Never good enough?
Mar. 3rd, 2007 02:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
readingredheadSo I got into Berkeley. I went up to LA today for the interview for the Regent's/Chancellor's Scholarship and the lady who signed me in shook my hand and said, "I want to be the first person to congratulate you on your acceptance to this school." Dad was there with me and he was freaking out, because Berkeley's his Alma Mater and I'm sure he'd like to see me go there.
But (and I feel like an unappreciative freak for saying this) I wasn't freaking out. In a way, I'd been expecting it. "So I'm into Berkeley," I've been thinking. "So what?" True, I'd like to go there; true, out of the colleges that have accepted me at the moment, it's undoubtedly the one I'm going to (did I mention I also got into Santa Barbara?). But I'm not excited. I don't feel happy for myself. I don't feel any different than I did before I knew for sure that I'd been accepted. It's not a big deal.
And I think it's because of my expectations. I've set them so high...when I set them I didn't think they were impossible. When I fell in love with Stanford, I didn't realize it was the one thing I wanted that I wouldn't get. But regardless of how well I set my expectations, they're set, and I'm realizing that nothing short of being accepted to Stanford will make me happy. I know universities other than Stanford will make me happy -- Berkeley's a good example of that -- but the finding out, the "oh my god I got in" moment, will only happen if I get into Stanford.
If. I hate that word. It means there's something I don't know. In a way it's possibilities -- but not just for good. Bad stuff can happen to an "if," not just good stuff. "If" might mean anything. And a lot of "anything" sucks.
I hate it that I can't feel proud of my own accomplishments. In a way, though, it's why I'm here. I'm always trying to do something better, no matter what it is. When I accomplish one thing, I'm already looking ahead to the next. That's how I am in writing, certainly -- I have moments where I allow myself to feel excited, but also sometimes I just get right on working with the next project, the next set of characters and turns of phrase. It's what's gotten me this far: my ability to keep reaching outward and outward, to set my standards higher and higher. Which is why it feels so shitty when I can't reach them, or I'm not sure if I've reached them, or I should have reached them but someone on the outside says I haven't, except for some stupid reason or another, what they have to say matters more than what I know. I hate that.
I think, though, once again, that it's too much a part of me to get rid of. I've always been about impossible dreams. I see myself most clearly in the third-grader who came home from school one day to tell mommy and daddy that she'd be a published writer when she grew up; in the fifth-grader who began the creation of an entire fantasy world from scratch; in the seventh-grader who picked up those fifth-grade characters and worlds and thought she could resurrect them and turn them into something worthwhile; in the ninth-grader who re-resurrected the same story and decided she would have it written and published before she graduated high school. I see myself most clearly in these shadow dreams, goals I once had. In writing, I've been able to compromise with myself -- I've been able to talk myself out of some of my more ridiculous goals, which has made the intermediary milestones seem more important. But I don't think I've been able to do that with college, because I'm not excited about Berkeley, and I don't think I will be unless (until?) it's the last choice I have left.
But (and I feel like an unappreciative freak for saying this) I wasn't freaking out. In a way, I'd been expecting it. "So I'm into Berkeley," I've been thinking. "So what?" True, I'd like to go there; true, out of the colleges that have accepted me at the moment, it's undoubtedly the one I'm going to (did I mention I also got into Santa Barbara?). But I'm not excited. I don't feel happy for myself. I don't feel any different than I did before I knew for sure that I'd been accepted. It's not a big deal.
And I think it's because of my expectations. I've set them so high...when I set them I didn't think they were impossible. When I fell in love with Stanford, I didn't realize it was the one thing I wanted that I wouldn't get. But regardless of how well I set my expectations, they're set, and I'm realizing that nothing short of being accepted to Stanford will make me happy. I know universities other than Stanford will make me happy -- Berkeley's a good example of that -- but the finding out, the "oh my god I got in" moment, will only happen if I get into Stanford.
If. I hate that word. It means there's something I don't know. In a way it's possibilities -- but not just for good. Bad stuff can happen to an "if," not just good stuff. "If" might mean anything. And a lot of "anything" sucks.
I hate it that I can't feel proud of my own accomplishments. In a way, though, it's why I'm here. I'm always trying to do something better, no matter what it is. When I accomplish one thing, I'm already looking ahead to the next. That's how I am in writing, certainly -- I have moments where I allow myself to feel excited, but also sometimes I just get right on working with the next project, the next set of characters and turns of phrase. It's what's gotten me this far: my ability to keep reaching outward and outward, to set my standards higher and higher. Which is why it feels so shitty when I can't reach them, or I'm not sure if I've reached them, or I should have reached them but someone on the outside says I haven't, except for some stupid reason or another, what they have to say matters more than what I know. I hate that.
I think, though, once again, that it's too much a part of me to get rid of. I've always been about impossible dreams. I see myself most clearly in the third-grader who came home from school one day to tell mommy and daddy that she'd be a published writer when she grew up; in the fifth-grader who began the creation of an entire fantasy world from scratch; in the seventh-grader who picked up those fifth-grade characters and worlds and thought she could resurrect them and turn them into something worthwhile; in the ninth-grader who re-resurrected the same story and decided she would have it written and published before she graduated high school. I see myself most clearly in these shadow dreams, goals I once had. In writing, I've been able to compromise with myself -- I've been able to talk myself out of some of my more ridiculous goals, which has made the intermediary milestones seem more important. But I don't think I've been able to do that with college, because I'm not excited about Berkeley, and I don't think I will be unless (until?) it's the last choice I have left.
