Monolog Batin Tedfia:tulah Mengapa Kau Beruntung: Sebuah Curahan Narasi Fiksi yang Terinspirasi dari Kisah Nyata (Tedfia's Inner Monologue: That's Why You're Lucky by Deftan-English Translated)
Ancient Sumer chapter 2 Fiction Monolog Projek Novelkurasa aku akan mulai menentang sebuah ungkapan yang mengatakan a fighter never shows their pain bahwa petarung tidak akan pernah menunjukan lukanya. Karena bahkan petarung, pejuang selalu membutuhkan teman. Bahkan di saat kau menjadi penjahat sekalipun.
⭐ Stay tuned for the Parallel Narrative Short Story developed from this manuscript, titled “Karma: Love and Baghdad,” written from the perspective of the character Dwingga. It was awarded “The Second Most Innovative Story” in collaboration with PT Betterfly Indonesia Production, and will be available on the website after the anthology book version is published.
Author’s Note:
Hi… this story is special. It may stand in contrast to the fantasy works I usually write. But I truly wrote it on the very night I experienced that rejection.
I think I want to begin challenging the saying “a fighter never shows their pain”—that a warrior never reveals their wounds. Because even a fighter, even a struggler, always needs a companion. Even when you become the villain.
Note: Inspired by being rejected from state university admissions (PTN) through the SNBP and SPAN-PTKIN pathways, and by the thickening walls of insecurity. SNBP and SPAN-PTKIN are national admission selection programs required for entry into Indonesian higher education institutions.
Based on the author’s real experiences, with fictional modifications. — Def Tanoshii
“Tedfia’s character was born from the wounds of life I never complained about—except on paper.”~ Deftan
“I suppose this is a peculiar path in life—you have to swallow Bitrex just as you turn seventeen, last December. When, supposedly, girls are meant to blossom and bloom at this season of their lives. That’s why they call it sweet seventeen, I guess. But unfortunately, that doesn’t apply to me. I prefer to call it Ragas-seventeen—a seventeen stripped of leaves, dry and withered. It comes from Kawi, Old Javanese literary language, in case you didn’t know.”
“As I approached the end of early adolescence, anxiety and depression became my midnight angels of death. And they said, ‘it’s normal’—friendship, disappointment, intrigue, drama, and karma. I no longer knew whom to trust. At the very least, I still had myself and God. And yet, there were countless things that forced me to doubt even that. I felt gray. I felt fragile.”
“Home. Often, it feels like being the firstborn who is somehow treated as the middle child. Even if you come from a prosperous and well-off family, life is never perfect. Think about it—your parents came from the lower middle class. Their lives were harsher, more unforgiving. So they were determined to change their fate, to become prosperous. To become wealthy. Businesspeople. They succeeded in building the world they once dreamed of into what it is today. You know, my father had dreamed of owning a car since he was a child. And he is remarkable because he made it happen. No one would believe they only completed elementary school. People assume they are university graduates. So yes, your parents are ‘the lucky ones’—at least that’s what people think, those who only see their triumphs without ever seeing their sweat.”
“Meanwhile, look at you—the eldest daughter. Weak, tearful, spoiled. One of two siblings, born more than two weeks premature at barely thirteen ounces, little more than debris among foam. My parents feared I wouldn’t survive. But God has a strange sense of humor—and mercy. Of the many premature babies who did not make it, I was allowed to live. And that often makes me wonder: what was God’s reason for giving me life? Why didn’t He simply take me home? I would have surely become their little savior in Heaven. It’s not that I’m ungrateful, but… what am I capable of doing for this world? What am I capable of doing for myself?”
“I feel so much like my mother. And the more I feel that, the further away I feel from her. She is an intelligent woman—meticulous, agile, disciplined. But the problem is me. It’s so difficult to adapt to her. I don’t know… sometimes I feel like my brain is malfunctioning. I’m slow. I struggle to focus and I’m easily distracted. I’m forgetful—misplacing things, for example. She labels me a careless daughter, inattentive and reckless. And perhaps that’s fair. But who has the right to judge the way your brain works? I’ve diagnosed myself more than once—ADHD, anxiety disorder, even short-term memory disorder. Of course, having a daughter so fundamentally different from her personality often sparks arguments between us, when our bond should have been stronger. If only I could try harder to match her pace. I’ve grown used to deceiving my critics by acting firm and unbothered, no matter how many times I stumble and fall. But that also means I’ve deceived my parents into thinking I’m fine. That I can endure on my own. That I can prove all my fragile convictions about myself.”
“My father… he is a good role model. But he overthinks and is overly protective of his daughter. Still, sometimes I can understand his anxiety.”
“And on the other hand…
…I am deeply grateful whenever I can still tell myself, ‘Hey, this isn’t a big deal. This is not a reason to stop hoping and striving for what you want.’ Especially after you encounter the forebear of your Sumerian ancestors. Call me delusional if you want.
I will try to begin a new page from this very point. And—my past is over.”
✹That is why you are fortunate—in truth, every time you are forced to strive harder than most people.
— Def Tanoshii
— New Camus: Bitrex is a chemical compound known for its intensely bitter taste.
