Tuesdays with Morrie

As of the past many months, the idea of forgievness has been relentlessly pressed upon my heart, and not only because wrong has been ritualistically done without a single regret. Coincidentally, subsequent to GraceCon, church, and lots of Tumblr posts, we watched Tuesdays with Morrie in health.

A couple aphorisms from Morrie:
We fear aging, out the many fears of death, failure, and sickness, because we worship youth, yet if we find a greater purpose in life, there should be no fear in losing time that we have rightfully owned and now must relinquish.
You must love or die.
The tension of opposites - explained poorly, but so very beautiful
Once you learn how to die, you learn how to live.
"Forgive everyone, everything. Many do not have the chance like I do. I will die in peace, surrounded by people I love and who love me. We learn as much from people who hurt us as we do from people who love us."
Death ends a life, not a relationship

But the forgiveness. In my experience, and in my leisurely viewing of dramatic but reflective episodes of America's Next Top Model and Glee, people wrong each other all the time. The beautiful gay couple is thrown in the trash, rock-slushied, and crowned prom queens. Raging hot females are pitted against each other because of their own arrogance and perceived shallow character flaws. Kelly Cutrone shows no human empathy in her facade of the adamantly self-demanding respect. Puckerman banged Quinn and gave her a baby, and Finn kissed Mr. Schuester's fiance. People are full of bad decisions, and as far as I know, only the men in these shows have been capable of some perceptible genuince forgiveness. Are all women ego-centric, scrabbling desperaux of pride? They say men struggle with pride, but I can without hesitation attest to my gender's faltering insecurity.

I have rarely seriously judged other people's darknesses. I used to complain about white people, but since being broken by the tearing of my fragile innards, insensitive insults, mocking stabs, and superiority complexes became only directions to the bearer's heart. I have loved to read and listen to the cries and struggles of sin and regret, and still each day, I can feel myself opening more to true empathy. I hate attention whoring, rash emotional decisions, and butt-kissing small talk, yet I so feel the motive behind each act. I have been in such a dungeon before. If I have every been wronged, I have understood and forgiven with little hesitation. I love to understand more than I love to hold a grudge. I would love to love more.

As can probably be deduced from the past four months of posts, however, there have been repeated spouts of the said act of forgiveness. Since understanding the wretchedness of cyclical binging and starvation, I have seen the cataclysmic wreck of sin into which Satan has so tempted mankind. Out of obligation not to condemn that which I see as an embodiment of the broken heart, just know that I don't want to focus on the criminality of the said bittersweet conflict, sweet being an selective, sunny way to describe the enjoyment of such gratification.

I am sick to be so cheated with so little empathetic retrospection. Forgiveness is some form of letting go of resentment and bitterness, and this I can surely do. Detachment has never been too difficult after intimately knowing my self-inflicted pains. Help me to do the impossible, is Matthew West's lyrics, and I know that God is on my side, our side. The impossible can be done. Forgive, for we have been forgiven.

Along the lines of loving the unlovable, still there is trembling pain in the forgiveness. Consider our God, who weeps for how we wrong him day by day and how He still forgives us. While we are forgiven for our sins, some consequences can't be escaped; though we may not be forsaken and banished to Hell's inferno, we are disciplined by the law which God has dictated for us. My body is an engravement of my suffering. Sin must be cut away, yet for our lives, we will bear it, not understanding, but fighting.

Still in this case, I believe that the indulgence of a friendship stained grossly with immorality is wrong. There is a point when the presence of sin necessitates separation, especially in the individual, spiritual growth of partakers in any type of relationship. I'm unconvinced of cleanliness in the presence of such alleged comaraderie and dependency. The immobility of the value of sacred creation is not my problem, even though I abhor the glorification of experimental sex. My problem is this, that what is currently in place is the settlement of cowards. I am so ashamed.
.

Insanity.

Reality? I got a B on a calculus test on which everyone got an A. I earned a solid B- on my first organic chemistry test. Inconsolable madness frequents about two to three times a week, usually on 8-person practice days. Even smart people think relationships are worthless, but apparently believe in some higher value of sex buddies. Science isn't as good as writing, and math is okay when I'm not careless, so it is successful 10% of its occupation in my current circumstances. My parents enjoy the frivolous pursuit of 36 on the ACT even though this is one of the least indicative standardized tests created by not even the profit loving College Board. Some girls are even more desperate than me.

The world is still not a wish granting factory. Becoming not fat is a great feeling and leaves more clothing options. Parents are stupid and care too much about money. Vectors are hard. Online shopping is unexpectedly enjoyable, but shipping is more expensive than anticipated. Praying in the morning is a blessing. Badminton is good, smashes are crying, clears are flying. I have adopted camel parents and a real camel.

I have technically completely 6 weeks of Insanity now. It hurts a lot more than running, and I can't pass by the world and appreciate the sunsets anymore, remaining oblivious to the whip of the winds and the trickles of might-as-well-be nonexistent snow. I miss feeling so fast for so long, the idea of being able to go on and on forever.

Despite these losses, the physical pain, for one moment, takes away everything else. For one hour, I don't have water to spare for tears. Insanity is the one workout that has made me sweat like I'm on Elite Team, staining the carpet over and over. Anger packs a good punch.  Switch kicks and hurdles each claim their own victims and demolish the very ideas of stupidity, impulsive, despereaux, desire. Never have I felt so exhausted and physically helpless as after a full circuit of power jumps, in and outs, and suicide squats. Never have I felt so relieved to, as Shawn T so enthusiastically terms it, escape reality and enter insanity.

I feel it. The strength focused in a single kick, then another, and then another, is empowering. When I return to practice every week, I can feel the energy surging through our first ten laps. Another two hours of freedom. Another two hours away from feeling as if everything is totally not okay.

Douleur

I don't even like French that much but the Chinese word for pain is dumb and all of the old folktales and idiomatic roots I've heard from my culture are stupid and about respect and honor and they have nothing to do with real pain. So French will have to suffice. At least Les Mis captured the suffering in love and poverty and bread.

John Green has been profound a thousand times, but I just read the Fault in Our Stars again and it makes me extraordinarily sad and angry and appeased that someone has so eloquently penned the grievances of humanity.

"‘Pain is like fabric: The stronger it is, the more it’s worth.’ Is that true, Hazel?”
I wasn’t looking at him directly but at his reflection in the mirror. “No,” I shouted over the music. “That’s bullshit.” 
“But don’t you wish it were true!” he cried back.

If it is so unfortunately a load of bull, then I hate the world. I hate the world for making everything okay because okay, in John Green's words exactly, implies forever, and nothing is forever or for ethereal subjects' sake okay. The pain is so bad. It has never been so bad before.