Over the last few weeks, I've been rereading the earlier entries on this blog, partially in reminiscence, partially as a therapy exercise, and partially out of morbid curiosity. It's been really interesting. A lot of it is stilted and embarrassing (though of course I was a child, so I'm trying to grant myself some grace), but some of it is genuinely clever and funny. I do think I believed myself to be much more witty than I was, but I was still a very, very smart kid. I just read a post where I was talking about my SAT scores. In 2012 (when I was a high school senior), a 2160 was in the 98th percentile, nationwide. I had a perfect English score, and if I remember correctly, ten points off a perfect writing score. That's nothing to sneeze at! But because I got an average math score, I and all my family discounted that. My AP scores were in the 90+ percentile; I was certified bilingual by age 17; I was involved heavily in music, volunteering, and clubs; I had a lucrative part-time job; I even balanced a pretty good social life. I had hobbies, I managed to allocate time for family, friends, church, etc., and I did it all without coffee. And yet, I was seen as a failure because I... took naps? Seriously, my family would get so angry with me when I passed out on the sofa after a couple all-nighters, and I really do think they just didn't understand. Xander was homeschooled until college, and my parents of course belong to a different generation, so they didn't get that I genuinely wasn't sleeping until 3AM on a good night during my junior and senior years of high school, and waking up at 6:30 to get ready in the morning, because tired or not, I've always been vain about my appearance. My family gave me a hard time about being ditzy and too social and going out with too many boys, about procrastinating, about staying up late, about taking too long to study, about not studying because I couldn't concentrate, and most of all, about having a shitty attitude. Which is exceptionally annoying, because I really didn't. In my freshman year, I was a bit grumpy and annoying, but I was also quite literally suicidal, knee-deep in an eating disorder, trying to reconcile myself with the fact that half the school was spreading vicious rumors about me for no reason, and struggling with a whole host of other mental illnesses. I think, all things considered, my family got off light with me just being a bit reticent and snarky. It's really sad, though, reading about how useless and stupid I thought I was. My skills in the humanities were pretty much unparalleled, even among my perfectionistic, high-achieving peers, and I was decent at science, though not exceptional by any means. Math was my one big failing, and honestly, still is. I spent so long trying to prove myself, trying to convince people that I was smart and worthy and good for something besides being hot, and each time, I was miserable when it ended up going badly. Of course, a lot of it probably had to do with undiagnosed ADHD. Not being able to concentrate on a textbook for more than a paragraph at a time if it doesn't catch my hyper-focus is not so helpful for the subjects that don't make sense to me immediately. Which, again, may have been because I didn't listen in class, because it just wasn't interesting. And then, I would convince myself that I was bad at it, and I would get discouraged, and not even want to try. And it would be a whole cycle that would end with me wanting to die because I still didn't understand integration by parts. Meanwhile, it didn't matter so much for my other classes, because I could zone out or chat/text/pass notes or do other homework for half the period and still come away with an understanding of the subject. Then, if I needed to fill in a gap, I'd ask the teacher or research it myself, and fulfill my (self-imposed) 94%+ rule in the end. All throughout high school (and college as well), I only ever once got a B on an English test, and that was because I hadn't read the book it was on. Names and dates and other bits involving rote memory were more difficult for me, but I still managed to memorize a large chunk of court cases in AP Government, and impressed my class by knowing all the terms, including somewhat-obscure Latin ones for use in court. That was when I wanted to be a lawyer (and eventually a Supreme Court justice), so I was interested, and I ended up breezing through the national exam. AP Economics was harder for me because of the math involved, but I still did very well, and the teacher liked me. My bad experience in AP Chemistry made me think that I was bad at science, but I got an A in every other class, and in fact was rather good at physics (which is to this day my favorite of the sciences). Spanish and choir were easy-peasy, of course, and history of any kind felt like cheating because it was so genuinely interesting to me. So really, aside from PE (which I either spent gossiping or flirting, and doing the minimum work possible), math was the only real weakness I had. And somehow, this translated to me being a useless dumbass with no redeeming qualities, which really isn't fair when I think about it. I'm not upset; I know my mom tried her best in an impossible situation, and I don't blame her, but at the same time, I do want to acknowledge that the lack of positive reinforcement probably did a lot to shoot holes in my self esteem. As a natural perfectionist, I glommed onto that sort of attitude, and therefore, nothing I did was ever good enough. A perfect or near-perfect score was average, and anything else was unacceptable. How many times, how many ways did I punish myself for not doing as well as I'd arbitrarily decided I should? I still remember the frustration of knowing I could do better if only I could stop my brain from turning to soup at inopportune moments, but being young and emotionally stunted and traumatized, I internalized that as being my own fault. I was way too hard on myself, I see that now.
At the same time, though, I have to acknowledge how I crashed and burned later. College was fine; I ended up graduating from UCLA, as per my teenage dreams, and overall, I slept around a lot and made friends and ate good food and went to bad parties and had a good time. And then I took a gap year, but I started fucking things up. And then I got kicked out of my PhD program for my suicide attempt and subsequent hospitalization, and then things really went to shit. I had to go back and live with my mom, and I worked in a warehouse for awhile, and then I went to rehab, and by the time I was stable enough to leave the sober-living facility, it was summer, and I was preparing to go to grad school again. And then I fucked that up, too. I didn't get a job, and I'm going to have to take a leave of absence, not just because of the strikes, not just because of Corona, but because I didn't take care of my responsibilities. I feel like a financial burden on everyone, and a regular burden, too. My life is a mess. Although, as of this morning, I do officially have a job, but I can't help but feel that it's too little, too late. What happened to me? I wasted my potential. I let people down. Every day, I feel so guilty for even existing. I do 90% of the cooking, housework, etc., but it doesn't feel like enough, and I'm afraid Emily is going to leave me because I'm annoying and easily distractible and have loud Skype conversations in the living room while she's trying to watch Netflix in bed. I'm flakey, I'm weird, I'm lazy, and sometimes I say controversial shit just to stir the pot (not like politically controversial, more like "I think the flat-Earth theory could be true, except we are in fact on a round Earth, but that Earth is embedded in a larger flat surface like a yolk in an egg"). I have too many opinions. Sometimes, it takes me an hour to do my makeup, and she'll have to sit around and wait for me. I have a "ridiculous" amount of shoes and clothes, and I value aesthetics over comfort, and I buy too many storage baskets. Yesterday, I almost cried because there were maggots in our kitchen trash, and I only barely managed to get rid of them and clean the bin, and will probably insist on throwing out all expired food items straightaway from here on out, regardless or not of if the bag is full. In short, I'm high-maintenance. That's to say nothing of how much money I've spent in the past! Before lockdown, I think I must have spent about £40.00 all told on clothes, shoes, and makeup, and then there's all the takeout and fancy alcohol and groceries. I'm a selfish spendthrift, and no matter how hard I try to budget, I crack in the end, and buy the more expensive cheese rather than walking half an hour more to get the store brand at Sainsbury's. And I do budget cheaply, I do, and I made a month-long meal plan for less than £60, but isn't that a lot, really? And couldn't I just make food for Emily and not eat it myself? I don't need to eat so much. I shouldn't, really. I don't really do anything deserving of eating like I do.
But I shouldn't be so negative. I'm twisting my thoughts again, needlessly being cruel and critical, and it's not productive. Instead, I should do something more worthwhile. I suppose I'll clean up and do the dishes. I need to clean the bathroom, too. And when Emily wakes up, I'll ask her what she wants for dinner, and I'll start on that. There's no use in sitting around feeling sorry for myself. I have to create the life I want, even if that means getting off my ass sometimes.