Don't get your hopes up...

I'm not really posting. What I need is for you (yes, all of you, because the only people who read this are my close friends) to read this following narrative/personal inquiry and respond to it in the comments section.

Ok, so here's the deal: this thing is kind of long. I'm sure you've noticed that by now. If you don't have time to read it, I understand. No big deal. However, if you can and are willing, I would be very grateful.

Disclaimer: I have reservastions about posting this because it so personally examines me, and it involves Kris and Em. You two better know that I love everything about both of you, and this paper is supposed to be a commentary/exploration of me and me alone.

Anyway, without further ado, here it is:

Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Journal entry
Dear journal:
Today was a wonderful day, until now. I hate the walk back to the dorm after rehearsal. For some reason I get contemplative, and my post-rehearsal musings have ruined many an otherwise lovely day. Apparently today is no exception. Tonight’s musings carried me back to this afternoon’s juggling practice. So, I guess its story time. Once upon a time, in a land of college students, frequent Spanish speaking, and non-indigenous palm trees, there lived a young woman, and she was learning, among other things, the art of juggling…
“Hey Mark, are you using these right now?”
“Nope, go for it.”
“Thanks. I haven’t practiced all week.”
“Didn’t you get some clubs for your birthday?”
“Yeah, but they’re really cheap, so I just left them at my house in Gilbert.”
“I’m sure someone here could scrounge up three for you if you want to practice during the week.”
“That would be great! Thanks Mark. I’ve just been doing three ball tricks during the week. I still don’t have the reverse cascade. The balls keep hitting each other.”
“It’ll come. You just have to keep trying. One time it’ll just click.”
“Yeah. I’ll keep at it.” I walked over to Mark’s gear and picked up his clubs.
“You hit yourself in the head yet?” he asked.
“Oh yeah, but at this point I can usually get my head out of the way.” Mark smiled and turned to juggle his other clubs, and I breathed a deep breath before clumsily throwing the first club into the pattern.
“Hey, how long have you been doing clubs?” Leah inquired.
“A couple weeks,” I replied.
“Wow, last time I was here, weren’t you just starting balls?”
“Yeah, well I’ve known the basic cascade since April, but everything else I started learning when you saw me last.”
“Well, you’re doing a great job.”
“Wow, thank you!” At this point, Dave asked Leah where she had been the last few weeks, and I turned my attention back to the clubs, grinning with satisfaction. My first toss was solid, my second toss too low, and my third outside of the pattern completely. I frowned. “Such improvement!” I thought to myself. Scanning the jugglers around me, I thought, “This is demoralizing. I’ll never be able to do that. Why do I even try?” I sighed and gazed down at the clubs in my hands. After a moment, I looked up, pursed my lips, inhaled and exhaled slowly through my nose, bent my knees slightly, and began my haphazard three-club pattern yet again. Practice makes perfect, after all.
An hour later, I heard the campus bells ring out, indicating it was 5:45 pm. “Oh, I have to go! I have to get dinner and go to play rehearsal.” Miraculously, I arrived at rehearsal with a minute to spare, despite the sloth-like pace of the Chickfila personnel that prepared my order. Rehearsal proceeded as usual, and although there were no mishaps, I approached my director afterwards to address something that bothered me. “Karole, can I ask you something?”
“Sure sweetie, what’s up?”
“I was wondering if you have any advice for me on how to be a queen. I’ve been working on it, but some things just don’t feel like Queen Gertrude just yet, and I’m not always sure what a queen would and would not do.”
She nodded understandingly, thought for a moment, and then began, “Well, you’re smoothing her out a little every time. And you carry yourself like a queen, and you speak like a queen—you know, welcoming and kind but sharp when you don’t get what you want. I don’t know, I could pay closer attention, but I think it’s all good. Your costume will help get rid of some of your not feeling queenly, and the rest is just you playing with the lines until they feel right.” By now we were walking out the door and were fixing to go our separate ways.
“Alright,” I said. She tilted her head, and examined my face.
