Today I attended my classes for the second time. So far they are shaping up to be pretty good. If today is any indication, they will be thoughtful and worthwhile but not a terribly lot of work. Now that I say that, however, I will prove to be horribly wrong. Oh well.
The one thing of note I did today happened out of class. Lately, I've been encouraged by Jessie and other close friends to seek some kind of help with my anxiety issues. Until I started talking to Jessie about it, I had never considered seeing a counselor or anything like that. Today though, I went to the Health and Counseling Center to make an appointment to talk to someone. I hesitated at the door to the building. I peered in the window and didn't see anyone. I considered leaving and thus avoiding the issue altogether. I wouldn't have to face my problems and I wouldn't have to talk to anyone I don't know or trust. But I thought of my friends. I trust them. I don't want them to suffer because of my fear, anger and grumpiness anymore. I went in.
I've lived with my anxiety about school work for years. I have a really distinct memory of the first time a piece of schoolwork truly upset me. It was in the fourth grade and I was working on one of the first assignments of the year, drawing a picture of something I did over the summer vacation. I knew exactly what I wanted to draw; I had a clear image in my head. That summer, my family had visited Wallowa Lake in eastern Oregon and my picture was going to be of the lake and the animals that I saw there. I sat at my desk drawing, but midway through I could tell it wasn't turning out right. The moose I was drawing just looked small, not far away. I erased part of it and started again. Still not right. I erased it again, tried again, still wasn't happy. By this point, I was upset. I could not get the picture in my head to appear on the page. I was running out of time. I couldn't turn it in the way it was. It wasn't perfect. I kept trying. My repeated attempts transformed a section of my paper into a gray blob. My picture wasn't getting better, it was getting worse. "This is impossible," I thought. "I can't do it right." I started to cry. Right in the middle of class I was crying over my picture. My teacher came over, worried that something was wrong. Something was. My picture wasn't good enough. I showed her my art. She said it was good. I showed it to her again, convinced she just didn't see what I saw. Still crying, I pointed to the portion in question. She said it looked nice. I didn't believe her. I couldn't. She said it was time to turn it in and go on to another activity. I couldn't do that either. How could I turn in what I had? It wasn't any good, I thought. I argued with her. I just needed more time. I couldn't turn it in the way it was. You need to, she said. I resisted, still unhappy. Still crying. I never got my picture to look the way I wanted it. Defeated, I had to turn it in the way it was. I was embarrassed and ashamed.
All through school your teachers tell you to always do your best work. At nine years old, I had decided my best work was perfect. It had to be. Anything else was failure. Nobody told me this; no one taught me that only perfection was acceptable. But I knew it. I knew it with the utmost certainty. Somehow, as an elementary school kid I had fashioned my cross. I've carried it ever since.
I could tell very similar stories from every stage of my schooling. Middle school marked a transition in my school life. Letter grades gave me a rubric for perfection. A's were fine. F's were failing. But so were B's. From then until now, I've lived in fear of not measuring up to my own standards. Anxiety over what I have to do how my work is turning out paralyzes me. When I need to write a paper, I procrastinate. I waste time. My worries clog my brain and hold me back, even when I know I could complete the task before me. In this state I lack faith in myself and my abilities. I can't determine the quality of my work. Nothing is ever as good as I want it to be.
The worst part is so far I haven't stumbled. Nine and a half years of 4.0 GPAs weigh on me. I feel as if one A- will invalidate everything I've done and will do. I know it is irrational, but I can't make myself not worry.
At least, I can't do it on my own. I want to be better. I need to be better. Better for me, for Jessie, for my friends. Starting this morning, I'm in the process of getting help.
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