Emma K.
If you’re reading this, what will your verse be?
Do you ever start or end conversations with an apology, worried that the people around you are annoyed, concerned that you’re taking up their time? Sometimes I hesitate to start things, I don’t say what I want to say, or I try not to think about the goals I know I want, because I feel like they don’t matter.
I know there are things I am good at. I’d like to think I’m above average at art, I can relate any conversation statement to a movie quote, and I can speak well publicly. But some days, all that consumes my head is what I can’t do. I’m not very good at learning new languages, I’m not the most athletically inclined, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t cure the people closest to me who struggle with mental illness.
Growing up, I had trouble NOT crying. Everything made me cry. Movies, bee stings, cute old people in coffee shops, a nice painting, and I’m pretty sure the last Harry Potter movie all of which will happen unconditionally. But when the people I loved cried because of their frustration over a diagnosed mental disorder, over the long talks with therapists, and the constant agony of feeling powerless in their own body, I felt selfish. I dried my tears and told myself that, to be there for them, I have to be strong and fearless and humble.
But I didn’t feel strong. I felt weak and helpless and scared. All of the sudden, I didn’t feel like myself anymore and the list of things I couldn’t do grew a hundred miles long. But I needed to be the “normal one”, because my loved ones had bigger problems than my own guilt.
This toxic way of thinking made me mentally erase those bad traits, and I hyper focused on the things I was good at, even if I didn’t enjoy them. I became obsessed with perfecting them, putting the pressure on myself to succeed and if I saw the slightest falter, I changed course, trying to find something else that would make me worthy of all the opportunities that had been given to me. And in turn, this relativity made me mask my own anxiety and panic, as I made the harmful decision to self-diagnose them as uncontrolled dramatics.
But what I’ve learned in college is that I’m worthy, no matter what. Everyone is.
No one is a burden, an object, or an obstacle. Once I started looking at myself differently, I could experience life differently. I stopped making lists and just did what I wanted, what I needed, and what I expected of myself. I’m a person, and I don’t need to rationalize why I’m here or what I should be doing. My friends, family, and experiences taught me this: oh, and really good movies.
But it’s easier said than done. I still find myself, every single day, thinking about what others want for me and what I can do as an individual to be as minimally invasive as possible. The day I see my actions as contributions, my silly talents as valuable skills, and my role in the lives of those around me as truly a pillar of strength; this is what I work for and why I’m here.
From The Dead Poet’s Society, and Walter Whitman:
““Answer.
That you are here—that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.” What will your verse be?”
Emma K., Boston University
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