"Trying Is The First Step Towards Failure" (And Why I Will Always Love This Quote)

Me when I'm pretending to know what I'm doing. 

As I gradually wade my way out of the kiddie pool that was my pre-university life and get ready to plunge off the high diving board into adulthood, I've been having a surprisingly amount of revelations. While I do pride myself on being more insightful than most (and more egotistical. Seriously, have you counted the amount of times I praise myself throughout these blogs? I'm a piece of shit, guys, but you knew that already), the sheer amount of little but revealing thoughts that have bounced through my brain as I've transitioned from snotty teenage brat that doesn't do anything to handsome, cool adult that knows how to do their own laundry is astounding. Every day makes me feel like I've learnt yet another valuable lesson, and it has nothing to do with my uni attendance (tip: it's non-existent if I'm hungover).

The most recent lesson I've experienced has a lot to do with my observance of the human race. Have you ever tried sitting down and really, truly focusing on the billions of people that pass you by? You notice some lodd things, like mothers keeping their children on leashes, beautiful men with ugly wives and people who still think tribal tattoos are cool (they are not). What's more odd is how we let our perceived judgment by other people rules our entire lives. Take, for example, other university students. Growing up as a little, buck-toothed social outcast, I always saw university as this huge wonderland where I could fa ally find like-minded people and ascend to the level of greatness I was always destined for. I would finally get to learn things I actually found interesting. I wouldn't have to associate with anyone I wouldn't want to. I'd happily find some groups to belong to (okay, just as a side note, I've started visibly wincing every single time I have to utter that godforsaken world. This is what HSC Advanced English does to a person. It destroys the ability to use the term "belonging" without experiencing post traumatic stress). However, this is what I've learned from a grand total of eight weeks at university:

Everyone is just as bitchy. You will feel like just as much of an outcast. It's the same parade of bullshit as high school, except with the added bonus of all the assholes being a lot more intelligent.

I feel your pain, Fozzie.

Take, for example, the UQ confession page. You would think that university students, who have spent a lot of time and money on furthering their education, would be above incessant playground gossip and cat-calling.  However, apparently this assumption is unreasonable and most UQ students are the emotional equivalent of a five year old sticking their fingers in their ears and yelling "NYAH NYAH NYAH". Honestly, while there are a few gems here and there, the contents mainly consist of:
a) copy pastas.
b) failed attempts at green text.
c) engineering students bragging about how much better they are than other degrees, especially Bachelor of Arts.
d) art students complaining about the engineering students.
e) engineering students getting hurt feelings because they're being stereotyped as socially-inept jerks (I wonder why).
f) Rampant objectifying other students as sex objects (but hey, with some of the eye candy around this uni, it's hard not to).
g) The done-to-death mocking and defending of the whole gender studies debacle, which honestly, should have been well and truly over and done with a few weeks ago.

MFW I read anything on UQ Confessions other than a Loch Ness Monster joke.

I was tempted to unsubscribe from the page, as I don't really need that sort of negativity in my life, but it's like watching a train crash in slow motion. You just can't look away. And because it's a university Confessions page, it is so much more intriguing than teenage pages like old, faithful Murbah Goss (with gems like "so and so got their munt licked out by a Labrador", how could one justify not reading it?). But the point is, from this page alone, it is painfully obvious that all the bullshit from high school never really fades away. People still assume their subjects are better than anyone else's. People still get overly self righteous about thinking their subject is better than anyone else's. Everyone's still obsessed with working out, having sex and the quality of faculty toilets. And all this is coupled with the crushing realization that you are no better than anyone else. You may used to think you were some sort of special snowflake, but you are actually as painfully average as everyone else wandering around campus. There will always be someone smarter. Someone thinner. Someone who will repeatedly beat you at Mario Kart. Someone more determined. It's just a fact of life.

And of course, when you try to prove you're good at something to someone, you fuck up.

And this, dear reader, is what brings me back to the quote on the title of this blog. "Trying is the first step towards failure". The single wisest thing I've ever heard Homer Simpson say, and for an idiot, he says a lot of pretty intelligent things. The fact of the matter is, in order to give something your best shot, you have to be prepared  to face a lot of setbacks. For example, going to university- very few people are brilliant at it straight away. I know so many intelligent people who went to university and only got passes their first year, including my own father, who now has a Phd. To be successful, you have to be willing to try different methods, accept that some of them will fail you and find what works. I have never classed myself at successful at anything other than failing. I succeed at failing because instead of giving up when I fail, I know I can try something else. There is no be-all and end-all unless I allow myself to think that way. The world is full of possibility, and most of it walks hand in hand with favor.

