Give me the strength to move this mountain, to block this line of sight…

Roughly two years ago now, my girlfriend of nearly a year and I broke up. The stress from school and what I was feeling because of that got to the point where I felt justified in giving up, and so I did. I caved under the pressure, and I let myself go for a long time. I can’t say, really, when it was that I collected the scattered pieces of myself. Maybe it was later that year (end of 11th grade), or maybe it wasn’t until the middle of last year (12th grade) when AP English grabbed me and shook me around a little. Either way, my average slipped in 11th grade, before ending strong in 12th.

        Entrance scholarship money at my university is based on your marks for the first semester of grade 12 and all of 11th grade. Basically, my 90% average meant nothing, because their calculations left it in the 85-90% range. At 85%, you received $2000. At 90%, you received $3000. If that were a one-time sum, that wouldn’t be so bad. But it’s renewable every year, provided you have the right grades, and so that’s a “potential” loss of $4000. If I don’t manage the A- required to keep it (something like 83%, which I feel relatively comfortable with), sure, I decrease that potential loss of money, as if that’s a good thing. The end result is that I lost out on at least a thousand bucks because I wanted to be miserable.

        I cried when Britt and I broke up, which is something I don’t do often. Never with anyone around, though, because I had to put on a strong face to keep people from knowing just how little they really knew about our relationship. Sure, they knew I put too much importance on her, but they didn’t know just how bad it was. So I didn’t let them find out.

        I cried in public on saturday, and that’s something I haven’t done since I was eleven.

        But I can’t afford to let myself slip this time. I know the stakes now, and I know the consequences for even momentary lapses in commitment.

        I don’t expect I’ll go for professional treatment, though my parents have offered it repeatedly. It may be biased, it may be unfair, but I’ve always had a feeling that I don’t need that kind of stuff. In my mind, I think of it as meant for “other people.” There’s nothing wrong with the “other people,” really, and I have nothing against them. If that’s what floats their boat, then everyone’s happy. I just like to build my own little raft and set off into the unknown.

        It’s rough learning this stuff on the fly, but experience is a wonderful teacher. I gots my little raft a-floatin’ just fine.

        In retrospect, I realize that I hold an untraceable prejudice against psychiatry that has always been prevalent and problematic for the profession. It’s not something I’ve been taught or otherwise told, it’s just there in my head. I certainly don’t judge people who go for professional help, but it’s quite possible I’ve ultimately hurt people by unconsciously spreading my unrealistic philosophy of independence. Ho-hum. Something to think about.