I'm finally on my own and liberal arts school should be the place for me. But I'm still approaching my coursework from the standpoint of "how little can I do and how late can I do it and still not utterly fail," and it's making me hate myself.
This is very long, and for that I am sorry. Since I'm talking about a psychological problem it's hard for me to determine which details are important and which aren't.
I'm a sophomore at a small liberal arts school. I went to a Montessori elementary school, where almost no homework was assigned, and started public school in fifth grade, where instantly a ton of homework was assigned (new teacher). My mom would keep me in my room from the time I got home to around 10 or 11 pm (with a break for dinner), making sure I did everything up to her unreasonably high standards. When I protested she would yell at me that all work and no play was how it was going to be for most of my life and that, essentially, I was deeply defective if I didn't adapt. When I would refuse to do my homework entirely, she'd call my dad up and he'd join in. This was the period of tension that preceded my highly educated parents' extremely acrimonious and loud divorce, and this was one of the few activities they could still partake in together. Sitting down to do homework became associated with humiliation and submission. The disgust with which my mom (who was most other times very loving) looked at me when I failed to understand something turned learning from the ongoing adventure I used to see it as into an ongoing anxiety-inducing question of my worth.
Near the end of that year my parents were largely too busy screaming at each other to monitor me constantly and I started slacking off. Sixth grade, I did almost no homework and told my mom most mornings that I had been vomiting so I wouldn't have to go to school. I didn't even hate school itself at first (though I wasn't crazy about it); I just entertained this notion that I could catch up on all my old work in private if I could put off the teachers holding me accountable for one more day. But of course I just stayed on the couch pretending to be sick (my parents were almost never both in the house during the day, so it was peaceful, if mind-numbing). Eventually I stopped pretending I would catch up but lied about vomiting anyway to avoid the glares of the teachers who now resented me and the students who always disliked me (it took me until college to understand and be confident in peer interactions). The staying home mostly stopped when my mom took me for an MRI, the doctors failed to find any brain tumors, and she started demanding to see the puke. My parents would often berate me and tell me I was going nowhere fast in life because I wasn't doing my work, but I steadfastly refused to sit when they told me to, and they gave up on forcing me.
There were parent/teacher conferences (the way my parents brought their personal drama into these is more movie material than probably anything else in my life). I was made to see a social worker. In seventh grade I got an Individualized Education Plan (IEP) for "emotional disability" and spent one period every day fighting with my caseworker over my right not to do my assignments. This IEP stayed with me throughout high school. I'm pretty sure I failed seventh grade (hurray for social promotion). Eighth grade was mostly C's and D's. My parents' divorce was finalized.
I got to high school not knowing how to try (even though part of me really wanted to, so as to get into college). I paid excellent attention in most classes because I found them interesting, participated enthusiastically (yeah, I was that girl), and did well on tests that didn't require knowledge from homework. My freshman/sophomore year average was maybe a 2.0. My mom's mental health was declining dramatically. The summer before my junior year, my mom died after drunkenly crashing her car. Junior year I got maybe a 2.9 first semester and a 3.5 second semester. Senior year I got around a 2.6 first semester (these are really all estimations, I don't remember that well) and something awful like 1.5 the second since I had already gotten into college (they didn't rescind my admission, bless them). I had gotten into college in spite of these mostly atrocious grades because of my crazy/dead mommy story, 34 on the ACT, and status as a National Merit Semifinalist.
I cared about my grades in a way that made me beat myself up more than try to succeed. I tried to keep my head above water in panicked nights of kicking myself, but that's trying not to fail. I cared deeply and anxiously about my performance on particular assignments. Writing papers was the big one. I would sit at the computer unable to come up with or structure my ideas until insane hours of the night. Often, my almost invariably A papers were severely penalized for lateness. I'd think to myself, "you're disgusting," but ultimately I preferred an A dropped down to a D for lateness over a straight B. Evidence that one fine theoretical day, once I got over my complexes, I could be a serious intellectual was so much more important to me than my grade point average.
This has followed me into college, where I've been for over a year. I used to not be able to write my papers until insane hours of the night immediately before they were due, until I realized that some professors accept late work sometimes, and now I can rarely motivate myself to get them in on time. I almost never do readings, feeling like I'm failing when they're taking too long, preferring the fleeting feeling that I'm not stupid as I read easy articles on the internet. I always start the term out OK, but as soon as my workload becomes even slightly difficult to manage, I retreat into avoidance. It doesn't matter how much I like the subject. Then the absolute due dates come, and I'm up, sleep-deprived, in my room, consumed by fear and intense self-loathing, trying to cry for some feeling of release, and yet unable to. Every time this happens I grow to hate school a little bit more and avoid it a little more eagerly the next time I think I can get away with it. I got a 3.3 first semester freshman year after dropping from 4 classes to 3, a 2.6 second semester freshman year after doing the same thing, and now sophomore year I'm taking 4 classes and am terribly behind in my work.
I talk to my intellectually-oriented, high-achieving friends wondering what they'd think of me if they knew what I really was. I lie in the arms of the girl I like knowing she'd kick me out of bed if she knew of all the assignments I should be working on. I stare at my computer screen at the introductory paragraph of a week-overdue paper, too paralyzed and disgusted by the fact that I haven't read the book to put together a body (even though I've done it countless times before). I sit in class discussions largely silent, because now that I'm in college I can't participate meaningfully without doing the work. I'M SICK OF THIS. I want better grades, yes, but what I want most is to get the education I'm paying for. I no longer believe that screwing around is what's going to make me happy, but spending hours listening to Dan Savage and reading soft news on NYT reminds me so much of Pokemon Red, and I can't help but think that I'm a 19-year-old trapped in a 10-year-old's emotional baggage. Help?
posted by randomname25 to human relations (22 comments total)
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posted by Inspector.Gadget at 10:24 PM on November 21, 2009