So, in short, whatever you do in life, you are courting failure. There will always be someone that is better than you. It's one of those things that just is, and never changes. However, this is not an excuse to put your life aside. While this should make everything seem that more pointless, the fact of the matter is, you make your own point. You decide what the meaning of your own life is by trying things out. And if you try and fail, so what? You at least gave it a go. Only you know what you can and can't do. There's honestly no shame in failure as long as you don't let it defeat you. Fuck failing and fuck listening to all the negativity from the people around you. They live their lives, you live yours and you're the only one that will be dealing with the consequences.

And fuck you, UQConfessions.

On Being Socially Awkward (Most Of The Time)

If only I could do this with style and grace instead of arm flapping and awkwardness. 

I have never been able to figure out whether basic social competency is supposed to come naturally. Honestly, sometimes it seems like everyone else in the world but a few of my associates and I spend hours each day on a tough regime that teaches you exactly how to interact with the people around you WITHOUT being painfully awkward and off-putting. It seems to be something like exercise or studying- it takes what seems to be a bloody lifetime to actually show any results, and even then, all the evidence of my efforts disappear the moment I become lazy. Seeing as everyone other than myself seems to be a natural socialite, this hardly seems fair. However, if there's one message I'd like to impart in all my ramblings, it's that nothing in life is ever really fair.

Having said all that, I think I'm getting a touch better. When I enter a room, I don't immediately dive for the corner any more. I can semi-comfortably chat with the people who I sit near in lectures and tutorials (even though we never end up speaking ever again). I can pick up when I go to a bar, but I can't ever get the guys to talk to me again (and honestly, that's not one I can figure out. Trust me, I love meaningless dalliances fueled by alcohol as much as the next single sozzled first year, but it'd be nice to have a little acknowledgement now and again. Nothing huge, just maybe a "hey, we made out once, let's chat occasionally and never mention it" rather than an "oh my God, I'm so ashamed, please never make eye contact with me ever again."). I probably have more friends than I ever had at any other time of my life, excluding when I was an infant and Mum made all my friends for me, and yet I still feel like I'm lagging behind. While the rest of the herd is galloping ahead with their beer bongs, Sunday sessions and coffee dates, I'm the gazelle with the bung leg, limping along. And everyone knows, if there's one thing you don't want coming with you on a coffee date, it's a gazelle with a busted leg. For one thing, it attracts lions. Anyway, as usual, I'm digressing. Basically, the fact of the matter is, while university is this huge, great mess of social activities and opportunities... I still only have the social skills of a fourteen year old caught masturbating. Okay, I'll give myself a little more credit than that. Maybe a fifteen year old caught masturbating.

Pretend this is a metaphor. I am the duck and the shark cat riding on a roomba is every uni organised social activity ever. 

I think the issue is less the introductory phase and more figuring out how the hell to keep these things going. If there's a formula that causes people to keep on talking to you, I'd love to know it, because the embarrassing is, I can't usually get past that first conversation. Or if I do, whatever energy that goes into maintaining this new social contact quickly flickers and dies. I'll admit, sometimes there's reluctance on my part. I do have this horrible habit of getting rather high and mighty if there's a percieved imbalance in efforts when it comes to making friends. In fact, usually this is how my brain operates:

PHOEBE:  Pfft. All this making friends bullshit is easy. Just start asking people for their names and facebook them if you really think you'll continue to get on well. It's not weird. People add people they don't know all the time. At least you've actually had a conversation with them.

PHOEBE'S BRAIN: But why do you have to be the one to do it? You always end up making the first move! Why can't they want to keep in contact with you for a change? Would it kill them to say hi?

PHOEBE: To be fair, I don't say hi either.

PHOEBE'S BRAIN: BUT WE ARE SHY. You know that!

PHOEBE: Maybe they're shy too! I doubt I'm the only socially awkward person in the world.

PHOEBE'S BRAIN: You know what helps with social awkwardness? Drinking a lot of alcohol.