“You’re doing fine,” she said tenderly.
“Thanks…”
“Really, you’re doing fine,” she reassured me.
“Ok. I’ll see you tomorrow, Karole,” I said, turning to go as her elevator opened and she stepped in. “Why can’t I just be happy with my acting?” I questioned aloud once outside. “Gah, I am pathetic! No one likes an unconfident actor! Snap out of it, Lindsey, seriously!” I felt nauseous and dizzy, my temples pulsated and my stomach churned. My escalating tirade was abruptly interrupted when my phone rang. I started at the sound. Then, glancing at the caller ID, I rolled my eyes and smiled. “How does she always know when to call?” I wondered to myself. “Hey, Kristen.”
“Hi Lindsey! “How are you?”
“I’m doing ok.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Man, I hate that she understands my euphemisms.” I thought to myself. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m just frustrated with myself again.”
“How come?”
“Well, I haven’t been feeling great about the work I’m doing as Queen Gertrude lately—not bad, just not stellar—and so I asked my director for advice and she didn’t really have any to give me but she told me I am doing fine.”
“So you’re doing fine. What’s the problem?”
“Well, I’m only doing fine, for one thing, but she doesn’t have any suggestions for making it better than fine. And it just seemed like she knew I was feeling insecure and that’s why she told me I’m doing fine. I mean, she did say that I’m doing a little better each time, and that I walk and talk pretty much like a queen but…oh, I don’t know. I was fishing for compliments again, and I hate it when I do that.”
“You keep telling me that you fish for compliments all the time, but I don’t see that. What do you mean?”
“Oh, I insult myself or downplay everything I do to hear people tell me I’m doing great…I can’t believe you don’t know that, I do it to you all the time. I guess you just don’t notice.”
“Well, why do you do that if you don’t want to?”
“I don’t know…I don’t know where it all comes from…I just wish it would go away.” My voice trailed off, and I fell silent. I was afraid to keep talking. I thought that if I did, soon I would be fishing for compliments by lamenting the fact that I fish for compliments, and that is an ironic level of pathetic that I wanted to avoid.
“Are you still there?” Kristen asked softly.
“Yeah, I’m just thinking.”
“What are you thinking about?”
“I was thinking about something that happened during rehearsal for Twelfth Night sophomore year.”
“You gonna tell me what it is?”
“Sure. We were recently off-book and rehearsing without our scripts, which means we started making more drastic character choices. You know, playing with the lines, defining our physicality, establishing chemistry with others on stage, and so on. And at the end of rehearsal every day, Ms. Biederman would give us notes. And one of the only notes she gave me was, ‘Lindsey, stop looking at me.’
I knew exactly what she was talking about, but I pretended to be confused and responded, ‘What do you mean?’
Of course she gave me the answer I expected, ‘Every time you say a line or make a decision, you look at me to see if I reacted or approved. You are the character. Just be the character, don’t look at me for endorsement.’
I smiled at her and diligently took down the note like a good actor should, but honestly, when she said that, my heart stopped for a moment. I felt like I was going to throw up. I couldn’t believe someone caught me being honestly, inexcusably self-conscious. It was the first time it manifested without me being in control, or without me masking it as a light dig at myself or misplaced modesty or something. It freaked me out.” Suddenly I didn’t want to talk anymore.
“Lindsey, are you there?”
“I’m here. Hey, I’m pretty tired. I think I’m just gonna go to bed. I’m totally fine, don’t worry about me. Just my usual self-deprecating tendencies. Nothing new. No worries, Kris, I really am fine. Please don’t worry about me, because I know you will, and you really don’t have to.” Lies, all lies…but I needed to think. “For once, deal with your own issues! Your issue is always looking for other people’s advice, for goodness sake! How do you expect to fix that by talking to someone else? It’s ludicrous!”
“Ok, Lindsey. I’ll talk to you later then, ok?”
“Yeah, for sure. Of course, Kris, I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Alright. I love you!”
“I love you too, Kris. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
