I thought I got it. I thought I understood. More importantly, I thought I FELT. Thinking is worthless.
For the number of times I’ve thought that, you’d think I’d have figured out by now that it can never be true, not really. Then again, thinking is useless.
It’s been four years since I went into college with 62 credits, five years since I got rejected from my favorite schools, six years since I scored too low on the SATs, seven years since I learned multivariable calculus. Five years since I led. My mock trial team to the state championship for the second time, six years since I stopped singing, seven years since I quit the violin. But I think I’ve been counting for all twenty-one.
You might recall, I’m good at counting. Valuing, not so much, but counting? Oh baby I can count all day.
I can’t list any of this without cringing at how overwhelmingly juvenile it is. Why? Because this is the truth:
I’m not over it.
I want to be, thought I was, wish I could, I hope to be, but I am not.
I’ve been lugging around a trash bag full of shit thinking it somehow entitles me to love. I can’t even remember all the rewards and certificates; I threw the physical things out years ago but apparently they’ve been taking up valuable headspace instead.
I spent eighteen years of my life filling up a UHaul with meaningless achievements and then I finally found a philosophy in which the main tenant is unconditional love, a philosophy which says I don’t have to earn a damn thing.
And what do I do?
I go and become the fucking star pupil.
Oh God, I am screwed. Because now how can I ever believe that I don’t have to earn it?
Faith. There isn’t a such thing as incontrovertible proof before a stubborn enough student. And to be sure, I can be. I’m good at arguing too, what do you know.
Here’s another truth for you:
I’m not over it because I don’t actually believe that I am worth anything on my own. Smart and talented are way more than just crutches now; they’ve become my actual limbs.
Good things happen with patience.