PHOEBE: *glug glug glug*

Coincidentally, I may mention that drunk Phoebe is markedly better at socialising than sober Phoebe. Fantastic stuff, alcohol. However, I don't know if this applies only when I am drunk (I do feel a lot more sophisticated and charming after a bottle of wine) or when I am drunk and around other people who are similarly intoxicated. The only proof I have regarding these outlandish statements is that I've always ended up making substantially more friends at house parties than in any other circumstance. However, perhaps this is just a universal phenomenon I'm blowing out of proportion for my own needs.

I have been doing a bit of observance to see if I can better my limited social skills and become the stunning, charismatic sex goddess I've always had the potential to be (okay, you can stop laughing now. It's been fifteen minutes. That's just cruel). So far, from what I've observed, I've made the following assumption:

People just walk up to each other, start a conversation and go on their merry way. Rinse and repeat.

What I've concluded from this is that I am woefully inept at being a human. Just walk up to someone? Start a conversation? Surely it can't be that easy, or everyone would be doing it! Wait, what's that? Everyone is doing that? And they've been doing it since humans first developed the ability to speak? Well, then. Clearly the problem is all down to me. When the doctor pulled me out of my mother using a glorified suction cup, they clearly also sucked away the part of my brain responsible for being able to relate normally to other people. Also the part responsible for basic coordination skills. And whatever other people have that allows them to be organised. Okay, so there's a lot wrong with my brain, I know, I know.

But this is one mystery in particular that I'd like to crack.

The reason behind this desire is complex. Obviously, I do like to act as if I don't give two shits about other people most of the time, not in the sense that I'm cruel, but rather that I'm not overly swayed by their opinions. However, like most of my outward behavior, this is something that I cleverly fake. Of course I care about what other people think! It's human nature! It's a complex, evolutionary design there to stop us from committing social suicide! The only reason why I (and the majority of others) try so hard is because we don't want the rest of the world looking down on us. If we truly didn't care, we wouldn't bother getting out of bed and spend our lives reeking of shit and piss because we're too busy watching youtube videos to clean ourselves up. Like it or not, we are affected by the opinions of others. We crave their praise. We flinch at their disapproval. And most of all, we want everybody to be our friends, because there's nothing worse than feeling like no one knows you exist.

The simple fact of the matter is, I know in order to for my life to get better, I am going to have to improve my interactions with other people. You never really know who will be useful to you in life, and even with that selfish motive set completely aside, it just feels nice to know you have a fair few people out there who like you. It's a bit of a confidence boost to know that you can meet people a few times and they're interested in keeping you around. However, this does not mean you get to sit on your arse and wait for the entire world to come to you. If you want friends, you have to be willing to make them. This means saying hello first. It means having the guts to try to talk to someone, even when you're not really sure if they want to talk to you. It means realising that however hard you try, you're still not always going to be successful and that's fine. At least it wasn't because you did nothing. Funnily enough, this doesn't just apply to social interactions- it can be applied to anything in life.

I may not be as charming as I think I am. Truthfully, most of the time, I don't know what the hell is going on with most things, including my own social life. I also can't dance to save my life. But as inept as I am, there's still a chance I'm going to get better with age. And if not, well... actually, fuck that. Things can only improve. Except for my dancing. Pretty sure that's never going to get better, but hey, it's part of my charm.

I can only dream of one day being this fly. 

Some Words to Tell You I Miss You (A Tribute to My Grandmother Lydia)

One ability I have always held in high regard is the ability to tell a good story. Few people know the magical combination that gives a story meaning; a rich tapestry of experience, genuine emotion and a way with words that is both poignant and uplifting. Storytellers are not born, but made; carved by years of trials and instances that leave a lasting imprint on their lives. My Grandmother was a woman with a life that lent itself well to telling stories. When I visited her for the last time in November, I remember she sat in her armchair in her pink dressing gown; small, but with such an undeniably commanding presence that it felt only natural to sit at her feet and wait for her to speak. Her voice was calm as she told me story after story; about her life, and the pain she had suffered, and the people she had lost. Not a trace of sadness was in her voice; she simply told me what had happened, accepting that life can often be painful and that in order to love others, we must be prepared to lose them. Grandma Lydia is one of the first people in my life who I have loved and lost; and while knowing that she is gone leaves an ache in my heart, having the opportunity to love her was well worth the pain of loss.

