Women... Greta Gerwig makes movies about girlness through the lens of the white woman which are two aspects that I will never engage with fully separately nor together. And I cannot change that about her or her movies. It's unreasonable for me to expect she to give me what I want. That's fine! 

It's like the complaint that Troye Sivan's Rush MV is too white and too skinny. Troye Sivan... is a skinny... white... gay...man...who hangs out with...skinny white gay men! Obviously we all have a duty to be conscious and considerate of who we surround ourselves with but it simply does not surprise me that this is his friend group. And should I be expecting more than that? Not really. 

Side bar I was thoroughly shocked to realize that not everyone went through the Blue Neighborhood trilogy with rapt attention as a tween and casually followed Connor Franta's life for the ensuing five years afterwards. I WAS THERE WHEN THE WAR STARTED! Nowadays these are just words -- Zoella, Troyler, MagCon -- but back then....

I really eeked out this entry word by word... writing and reading has been so arduous lately as seen in my failure to write anything since the early month but I'm hoping to really start working on the books I checked out. I'm thinking An Inventory of Losses first, then, salt slow, then perhaps finishing Klara? Iza's Ballad intimidates me. It looks dense in an unpleasant and a Penguin Classics way. I don't even know if I'll end up reading the last one because honestly TikTok book recommendations cannot be trusted at times. Hopefully by the time I leave for Chicago I'll have read enough to post a summer book review!

For most of my life I've always assumed that regardless what kind of injury I sustain, my body will pull through. There's never really been a time where I felt genuinely concerned about the longevity or severity of an injury, most because up until college, I could pinpoint exactly where the hurt was coming from. Pain becomes much easier to recognize, validate, and dismiss when it is self inflicted. I mean this in a very general sense: when I played vaguely competitive tennis in high school I knew that my elbow soreness and shoulder issues came from my forehand. Occupational hazard. Thus, if I stopped play tennis these pains would go away. If I cause the pain, I know it, and I know how to end it. 

I guess young people tend to be more foolhardy because we're at that age where, barring any preexisting conditions, our bodies do in fact recover almost unnaturally fast. This trap is old and I still fell for it. It led to this kind of body-as-vessel mindset: I never stretched, always pushed limits, reveled in soreness and bruises and scrapes. Pain marked effort and we all reward effort. 

I've never respected my body the way I should. Our relationship can be described as one of presumed labor and mending. 

My first serious injury happened spring of freshman year at the climbing gym. I remember feeling exhausted but wanting to try this climb just one more time. I remember knowing that there was a jump to a sloping hold and I remember knowing I had neither the technique nor the strength to even make the jump. But I tried anyways. 

As I fell my ankle caught on a large hold towards the bottom of the wall and snapped upwards. Long story short, it took me more than a month to walk properly without a brace. It's been a year and this ankle still has decreased mobility and is prone to arbitrary weakness. That was actually one of the better injuries, I think, because I knew exactly what happened and the solution was pretty obvious. What scares me is when the cause is unclear. The room for speculation means that I could have done something irreversible. 

Spring of sophomore year I had been pole dancing for maybe a month or so when my right wrist started hurting. Then it was my left. I couldn't rotate them without sharp stabbing pain and often had difficulty putting weight in my hands. This time period really scared me. But it passed because the pain passed. 

In retrospect, these two injuries are incredibly similar thematically: I exercise without preparation and overexert myself when I know that I shouldn't. Then I suffer the consequences. 

So I am not all that surprised about the current injury that I'm nursing. It's been a week and a half since my finger hurt started hurting. The fingers on my right hand remain stiff, the worst still being middle knuckle on my right index. The left hand as mostly returned to normal. I climbed a little yesterday to test the waters and pretty much left immediately. I stretch religiously. I avoid stressing my hands. I feel stupid.

I don't know why I thought I would be able to jump from climbing once a week to climbing nearly everyday. And climbing the same type of climb every time too! 

Sometimes I wonder why I don't just go to the doctor when these things occur, just to give peace of mind and perhaps medical treatment. Of course I would consult a PT or physician if things escalated. But I don't even really know what escalation would mean. I think part of it definitely has to do with my parents. My mother is staunch supporter of Chinese traditional medicine and my father strongly prefers to not use medicine if not needed. He says it puts unnecessary chemicals into the body. In my family, the doctor is a last resort. Your own willpower comes first. 

On the other hand, my sister used to have really bad contamination OCD and hyperfixated on disease. I wouldn't say he was a hypochondriac, but the combination of that with my tendency to Google things to death makes me incredibly paranoid whenever I feel off. 

I think my parents and my sisters have influenced me to be overly nervous yet unwilling to seek help when injured. Bad blend. Really bad. But it explains a lot, maybe. 

I care a lot about my hands. As an artist and ceramics major, my hands are tied directly to my career and livelihood. As a child I used to dream about losing my right hand in a freak accident. It horrified me so much that I used to practice drawing with my left hand in preparation for disaster. 

I got the message. I'll be nice now. In some ways I'm grateful for this break because I've recognized that my attitude towards my body needs to change. I am incredibly lucky that my hands are healing, that I do get another chance. I want to climb with all my might and not worry about pulling a muscle or popping a joint or causing a degenerative disease down the line. I'll put in the work, I promise. And it only took me three injuries to realize. 

Third time's the charm?

I don't think I'm very good at just letting things be.


But then again, you only know what you're taught. My world never lets anything be. I learned earlier how unobstructed rivers will continue bending until their middles intersect, pushing water down this new pathway while severing a C-shaped section of its former track. This seems appropriate to describing my complaint in which the further I seem to be from any mildly me-altering event I inevitably and dramatically find myself back in its throes again. 

I think this is fun sometimes. Keeps things intriguing. Mostly, though, I imagine this:


Sorrows, prayers, sorrows. I haven't seen the show (Catherine the Great?) but given the almost-namesake I'm going to keep the quote. 

Honestly though I think I just complain to complain. It would be a lie to suggest that I don't receive these ... visitations of the past ... without gleeful incredulity. I feel like letting something be implies letting it stagnate. I hate that. The best and most truthful understanding of these encounters is through the lens of opportunity. Every rendezvous is a chance to be better than I last was. Usually, when there's enough change from both sides, I am blessed with a resolution. 

Sometimes, however, there isn't. In that case I simply use the blade of free will, gifted to all but only wielded by some, and sever the tie. I might not ask for the situation but if needed, I can still get the fuck out!