I hung up the phone, and plopped down on a concrete bench near my dorm house. The area was quiet, with distant voices and cricket chirps warding off the eerie silence of night. A tree draped overhead, and the small leaves speckled the seat of the bench. It seemed a good place to think, so I set aside my backpack, turned off my phone, and settled in. “Why do I do this to myself?” I wondered helplessly. “What makes me so bent on being dissatisfied with everything I do?” I realized that I was being hard on myself for being hard on myself, and that would lead me no where positive. So instead of continuing down the path of self-reprimand, I forced myself to remember something good about myself. The first example that came to mind was the variety show.
Countless hours, a couple nervous breakdowns, and many, many post-it notes later, I managed to instigate, organize, promote, and host “A Night of Heroes: a Charity Variety Show” almost entirely by myself, even as a mere eleventh grader. Mr. Jordan had no faith in me, which is why he removed his support and the support of drama club, and almost caused the ruin of the entire thing. He was irritated to discover I found new sponsorship for the show, even after he went to another organization to finagle a promise not to lend their support (he underestimated my abilities). Consequently, his best friend Brian, the auditorium manager (who had to work the light and sound cues for my show as a part of his job), shared Mr. Jordan’s disdain for my endeavor. I remember one incident particularly clearly:
“Lindsey, I need to talk to you,” Brian said to me sharply. I stifled my disinclination to speak to him, and patiently accompanied him to the side of the stage.
“I can’t do anything with these,” he snapped, sweeping his arm angrily to gesture at the microphones lying on the floor.
“What do you mean?” I inquired, straining to appear calm. “These are the microphones you told me you needed for Advanced Vocal. These are what the choir director gave me.”
“I need the chords,” he said, as if everyone in the universe understood his unspoken needs except me.
“Where are the chords?”
“In the choir room.” Of course they were. The choir director had made it expressly clear that she was leaving early and was not coming back. Now it was 5 o’clock in the evening, the show was two hours away, and my opening act had no microphones.
“Do you have a key to the choir room?”
“Yes.”
“Can we go in there and get the chords, then?”
“No, they’re in the closet, and no one has a key to that except Miss Flint.”
“Uhh…ok, I’ll see what I can do.” I hurried out into the hallway and began to pray, “God, I don’t know what to do. Please, please, please help me.” At that moment, I turned the corner, glancing into the choir room as I passed by. Inside was a small, wrinkled Oriental woman eating dinner alone. “No way…” I knocked frantically on the door. She jumped in her seat, turned to see my eager face through the small window, got up, and opened the door.
“Can I help you?” she asked in a melodic tone.
“Do you have a key to that room?” I asked, pointing at the choir room closet.
“No, only head custodian have a key for there,” she explained.
“Who is the head custodian?”
“Bob.”
“Is Bob here?”
“Yes,” she replied gaily.
“Can you take me to him?” I asked, trying to suppress my giddiness until the chords were in my hands. Without saying anything, she smiled wide and led the way. After meeting Bob and quickly explaining my quandary, he gladly accompanied me back to the choir room and opened the door. Instead of retrieving the chords myself, I found Brian. “The door is open. Could you come with me and get whatever you need?” I cooed when I saw him. Appearing dumbfounded and slightly perturbed, he followed me to the room and got the chords.
“See?” I thought to myself, shifting into a cross-legged position on the bench. “Without my constant persistence, the variety show never would have happened.” For a moment I was satisfied. Unfortunately, I could not dismiss the issue so easily. “So why this confidence deficiency? If I am able to persevere in spite of obstacles in my path, like with juggling or the variety show, then why do I constantly long for overt, unmistakable, resounding affirmation from others? Why the unrelenting need for compliments? What moved me to ask Karole those questions? What caused me to unknowingly glance at Ms. Biederman’s face during rehearsals? And why are some compliments not good enough? Why were Leah’s and Karole’s compliments insufficient for me? Have I always been this way?” A breeze began to blow as I sat on the bench, struggling to recount a moment in my past that displayed the persistence with which I now attack everything in life, including myself. I drew my knees up to my chest, resting my chin between them, and let out a single shudder before adjusting to the cold and returning to my thoughts. “What about elementary school?” Nothing sprung to mind. “Maybe it wasn’t there yet…but then when?” As I mused over this point, I finally summoned one incident in the 5th grade, a story lovingly titled by those who have heard it, “The Band Aid Story.”
