Originally, this is the title that I had picked for this thought thread. Then, after thinking about it for a few minutes, I realized that this is something that I want to change by the time I hit 25. So, here is me opening up about the fact that I am never good enough for myself, and why that is a problem.
My first time crying in an academic institution that was for academic reasons, that I can remember, came in fifth grade. We had substitutes for the longest time due to our teacher leaving in the middle of the year. One of the subs taught a unit on Christopher Columbus and all that jazz, and part of what we were supposed to learn was the parts of a ship. Well, first of all, who the fuck cares about the parts of a ship and second, I have major problems memorizing things that I don't take seriously. And lastly, I think US History is the most boring subject ever. So while I studied, I just didn't care enough to commit it to memory well.Regardless of all that, we had to take a test on these parts of ship.
It was my first experience with text anxiety. At 10 years old, I felt my heart drop as I turned over my test paper and realized I had no idea what to write in the little blanks next to a crummy drawing of the Santa Maria. My mind raced through every memory I had of class that year, trying desperately to recall the paper labeled with the parts, the teacher talking and explaining. My eyelids were rimmed now, my eyes turning that shade of green I only see when I'm about to be emotional. Unfortunately, the nugget of info I had about the parts of ship was limited to only a few blanks. I filled in the rest of the blanks with "reasonable" responses, my face blushing with this shoddy technique of taking an exam you knew you were going to fail. Realizing that my grade on this was going to be extremely poor, I rested my forehead on my arm and finally let myself blink out my tears.
12 years later, it isn't the score I remember. It's the red marks on that sheet of paper. Celebrations around my desk from my classmates with their near perfect scores. A smiling teacher, telling us how great we did on this exam. For the first time in my life, I wasn't in that "we". This time, I didn't cry. I sat mute at my desk; a masked pain, a remorse for my intelligence. Yes, it was that serious.
In my head, I was the stupid kid. It felt horrible. When it happens now, it still feels horrible.
I wish I could say that I learn a lesson from experiences like that. You know, something mature or philosophical like, "Everyone makes mistakes" or "Everyone has strengths or weaknesses" or even "It's okay to not be perfect." I'll be honest and say I don't. I feel like an idiot, it works on my ego like no other and it gets me rather depressed.
It's hard for me to hear what I do wrong. It's hard for me to hear that I am not perfect. To me, not perfect = not good enough.
Growing up, I was considered precocious. I was working the VCR at age 3 and I learned how to cook on the stove at 7. Without intending to sound like a conceited bitch, I was considered Gifted/Talented and placed in programs that consistently were above my grade. By the time I hit 5th grade, I was taking Latin, Algebra and literature courses in small groups outside the main class. I was the teacher's pet consistently. I did all this, and I rarely had my parents congratulate me for my accomplishments or take an interest in my life.
All I ever wanted was someone to tell me it was good enough. It was good enough for me being who I was, even if I had freckles and frizzy hair and a round little face. But for my parents, there was no in-between. My mom ignored me unless I was getting perfect test scores and starring in school plays, and made sure to let me know that less than that was not acceptable. My dad ignored me unless I was getting into trouble and he had to actually step up and be a parent.
This dichotomy made it pretty much impossible for me to pick a steady attitude when it comes to school. Normally I start out hard and heavy at the beginning of the semester, then completely fuck myself, then pull myself out of it enough to manage a good grade. I enjoy self-sabotaging because it's familiar - and it was consistently reinforced by my father.
- Example: As long as I went to school and didn't make a peep, my dad could go for days without talking to me beyond passing conversation. As soon as I started skipping school, staying out past curfew, etc - guess who all of a sudden wants to have a relationship and talk? So we would talk about stuff, I would start being good again, and he would totally ignore me.
I know that this whole attitude has a bad effect on my interpersonal relationships. I think I'm finally ready to address that, and to grow from it. But in another post, for now I'm tired.
I can't wait for summer.
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