I first met my Grandmother when I was less than a month old. My mother, Julia, brought me to Oldham to meet her and Grandmother Lydia later repaid the favor by visiting us in London. There is one photo of our meeting. I am tiny and swaddled in a blanket, and my Grandmother holds me like a woman well-practiced at holding newborn children; four of her own, and countless others who called her their grandmother, great grandmother and even their great-great grandmother. It is oddly wonderful that this woman, who lost her own family at such a young age, became connected to the lives of so many. This was not without hardship. My Grandmother frequently reminded me that she started out with absolutely nothing. Born into poverty, she was forced to leave her family and flee to a foreign country; utterly alone in a place where no one spoke her language. She spoke often of how many of her brothers and sisters perished in her childhood; a particularly heart-breaking example being her little sister, who sat up early one morning, cried for her mother and then quietly passed away. They wrapped her in a shroud; made from some material Grandmother Lydia had been saving to make a new dress. She had begged for the material from one of her relatives and never got to do anything with it, as the material went with her little sister into her grave.

There are so many more stories Grandmother Lydia had, each one of which were capable of breaking your heart in two, but this one in particular stuck out to me. This one gave a glimpse into my grandmother’s life as a young girl; a girl who wanted so little, and throughout her life would never have much. However, this never made her bitter. My Grandmother took each hurdle in her life with a grace and serenity rarely seen in our impatient human race. What she experienced would be enough to send an ordinary person reeling; but instead, she internalized any pain she felt and kept on going. Through countless periods of grief, hurt and difficulty, she worked three jobs to feed her family; using every last reserve of her energy to keep them fed and clothed. She sacrificed her time and energy to make others happy, and in her old age, was finally given an opportunity to be looked after by the ones who loved her so dearly. This may have been the only time in my grandmother’s life where she was given a chance to rest. For a woman who gave up so much to give to other people, it is only fitting that we all gave her something back; a loving family, who she treasured above all else.

If you ever needed proof of how much Grandma Lydia loved us all, you would only need to go to her home and look at the many pictures on her walls. In her living room there are countless smiling, familiar faces; the faces of the people who were dear to her, right until the very end. Whenever I visited, we would go through more photos together; kept in old boxes on top of her wardrobe. Pictures of my mother’s first wedding, of my Auntie Linda and Uncle Tony in their early twenties, of Alan in his Boy George phase and countless photos of her grandchildren, sent to her by their loving parents. That she still went through those photos after having them for so many years says a lot about how important we were to her; as does the way she always told me to take care of my mother and father, or how she ended every phone call with “God bless”. For Lydia, nothing was more important than her family, and it is only right that now she is gone, we have come together to celebrate her life.

Grandmother Lydia was a woman of great strength; and without that strength, so many of us would not be here. There were many times in her life where she faced horrors that are too great to be imagined; but she survived against all odds and made a new life for herself. My Grandmother began her life surrounded by death, but rose above the pain and desperation, waging her own private war with the world beginning at the tender age of ten. It is only fitting that she passed away surrounded by life, leaving peacefully in the midst of a group of people that loved her dearly.

There is one lesson Grandma Lydia imparted upon me with her countless stories; something that should never be forgotten, because it is crucially important to living a life that is good and whole. That lesson is that no matter what a person may suffer, they should strive to love the ones around them unconditionally and without bitterness. My Grandmother, despite how much she suffered, tried to see the good in everyone. She never judged, or spoke to me in anger. She simply let me know that I was loved, and I’m sure she did the same to everyone around her. If more people could approach life and love with the same grace and dignity as my grandmother, the world would be a much brighter, understanding place.  She was a perfect human being and the centre of our family, and although it breaks my heart that she’s gone, her love will never leave me. 

The Finite

Part of being alive seems to be a lack of understanding of just how fragile life is. We are at the centre of a constant dizzying whirl of changes; growing up, growing old, growing stronger, growing weaker and we never stop to think that one day, everything we hold dear is not going to be here any more. Not only that, one day we are not going to be here any more. So we fritter away our time on the meaningless and trivial, because that's the only way we know how to live. Unfortunately, a big part of being human is not realising how much time you waste from day to day.

I'm not writing this to gather sympathy. I write this only to impart a lesson upon you all- a lesson that should not have to be learned in such a painful way, but often is, because there's no other way for it to sink in. What I want to tell you is to appreciate your loved ones. Let them know how much you care for them, because while they probably know, there's no harm in letting it be said. Spend as much time with them as you possibly can, because you don't know when they are going to leave you. You don't know when it'll be the last time you'll get to tell them how much they mean to you and how much you care. The last time you give them a hug goodbye. The last time you hear them on the phone. The last time they tell you goodbye.