“Mr. Amerson, may I have a band aid?” I asked after he called on me.
“No.” He turned away and continued teaching.
“Is he serious? All I want is a band aid! Maybe he didn’t hear me…”
“Mr. Amerson,” I began again after he called on me, “can I have a band aid for my finger?”
“No.” Again he turned back to the lesson on the board. I raised my hand again.
“Can I have a band aid?” I asked after he called on me for the third time.
“No, Lindsey.”
“But…” I was cut off as he abruptly turned the other way. At this point my finger had lost hope of receiving a band aid and clotted itself, but it was the principle of the thing. I raised my hand again, wondering if he would call on me at all. For whatever reason, he did.
“Mr. Amerson, can I please have a band aid?”
“Lindsey, let’s say you’re a girl scout, and you are on a hike with them and you trip and scrape your knee. Now are you going to tough it out and keep going, or are you going to stop everything to ask for a band aid?” Without taking even a moment to think, I planted my hands firmly on the desk, looked him straight in the eye, and said,
“I’m going to stop and ask for a band aid.” He glared at me, and then quickly diverted his angry stare to the class, effectively silencing their giggles. Then, his head cocked and shoulders clenched by his ears, he walked back to the front of the classroom. A moment later, my arm was again in the air. Without a word, he marched over to his desk, opened a drawer, removed something, approached my desk, and set in front of me a band aid. With a slight air of triumph, I said sweetly, “Thank you.”
As my recollection ended, I felt a sudden chill, but the tree didn’t rustle, the leaves didn’t swirl, and it wasn’t cold outside. “When I got that band aid from Mr. Amerson, I got what I wanted—I accomplished my goal—but at a price. Now in various ways, I require band aids from people in order to feel accomplished in and of myself. Other people…the things I do are all defined by other people. I have reached the point where I need validation to confirm that whatever I am doing is correct, or that I am doing a good job. I need to get the band aid from people to prove that I needed the band aid. And I imagine my ideal band aid, inevitably setting the bar inordinately high, so that most compliments fall short of what I desired, and just make me feel worse! Consequently, I prolong every band aid request. Additionally, I have created a safety net for myself so that, if I am ever unable to pursue perfect correctness—if I ever stop asking others for band aids—then people know something is wrong, and the band aids are offered freely in droves. Like when I began college, I was incapable of mustering enthusiasm toward anything, and people recognized such a change in me that they rushed to offer their band aids…
“You’re strong, Lindsey. You’ll be just fine.” –Mom
“You can come home whenever you want.” –Dad
“I just wish I could make you feel better like you always make me feel better.” –Kristen
“You will make your best friends in college.” –Beth
“I know how you feel, Linds, but at least we’ll always be best friends.” –Emily
“How are you doing in college? Better?” –Jan
“Depression is not an uncommon thing, and there is no shame in getting help.” –Michal Ann
“I understand. It’ll get better.” –A slew of people
“Let’s bring this to Jesus together.” –Kelly
Wait…that last one wasn’t much of a band aid, but it stopped the bleeding. What Kelly said didn’t make me feel better about myself or my situation, but simply reminded me that Jesus is in me, and when I press into Jesus, even if I don’t get the band aid I am after, His ways are perfect and His life sustains me. I realized that, in order to stop needing band aids, I need to lean on Jesus. And that truth is still applicable! I guess I just forget at times." Rising to my feet, I breathed in the crisp night air and walked to my dorm, singing worship choruses as I went.

