I hate it when I'm right.
I'm not competitive, but I do like to win an argument. I like to be right, whether it's defending the Oxford comma, explaining the rules of a game, or knowing the correct words to a song. But sometimes, I hate it when I'm right.
Anxiety is when you worry about things that might happen. One of the ways to conquer anxiety is to realize that the things that might happen probably won't happen and recognize those "what-if's" as anxiety, not reality.
But occasionally, my anxiety is right.
On Friday, January 22, 2016, I finally began a study-at-home schooling program that I had been meaning to start nearly two years prior. My parents had told me that if J and I were going to get married, that I would have to work hard on my school so that I would be able to have a job. So shortly after he returned to school, I began studying. I still worked 30-40 hours a week, so I studied when I got home and on my days off. Sometimes I studied eight hours a day. Sometimes it was challenging. Sometimes it was frustrating. There were countless occasions when I cried in frustration and said I wanted to quit. But I didn't quit.
December 02, 2016. Nearly a year later, I'd finally finished almost 400 pages of schoolwork. I printed it off to mail it in to be graded and...it was a disaster. The margins were screwed up and I had to pay to have all 400 pages reprinted. I finally sent it in and posted a victorious photo on Instagram with the caption, "Mailed in this baby today!" The congratulatory comments flooded in. Though the day had been frustrating, it was finally done!
December 08, 2016 was the day I received the phone call saying that I did not pass my course. I had to redo the first third. I had to go to work, so I had to keep it together for most of the day. Then I came home and sat in my mom's lap and cried. I had been told there were too many typos and that they were careless typos. But I'd proofread it at least three times, so I was confused as to how I could've missed so many typos.
December 08, 2016 was the day I received the phone call saying that I did not pass my course. I had to redo the first third. I had to go to work, so I had to keep it together for most of the day. Then I came home and sat in my mom's lap and cried. I had been told there were too many typos and that they were careless typos. But I'd proofread it at least three times, so I was confused as to how I could've missed so many typos.
March 07, 2017 - Sitting on a sofa across from my therapist, I said I was scared that I wouldn't pass my school, but I acknowledged I "assumed" a lot. I admitted that I would probably pass.
March 15, 2017 - The day that my anxiety triumphed and said, "I was right. You should've listened to me. I was right." The phone rang, and I waited for the magical words that said I passed and could continue on to the next section. Those words never came. Instead I was told how I was given a second chance, how I'd blown it, and how I would have to quit the program. "Bad" was the word used to describe my work. My pages and pages of work, the countless hours, the 10 months of my life, the nights I stayed up until 1:00 or 2:00 in the morning studying... "bad." I'm not saying that it wasn't "bad." I obviously am not any good at it, so perhaps "bad" is the correct term. But I wish I could've heard something else... "I'm sorry, but I don't think this is the job for you" or, "This job just isn't the right fit for you." I know that there are many people who have worked much harder than me and I'm not sharing this information to try to show off or compare. I'm not trying to say that my work was worth anything at all.
It's not that I hate it when I'm right.
I hate it when my anxiety is right.
March 16, 2017. I have no clue what to do. I know that every experience is worth something, regardless of the results. But there's a pile of textbooks lying on my floor and 400 pages of worthless, handwritten worksheets that tell a different story. There's the fear that I won't have a job now, that I'll have to look for a job and that I might not be able to find one. There's the panic at the thought of being helpless, jobless, if somehow I can't find a job. I know it's my anxiety talking. But what if my anxiety isn't lying to me? What if it's right?
March 25, 2017. I'm burning my schoolwork. I just want it gone. Out of my room. Out of my life.
It's not because I'm bitter.
Just disappointed.
Or maybe destroyed is a better word.
But from this failure, perhaps new opportunities will arise. Or perhaps they won't. Maybe my optimism will prevail. Or maybe my anxiety will be right again.
March 15, 2017 - The day that my anxiety triumphed and said, "I was right. You should've listened to me. I was right." The phone rang, and I waited for the magical words that said I passed and could continue on to the next section. Those words never came. Instead I was told how I was given a second chance, how I'd blown it, and how I would have to quit the program. "Bad" was the word used to describe my work. My pages and pages of work, the countless hours, the 10 months of my life, the nights I stayed up until 1:00 or 2:00 in the morning studying... "bad." I'm not saying that it wasn't "bad." I obviously am not any good at it, so perhaps "bad" is the correct term. But I wish I could've heard something else... "I'm sorry, but I don't think this is the job for you" or, "This job just isn't the right fit for you." I know that there are many people who have worked much harder than me and I'm not sharing this information to try to show off or compare. I'm not trying to say that my work was worth anything at all.
It's not that I hate it when I'm right.
I hate it when my anxiety is right.
March 16, 2017. I have no clue what to do. I know that every experience is worth something, regardless of the results. But there's a pile of textbooks lying on my floor and 400 pages of worthless, handwritten worksheets that tell a different story. There's the fear that I won't have a job now, that I'll have to look for a job and that I might not be able to find one. There's the panic at the thought of being helpless, jobless, if somehow I can't find a job. I know it's my anxiety talking. But what if my anxiety isn't lying to me? What if it's right?
March 25, 2017. I'm burning my schoolwork. I just want it gone. Out of my room. Out of my life.
It's not because I'm bitter.
Just disappointed.
Or maybe destroyed is a better word.
But from this failure, perhaps new opportunities will arise. Or perhaps they won't. Maybe my optimism will prevail. Or maybe my anxiety will be right again.
I'm so sorry Kara - I can't imagine!!!
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