Earlier today I made a post saying that we should all attempt to open up and be more vulnerable and to follow in my own words I wanted to take a chance and share a very vulnerable time in my life. I wrote the following not too long ago, but never really shared it with anyone. So here it goes: The word “persistence” has a definitive meaning that is accepted by most, if not everyone. However, through the course of my life, persistence has attributed a sentimental aspect to its definition. By examining my recent years in explicit detail, I can recall only one particular instance I can truly say I persisted. Growing up, things naturally came easily to me: dancing, painting, scrapbooking, sporting, running, cooking, gaming, building, writing, drawing; if you gave me the tools, I found a way to quickly achieve an above par product of that craft. Although many people would see this as a curse, it became my own undoing because what soon happened is that if it did not give me a challenge, I had very little long-term interest in it. No task manifested into a passion or lasting hobby; I would flip through activities like the pages of a dull magazine. While everyone else had their craft or trade that defined them, I was still lost; void of anything that defined my passion. When I entered high school and was exposed to the wide collection of recreational activities I was so eager to find my calling that I unknowingly committed myself to more tasks than possible to complete. My days were instantly booked with ASB meetings, class activity planning, debate practices, Math Club drills, tennis matches, cross-country meets, chess competitions, Kiwin’s community service projects, AP testing, yearbook editing, showcases, football games, photography portfolios, Spanish presentations, painting canvases, cleaning campuses and cooking dishes I could not begin to attempt pronouncing. With all these obligations, I found myself breaking down like a camel with one too many straws placed onto its back. Instead of finding my passion, I found myself bombarded with expectations. My responsibilities towered over me and the pressure weighed down on me with a relentless force. As a meager adolescent, with insecurities as much as anyone else, I could not bear it. Initially, I sought to self-mutilation in the form of cutting. Scientifically I was later told it was the release of endorphins and adrenaline that made me feel happier. However, the way I saw it was as the skin tore, the pressure momentarily eased. As the blood was expelled from my body, it carried with it my concerns. My arm quickly became a cutting board with incision upon incision. My first challenge I was truly faced with was finding a location on my forearm that has yet to be carved into with a fresh wound. Once the concerns reached the ears of high school officials and my parents were notified I was forced into psychiatric and therapeutic counseling faster than my head could wrap itself around. These professionals and I were scheduled to meet three times a week with no prospective end in sight. I became a guinea pig for anti-depressants; being recorded which I respond poorly to and which had no affect on me; each prescription a stronger dosage than the last. Like any other pubescent, I already had enough insecurities, but being told on a weekly basis by a doctor that there is a chemical imbalance in your brain that causes you to be relentlessly miserable is unparalleled to any insult you could receive on any playground. With a wrecked self-confidence, I sought the only coping mechanism I had: cutting. I was trapped in perpetual cycling of self-mutilation and a lowering self-esteem. Then one day, as I was slicing into my arm at the dead of the night, the first gateway out appeared to me: suicide. It was a clear answer: the burden would be lifted and I would finally be free. Dedicated, I picked up the blade and cut deeper than I have ever previously done. Then I did it again. And again, each time deeper than before. Soon my arm was coated in a sea of scarlet red blood and my limb went from a searing pain to cold numbness. I was so close to freedom I could taste it. As I was about to make what would be my final incision, the second gateway out appeared to me: hope. Something clicked within my head (perhaps another chemical imbalance, I’m not sure) and I was given such clarity. I told myself that I just need to learn my lesson, pick myself up, and endure. I was driven to continue with my tasks and responsibilities because one day it will get easier and be worth it. A few days later, instead of ending my life, I ended the stream of prescriptions that came in; cut the ties I had with my psychiatrists and therapists and took a stab at having hope. Looking back, this was the best decision I had ever made. If I were to logically ballpark the literal definition of persistence I would say it is the relentless application of one’s talents towards a desired goal. Although, from this situation, it has manifested a meaning that is ineffable to me but can best be described as having hope that once you endure your current difficulty and continue to persevere, your situation will get better. Furthermore, persistence is synonymous to survival because if I had not made that split instant decision to continue living my life despite its difficulty, I would be dead. As Calvin Coolidge, a FIJI, once said, “the slogan ‘Press On’ has solved and always will solve the problems of the human race”. Therefore when asked why I want to be a FIJI, the answer is rather simple: I support the values and the psychology the fraternity has to offer. In addition, the bonds of brotherhood that I have begun to build and the following relations I formed in the Greek system will supersede any superficial friendship that I have accumulated elsewhere. During that particular hour of darkness, the only pain that was more excruciating than the inflictions upon my arms was the loneliness that I experienced: a pain that has long since been felt as I accepted my bid. Mighty proud.
Posted on: Tue, 03 Jun 2014 07:51:07 +0000
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