An Encounter with Myself

I recently stumbled upon two journals that I kept from middle school to early high school. Maybe my mental space was all dedicated to memorizing AP US History facts, or maybe I just did not want to remember those times. Either way, I never fully made peace with the memories I documented (I even captured some in personal narrative form. Good job, self!).

I wonder how the conceptions of who I am differ, amongst the people that I have crossed roads with at far-ranging checkpoints along this journey. What I say could be surprising or fully expected. Regardless, I thought I would finally think reflect on my old self a little.

Up until early high school, I was extremely quiet and sensitive, and quite precocious. But, that precocity isolated me. I never spoke up in school. From a young age, the unhealthy pressure I had to succeed manifested in an over-awareness of every single flaw I had, as well as an autopilot-mode to work extremely hard at everything I did. One example: I started crying in the middle of class in fourth-grade because I found out I got a 293/300, and not a full score, in the Reading/Writing portion of the NJASK standardized test (my Math score was 300/300).

The situation might have been typical of that of “the smart kid”: classmates would only talk and be friendly with me when they needed help, and they would invite me to activities as an afterthought to fill an invitation list (and even then, I’d get “cut”). As if, being “smart” was the only redeeming quality that made me worthy of interacting with. Everyone assumed my intelligence and abilities came naturally to me, when in reality, I was so afraid of failing, even once, that I did everything in my power to make sure it would never happen.

I’m not sure when things changed, when I finally decided to stand up and speak out for myself. Perhaps it was finding a few friends (thank goodness) that listened to my worries and passions. Perhaps it was when I went through so much pressure to do more, say more, be better, during college application times, that I just developed a layer of steel: a jadedness against my parents and anyone who wouldn’t acknowledge that I was also a vulnerable and imperfect human being. And 6+ years since those earliest troubles, I am proud of where I am: I express myself honestly, I sometimes blabber *too* much to the friends that I trust, and I have much more self-esteem (though, that’s always a work in progress!).

However, even after coming so far, I realized that those seemingly insignificant memories stay with me for a very, very long time. And remind me of how things might not have changed so much from when I was doing entire group projects by myself, as an implicit exchange for being marginally included. Why did people I never talk to start greeting me and inviting me to their graduation parties, after I got into great universities? Why are the classmates — that asked me for help in AP Economics that otherwise wouldn’t come near me with a metaphorical 6-foot pole — so eagerly requesting to add me on LinkedIn these days? 

Of course, networking is perfectly normal, and something I hope to improve upon. And if peers responded to me genuinely, I might not even sync with them as friends anyway. It’s become easier to sift through that noise: I can tell when I “vibe” with someone or not, for lack of better terms, instead of latching onto any possible connection. But sometimes, I feel like my thirteen, fifteen, heck — even eighteen-year old self, when those times seem worlds away: attempting to forge connections that are ultimately contingent on me reconfiguring myself. Whether that is to offer my intelligence but overexert myself to help, to want to demonstrate care and affection but disrespect my own boundaries, to support others with advice but then feel like my worries aren’t important enough: for me to reveal, or for others to inquire about.

 I am blessed to have some close friends, and grateful to have had learning experiences where platonic & other interactions didn’t work out. It’s the ~circle of life~. But every time I hope to expand my circle of trust, there’s always a little voice in my head that asks me: will they pull away or not respond if I put forward my excitement or vulnerabilities fully? Will they get tired or even bored of me? Will I even be a good friend? Will I feel safe enough or heard, to be able to share myself with them at all?

It’s odd, because I know that I have cool and complex passions and histories to share, and I am proud of what I have struggled with and achieved. And I hope others might be open to listening to them. But also, I oh-so dearly want to listen to and understand other people’s strange, joyous, ordinary, melancholic, and everything-in-between stories.

Instead of a cheesy call-to-action that I nor you likely don’t need right now (e.g. Put yourself out there! Don’t let the past define you! The right people will find you! F them if they don’t care about you as a person! etc.), I think I’ll end with something more in tune with what we all might be feeling, at the cusp of a tumultuous year:

“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” 

(F. Scott Fitzgerald)