At this current moment, there is nowhere I would rather be than in a hospital room in Manchester, surrounded by my relatives we watch over the woman who is responsible for beginning our family. My Grandmother Lydia is a woman who should not have survived. Born into one of the most poverty stricken countries in the world, she watched her father and siblings die slowly of malnutrition, and was separated from the rest of her family when she fled the Nazi invasion of the Ukraine. Grandma Lydia was barely a teenager when she last saw her mother and sisters, and she always told me that all she wanted to do was go home, hug her mother and give her a glass of water. I find it so oddly painful that right now, I want the same thing; to go to my grandmother, smooth her hair back from her forehead and give her a glass of water. I've been calling her on and off these last couple of days to let her know that I love her, and I miss her so much... but without being able to touch her, I feel like I can't say goodbye properly. And while there's the slimmest, most minuscule chance she could still fight her way through this, I don't dare to hope. I don't dare to hold off on my goodbyes.

I went back to the UK a few months ago for the first time in ten years, which was when I last saw my Grandmother. I remember thinking about how small she looked- small, and old, but still so strong and sharp. My family has always told me that I inherited my stubborn nature from her, and it's something I'm proud of, because it means that I am a fighter, just like her. This woman suffered so much in her lifetime- never once getting a chance to have a break, a brief respite from all the hurt that plagued her. Where most people would have given up, she traveled to a foreign country and started a family in a place where she couldn't even speak the language. She lost her own mother, but then became one to four children; four children that love her so dearly, and know that despite growing up poor, she gave them so much.

My Grandmother used to work three jobs to support her family. This often meant she couldn't always be there, but she kept her children fed and clothed, and they never doubted for a moment how much she loved them. She was often sick- years of malnutrition does that to a person- and there were times where she was so ill that her children were placed into care. Even then, it took so much to separate my grandmother from her family. She never wanted to leave them. Even now, as she's lying in hospital hooked up to an oxygen machine, she's telling us she doesn't want to go. And God, we don't want her to go.

Her one want was for all her family to stay with her as she goes. And although my Mum and I can't be there, we've been told that we're in her dreams. Sometimes, she tells them that we visited only a few hours ago. I remember when I saw her for the first time in a decade, she thought for a moment that it was my mother, back at age 18. I know that she's just hallucinating from her pain medication, but it feels comforting to know that she thinks we're there. I've managed to skype her at one of her more lucid moments and while she couldn't really talk back, she tried to smile at me, even though she could see how hard it was for me not to cry.

Grandma Lydia has always tried to keep the family together; and she continues to do that, even when she's so close to leaving us. My mother and her sister spoke the other day for the first time since before I was born, and finally apologised for all the hurt they caused one another. When I last went to England, I met my Uncle Tony for the first time, and now have another whole element to my family I didn't know existed. I only wish all this could have happened sooner, at a time when my grandmother was still well. I only wish I could have had more time, because I love this woman so much and all I ever wanted was for her to be happy.

I know I have a fair few issues with people. I expect disappointment. I expect hurt and misunderstandings. But my Grandma Lydia is someone who has never let me down. In my eyes, she is the perfect human being; a person who does not complicate things with hate and grudges. All she ever did was love me unconditionally. I doubt there's anything I could do to make her pride in me diminish. She always provides me with wisdom; every time we talked on the phone, she would remind me to "be good to your Mum and Dad, because they're the only ones you've got". She reminded me not to be bitter. And every time I had something happen in my life, something that would knock me back for a fair while... she would remind me of what she had been though, and that I have the strength to survive anything.

There is still a part of me that is hoping someone will call in the next day and tell me that's she's getting better. There's been a few of those calls already, but they are slowly tapering off, and I fear the next one I get will be the one that lets me know she's gone. And I know that if that happens, I'm going to say it's not fair that I didn't get more time. It's not fair that I couldn't say goodbye. It's not fair that a person I love so much is not going to be here any more. But there was never any illusion that life could be fair. We can only recognize this and do our best to live and love regardless. If Grandma Lydia has taught me anything, it's the importance of allowing yourself to love, regardless of what has happened to you. You may become bitter. You may be afraid of being hurt. But to love one another is infinitely more important, as at the end of the day, all we have is each other.