"...success is hard-earned."
In much the same way that I quoted Barry Farber on Oct. 8, 2005 in the essay I wrote for the SATs, I now quote my 17-year-old words and reflect on the strange, stinging inspiration that they inspire. It's been 6 years since I wrote them, and yet they still set the bar for my miserable life.
I have a wonderful life actually. I live in a nice 2-story house in a suburban neighborhood near Washington, D.C. I have a family that gives and gives to no end, to me and to all that are friends. My boyfriend is a wonderful, caring, sweet man that makes me a priority in his life. These are all big things that carry not just a little weight in my life.
...but it's the small things that chip away at my confidence and form chinks in the base of my certainty. Those little things that you can't even name without feeling foolish. Little psychological games that get played within the closest circles, the constant feeling of obligation to everyone, the second-guessing, and the wondering, wondering, wondering if I'll ever be worth a damn.
I'm a college graduate with plans to go into higher education. I scored in the 90th percentile range on my SATs. I may not have a job right now, but I've pursued the major of my dreams in college and am now taking steps to pursue the occupation of my dreams (which, unlike the normal "east-coast mentality" of needing to maintain some polished career track, for me is to educate and affect the most passionate minds in the world- the unharnessed power of high school students). Yet there is always that niggling feeling that I am wasting my time, and potentially the time of countless other young people too. There's no reason for this feeling, except that I just don't feel good enough to do anything noble or good. Like everything I will ever do will turn to in a steaming pile of no good. It's a negative, self-perception (one that I am so certain of sometimes). There are days when my feelings are more sunlit, but there are nights (like tonight) when they are especially dark.
I'm no doctor (not even close), but I think some may call this depression. I see those anti-depressant medication commercials all the time on television, and their symptoms sound so familiar. And what's weird is I get this comforted feeling when I see them because I feel like someone knows about my struggle. Someone, out there in the wide world, understands that I am, generally and emotionally speaking, in a dark place. But while the little blob bounces on in jovial bliss across the television screen, relieved by his magic pill from his oppressive feelings, I sit on the couch knowing that I won't get that relief.
I don't think my parents believe in depression. Or maybe they just don't have time to slow down and deal with it. They seem pretty happy between themselves, and my sister and brother continue on with their lives, working hard and finding ways to keep themselves occupied. At the risk of sounding like Dane Cook on one of his stand-up comedian shows, I ask, "Why not me?"
When I read my high school essay I was tearing up. After 6 years worth of mental acrobatics and disappointments in areas of my life that should have been a comfort, not a burden, I find that my mind had gone from focusing on success to focusing on failure. I notice a trend in myself, that when things are going reasonably well, I start tensing up. I start concentrating on all the little flaws and failures of my everyday life instead of the successes. The other day I was wondering to myself why I didn't enjoy the slight breeze on a beautiful day quite so much as I used to and I think it has to do with being so mentally occupied with failure that there's less room for everyday positives, like that breeze.
"In our everyday lives, we seldom think of the true meaning of success, perhaps we should take into account more what successes we obtain in each and every day that we live."
I can feel an uplifting surge as I read this positive message that I, myself, wrote. But there's a twinge and a dull ache that accompany that surge, because I notice just how much contrast there is between my natural way of reasoning back then and my natural way of reasoning now. I'm wondering now if this is what it means to be an adult. To grow up in the world, does it mean that my perception of the world must grow dark and cynical? Is there any room for optimism when one is being so very realistic? This, in itself, is a cynical question.
It's a new feeling for me, to feel constantly evaluated. But it's always myself that doing the evaluating. Maybe I've disappointed myself along the way. Carrying this definition of success with me all these 6 years, and somewhere along the way maybe I let myself down. I guess it's true, I don't feel like a success. I feel more like unemployed. I feel more like still living with my parents.
I am my own biggest threat to the success that I so neatly defined at 17. I take to heart too strongly every little thing that every single person says to me about me, so much so that I do nothing about the criticism I get (at least, that's my excuse). But the worst thing to do in a situation like mine is to do nothing. The only way to get rid of old, mental junk is by pushing it out with new and healthy thoughts. Like the time-old classic saying, "Out with the old, in with the new!"
So I will persevere. I will work the part-time jobs and fill out the grad school applications; I will read books and study and continue to meet new friends; I will write and I will teach and I will one day watch student consciences turn on like a light switch and watch them power through life despite its many, imposing pressures. And I will succeed.
I didn't quite conclude my essay with this, though I wish I had (it was located in the last paragraph though), and I'll leave you with it as well:
"It's up to the worker, however, to accept the success and fruit of their labor, or succumb to failure..."
(Oh, what did I score on my essay?? A near perfect. 11 out of 12, just in case you were wondering.)
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