If all things fail…

When I was 18 I thought I would become a doctor or journalist. Perhaps a psychologist with a passion for archeology and religion. In those days, in my final year of the gymnasium, the Swedish equivalent of highschool, I had an average grade of 4.6 out of 5.0. What brought my average grade down were some bad scores in music, PE and drawing. And English, I never managed to get full score in either the written or oral exam. For some years to come I still held a grudge towards the teacher I did my final exam for. I was so close, but not quite.

Already in those days, did I compete with my fellow students. I lived for the tests and exams as in a way to prove myself and self-worth. I could do it then. The studying until midnight and getting up, five, six in the morning appeared strangely to agree with me.

I reserved the weekends for friends and boyfriend. To be precise, Friday and Saturday as Sunday was just another day of study. In hindsight I am not sure if this method of study did me any good. If anything, it diversified my interests, spreading them thinly across a large canvas that has become my life. In those days I believed I could do it all, be good in all of those subjects, make a difference, rule the world. How little did I know…

Life on the outside of school and studies proved to be very different. The first few years I could cope, I performed well in my environment, but that wasn’t enough. I wanted more. For some time, spanning over years, I lost focus. But last year I miraculously found it back again, Or so I thought. But now I wonder if in fact it was all a diversion. If I took on something I really wanted to do.

And that is not all. The worst part, which is consuming me, is having to live up to a certain standard that someone sets for me. And trust me, I take on this challenge myself..full heartedly. I am eager to prove myself, that in fact I am bright and intelligent. And yet it all falls so flat. Because whatever I take on doesn’t quite measure up.

The funny thing is that in some way, I’ve actually moved on. Gone are the competitions for fame and beauty. Fame never struck….and Beauty…well it left me a long time ago. Now I scramble to hide my wrinkles, veins and blotches. Rolls of fat, sagging breasts and the start of a pouch. It doesn’t really matter so much anymore. A new stick of measurement on a more humble scale is being used.

And so now I only measure myself against one person in my closest surrounding, someone that I can impossibly live up to. Even where my strengths are fairly decent, as in writing, do I fall short in both ambition and execution. I walk a fine line between challenge and acceptance. Somewhere between those two poles, positioned miles apart, do I tread a winding path, of which the end destination is unknown to me. At times I feel pride over small and insignificant accomplishments, other times I can only describe it as self-detest and contempt for my uncoordinated and haphazard attempts to anything I set my mind to.

Perhaps tomorrow it will all feel so different. And I’m convinced some people will react to this bleak self portrait I’ve just given. Well tomorrow is another day. And yet among all the failures that I’ve “accomplished”, if you can call it that, perhaps one that shines with its absence is my writing. You can tell me that it is a load of crap, not even worth the space on this page. And yet, I will continue to write. I must. It’s my only salvation…