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What is it about academia that gives me knots in my guts?
I met with a professor today, and though it went okay, it didn't go great. Didn't have enough questions to ask her, wasn't zeroed in on her field, felt like I was wasting her time. But I know I wasn't. And I know she didn't react to me poorly. I just...When I am in an academic setting, I feel kind of hypersensitive. Like I -must-make-a-good-impression!! As if I am either Brilliant or Moronic or Crushingly Mediocre.
In college, this led to a pursuit of slightly above mediocrity. Now, I have something else on my side. For every little voice in my head that says "you are a Moron and everyone you have ever interacted with agrees", there's a louder voice saying "you can do this. you are capable of doing this. put in the damn effort, wuss!" It's not exactly reassuring; this voice finds my moronitude, mediocrity, or depression fully irrelevant to the task at hand.
But that voice is enough to get me through, I hope. It's not merciful, and it's not comforting; it's like a little taskmaster on my shoulder demanding that I stop wallowing and start working to fix things.
Is this a sign of maturity? Or neurosis? Either way, I think it's helping me.
I met with a professor today, and though it went okay, it didn't go great. Didn't have enough questions to ask her, wasn't zeroed in on her field, felt like I was wasting her time. But I know I wasn't. And I know she didn't react to me poorly. I just...When I am in an academic setting, I feel kind of hypersensitive. Like I -must-make-a-good-impression!! As if I am either Brilliant or Moronic or Crushingly Mediocre.
In college, this led to a pursuit of slightly above mediocrity. Now, I have something else on my side. For every little voice in my head that says "you are a Moron and everyone you have ever interacted with agrees", there's a louder voice saying "you can do this. you are capable of doing this. put in the damn effort, wuss!" It's not exactly reassuring; this voice finds my moronitude, mediocrity, or depression fully irrelevant to the task at hand.
But that voice is enough to get me through, I hope. It's not merciful, and it's not comforting; it's like a little taskmaster on my shoulder demanding that I stop wallowing and start working to fix things.
Is this a sign of maturity? Or neurosis? Either way, I think it's helping me.