November 25, 2008
Facebook quandary
I am at a loss. How is it that I can’t even set my Facebook status anymore? This is ridiculous.

Lindsey is too sad to work…but she has to…

No way, that is a huge band aid request. Everyone and their mom and their dog would comment that status, attempting to make a good showing as a friend, not to mention Kristen and Emily would mobilize into Lindsey-is-depressed-we-better-pray mode and I don’t want to lay that on them.

Lindsey is feeling a little funky.

No, still too needy. I don’t want sympathy from Sarah and Laura, I want them to communicate with me freely of their own accord.

Lindsey doesn’t know what to say…

Well, obviously it is true, but it sounds depressed. They will know, and I will still feel like I elicited any communication they “initiate” which means the band aid will not make the bleeding stop. I want the bleeding to stop. What I really want is for the bleeding to stop starting!

Lindsey is confused.

Also true, and also too depressing. Why can’t I bring myself to type something that is neutral enough to satisfy me? Probably because describing my current status would include some emotional something-something since all I can think about at the moment is whether or not Sarah and Laura and the others in the cast like me enough to keep in contact with me and be friends with me on their own, away from the theatre department. But the only way to find out is…well, to lie about my status, for a start.

Lindsey has a lot of work to do.

Crap, I can’t leave that either. It just feels too deceptive, like all that I am thinking about is homework. That could not be farther from the truth.

Lindsey really needs Jesus.

That is always true, but Kristen’s Lindsey-is-invoking-her-reliance-on-Jesus-something-must-be-wrong antenna will go up, and unfortunately she would be right.

Lindsey is a dork.

Fine. I can live with that. “Dork” is my euphemism for “pathetic” and “needs to stop caring what people think” and “is dwelling too much on stupid things” and “should grow a spine!!!” and a myriad of other things, but it is nondescript enough that it should slip under everyone’s concern radar, so I feel secure that any communication after that status post will only happen if the person wants to talk to me.

Wait, how about this one: Lindsey loves Jesus!

Yes. It is accurate, it is impossible for it to evoke anything resembling sympathy, and it is still the truth at the core of my heart, even in the midst of my deep desire for band aids from people. Did I learn nothing from my night under the tree? And besides, neither Sarah nor Laura is a Christian, so this status won’t precipitate anything from them, which means if they do talk to me, it will be because they want to talk to me. I know in my mind that with Jesus, I don’t need it. I just hope my heart apprehends it so this doesn’t happen again…

November 25, 2008
Journal entry
Dear journal:
I am making cuts in other people! Every time I reach out for a band aid, I scratch the person giving it to me, but he or she loves me too much to say anything, to even make a sound or let loose an involuntary, “Ouch!” This very second I insulted my physical appearance in a text to Emily, and the reply was this: “Oh shut up. I’m going to be honest with you: it all starts with you. Before you will see any improvements (in your eyes) you first need to stop being so cynical towards yourself. You are at a healthy weight and you look fine. I am sorry to lecture but I tolerate the way you treat yourself but it is getting to be too much. I don’t know what is going through your head, but as your best friend this is me being honest to you.” Whoa. How did I screw this up so quickly? And someone finally said, “Ouch!” This has to stop.

Jesus, I see now that my desire for perfection in every aspect of my life has not only hurt me and made me question everything I am—everything you have made me!—but it also hurts the people around me. Even though my intentions were sometimes good, like with juggling and the variety show, and other times were not knowingly bad, like when I talked to Karole or commented to Emily, the problem is that I have made everything about me. I am so concerned with how others perceive me! That is why I work so hard to be good at everything, and when I feel like I am not doing well, I reach out to others to assure me that I am. Jesus, I don’t want to rely on the opinions and reassurances of other people. I don’t want to define who I am by the things I do. The things of this world, the effort I put forth in my own strength, is temporal and will pass away. And perfection—for all but you, Jesus—is a superstition, and I have blindly chased after it in hopes of validating myself, when all the time joy and peace that surpass understanding are in you.