the end of undergraduate

After I deposited my final exam into my professor’s box, I realized that in the end you are always alone.  There were no trumpets.  There was no confetti.  No balloons.  No one to say congratulations in that annoyingly effervescent tone that makes you think holidays are not worth any one’s time.  Heck! there was no one to even give me a cheesy high five like on Saved by the Bell.  As I marched down the end of the hall to welcome the end, I dropped my paper into the box outside her office.  I watched the paper flutter flatly landing with a papery plop onto the other papers.  There was not even another student with whom to share the ThankGodthatone’sover smile.  I thought it was a let down, anti-climatic in every sense of the word . . . and extremely lonely, as I said before.

There have been no pent-up confessions of hotly burning amor from the past four years.   There has been nothing uncharacteristically dramatic on any one’s part.  No broken friendships.  No newly formed friendships.  Only to leave me with the question, “Was any of this real?” Instead, what has replaced that newly understood unreasonable expectation is a flood of self-doubt.  Incredibly self-conscious, realizing that it is very probable that I had been imagining the significance of a certain friendship/relationship.  I had convinced everyone around me.  Worse, I had convinced myself.  Presently, I feel like I have been duped.  And the worst part of it is knowing that I had fooled myself for four years.  I had never trusted other people.  I keep everyone at a distance, to a certain extent.  But now I can not even trust myself.  I can’t trust myself.  I can’t trust my feelings.

 I do not feel that I have become the woman that I imagined I would be after college.  I do not have that unwavering conviction that I pretend to have, which in actuality, manifests itself as hostility – the defensive mechanism’s evil cousin.  I am not the writer I wanted to be.  I do not blow anyone out of the water with my words.  I do not like to read anything that I have written.  I am not the insightful analyst nor critical thinker.  Every thought that formulates itself in my brain twists my nerve endings into a knot that is impossible to undo.  My thoughts weave in and out of this knot losing itself, obscured from the light of illuminating clarity.  I am not the sharp-tongued, witty, quick on my feet, incredibly sharp woman that I had planned to be.  I watch.  I listen.  i don’t speak.  I have no confidence in my language.

I do not feel accomplished.  In fact, I feel I have managed, once again, to barely get by without the discovery that I really am incompetent, incapable, unreliable, and slow on the uptake.  


One comment

  1. Hey – I was browsing wordpress, trying to figure out if I want to start a new blog with them or not. My old blog was – but I’m not in Jordan anymore, so…

    Your post, and some of my experiences of the past few weeks have made me think. Does being conscious of something make a difference?

    I really think it does. You turning in your final exam and being like, “wow, that was anti-climactic, and I don’t feel any accomplishment,” is completely different from turning in your final exam without realizing that.

    I don’t know anything about you at all, but it seems to me that people who are conscious of themselves really can’t be completely incompetent or incapable.

    I guess what I’m trying to say is don’t be too hard on yourself, congratulations for finishing, and if you don’t feel accomplishment for the things you’ve done, at least feel accomplishment that you realized you don’t feel accomplishment, because that kind of self-awareness is probably the most important thing to learn in life, anyway.

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