My Inner Voice
This is an archived post that was originally published at beyond-terminal.com
Throughout high school I do what I know how to do best: push – and then push some more. Pushing becomes my way of life, my normal.
And the reality is that this serves me well. I make it back. I exceed everyone’s expectations. I become who I think I would have been had I not gotten sick.
The person who was told that her brain was so riddled that it looked like it was scattered with gunshot and therefore irreparable? The person who was told that she would never go to college?
I’ve proven them wrong. Not only am I going to college, I’m going to Northwestern University.
But it comes with a price. After pushing and pushing for so long, I know of no other way to live. My physiological and psychological wellbeing have been altered. To compound matters, I have an internal voice that keeps telling me that it’s not enough, it’s not enough, that I’m not enough, even when arguably I am enough at this point.
So, what once was an asset – the ability to push through discomfort and distress, to be propelled by that inner-disparaging voice — becomes a liability.
When I’m thrown into a new environment where I feel like I don’t belong and therefore am a fraud, I find myself constantly anxious, even when the situation is not threatening. It’s astonishing how quickly I go from feeling like I’m back to feeling like I still have so far to go.
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The excerpt below is from the chapter “A New Beginning.” It’s orientation week, and my new friends and I are walking to the field behind the student union.
Two nights after I arrive at Northwestern, there’s an orientation activity at the student union, and Shelly, Emily, Alysia, and I walk over together.
An upperclassman from the orientation committee explains that we’re going to divide into groups of 30 people for the first activity. Before I know it, upperclassmen are darting in and out of the hundreds and hundreds of freshmen gathered on the knoll, separating us into groups. I look for my new girlfriends and somehow in the chaos they’re nowhere to be seen, instantly cut off from me.
“Everyone count off by twos!” the upperclassman shouts over the megaphone. “Once you’ve numbered off, ones move to the middle and form a circle, facing out. Twos, form a circle around the ones and then face them. Got it?”
Everyone around me seems to know each other and is in the process of trying to figure out how they can be paired up so that they’re facing each other. I finally find another girl who’s not paired up with someone else.
“All right!” the upperclassman shouts. “Now your group leader is going to ask you a question. Each person in the pair should have a chance to answer the question before the outer circle rotates and you talk to a new partner. Got it?”
“Okay!” our group leader says, taking control of her 30-person group. “First, I want you to share the thing that makes you the most nervous about college and then the thing you’re most excited about.”
The first person I’m paired up with finds this small talk easy, telling me that she’s most nervous about her roommate, who seems like a total nerd, and that she’s most excited to be living away from home.
I’m relieved that this girl is a talker. I’m good at listening and asking questions.
Before I know it, our leader is signaling those of us in the outer circle to move. The second person I talk to disregards the questions and instead asks if I went North last night to the side of campus where the fraternities are located.
“Nope.” I pause. “Did you?”
“Yeah, it’s really easy to get beer.”
I give her a nod and an expression that I hope indicates, good to know, I’ll have to check it out later.
I know that once again I’m the odd-person out not to be excited about all this newfound independence, that I’ll be one of the few people not interested in drinking and experimenting. Sure, I’ll go to the parties and maybe even pretend to have a few sips of beer, but beyond that? I’ve had so little control in my life that the very last thing I’m interested in is giving up what I’ve regained.
We do a few more orientation activities, and then, with dusk settling in, things wrap up, people dispersing in all directions. I look from left to right and then right to left, the lake at my back, all these buildings in front of me, searching, searching for anyone familiar. In a panic, I realize that I’m not going to know how to get back to my dorm unless I find somebody who lives there too. Apparently, I was so engrossed in conversation with my new friends while we were walking here that I didn’t pay any attention to how we got here. How stupid is that? This clearly is a sign that you don’t belong here.
Not knowing what to do, I randomly pick a group of girls, all in denim shorts, and follow them, 15 paces behind. We end up in a part of the campus I haven’t been to. I zeroed in on the wrong group of people. I can’t believe it.
I wander, completely listless. If I were thinking straight, I would orient myself with the lake, pause, and picture the layout of the campus in my head. But I’m not thinking straight. Instead I go into my head. How could you let this happen? How could you be so stupid? You’re out of your league.
I walk and walk, and walk some more. I’m all alone, in the dark. It’s finally safe to let the tears run down my cheeks.
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At this age, I wish I would have been more aware of my inner voice and how my inner critic impacted my ability to think clearly. Yes, I was lost, which was cause for concern, yet I made it about so much more than being lost because I wasn’t paying attention. I was lost because I was stupid, I didn’t belong, and on and on and on.
My kids’ school recently had Dr. Anne Gearity, Assistant Professor of Psychiatry and Behavioral Sciences at the U of M, speak to parents about toxic stress and how we can support our children during these challenging times.
She referenced A Stroke of Insight by Jill Bolte Taylor. Bolte Taylor, a neuroanatomist who later suffered from a stroke, states that the energy of an emotion lasts 90 seconds. Ninety seconds.
Dr. Gearity reminded us that what we choose to do with ourselves after this emotional energy passes is up to us. Those of us surrounded by toxic stress often feel as though we need to keep pushing and pushing even after this surge of energy because we haven’t learned how to cope with the feeling and clear it effectively. There is a subset of people in this situation who may eventually feel defeated after all the pushing and just give up.
This initially seems disheartening, but it doesn’t have to be. If we enter into dialogue with our children who are navigating the chaos of schooling in the midst of COVID – if we have honest conversations about the stressors they’re facing and help them build their own narrative and take ownership of their stories – we can help this young generation develop coping skills so that they don’t have to choose between fight-versus-flight or despair.
For this to happen, we need to talk to our kids about their experiences and feelings. And then talk some more. This needs to be the foundation before we worry about catching up on all of the missed academics, for if children don’t feel secure, they’re not going to be able to learn effectively and become their best possible selves.