And the Meaning of Life is...My GPA?

I’ve always prided myself on being at least somewhat intelligent. I was the annoying kid in elementary and middle school who rarely ever studied and still walked away with nearly perfect grades in all subjects. Being homeschooled from Kindergarten to 7^th grade meant that I could learn at a variety of grade levels, being taught a grade above my age level in all subjects except math, which I was taught at grade level, and reading, which I was at an advanced level so my parents had me reading adult and teen level books and writing book reports by the age of 8. The only area I didn’t seem to excel was math and so I avoided it like the plague. While I did alright in school, I didn’t really begin to care about grades until around my senior year of high school, worried about getting into a college. I didn’t really have to worry, I was accepted into every school I applied to and I was offered some small scholarships to all of them. My plans changed drastically when my sister died and thoughts of going out of state for college disappeared, all I wanted was to be close to my family especially my niece who would be going to high school just a year after I entered college. Being completely overwhelmed and worrying about my family’s lack of finances, I went to community college and my quest to prove myself began. Upon entering college, I realized that it wasn’t as difficult as I had been led to believe it would be, sure I needed to study, but I never had to pull any all nighters—Sorry to everyone bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, I’m really not trying to rub it in.

However, it was at this point I started to become obsessed with grades. There is a concept called external contingency of self-esteem, this is where one bases one’s self-esteem on external objects or ideas rather than internal. For some it is looks, money, or possessions; for me, it was my grade point average. I always felt like a bit of a one hit wonder, my worth, my identity almost completely wrapped up on some single point, the one thing I was good at. For the first few years of high school, I was the girl who could sing. I was the soloist in my high school choir and everything I was hinged on that position, of course, that was until our choir teacher left and a teacher with a whole new style came in. I remained the girl who could sing at my school until my sister died, and suddenly all anyone knew about me was that I was the girl whose sister died.

After my sister died I was desperate to reinvent myself, to throw myself in something, to find something by which I could be identified without being reminded of what I lost. In college, I thought I found it, in my mind my GPA was a measure of my intelligence, every A told me I was someone worthwhile, while every B or lower told me I wasn’t. I would spend hours studying, at one point I clocked over 18 hours of straight studying on the weekend. Family, internet, studying, and the few friends I had left from High school was all I had. My friends had all dispersed to different universities and colleges so during the school year I felt incredibly alone. People talked about how fun college was while I had a mental breakdown and contemplated suicide over a C + on an exam; no fun clubs, no college parties, no new and interesting friends, but I thought it was all worth it because at least I was smart and I thought that would be how everyone saw me. I told myself that if I could turn my life around and be successful and create some form of value for that maybe I could make something good come out of the nightmare of my sister’s death because it didn’t make sense and I needed it to.

I think I finally accepted I had a problem after my mom told my extended family about how I broke down in tears when a teacher accidentally mixed up my grade, leading me to believe that I had completely failed the final exam. It turned out, it was all a mix up and I had actually received an A on the exam, but while my family laughed at my mother’s rendition of my reaction I felt a sinking feeling inside because what they didn’t know is that I sat in the bath tub, dazed from several sleeping aids I had taken, the night I received the mixed-up score seriously thinking about ending it all because if I couldn’t do this one thing right then what was the point? I wasn’t smart, I wasn’t good with people, I wasn’t creative, so why was I alive? I would like to say that this was a turning point and I went and got help after this, but I didn’t.

Instead, I continued with warnings from a few close friends asking me what I would do when there were no more grades to receive validation. I didn’t have an answer, I don’t really have an answer now, recently graduated with a diploma with nice shiny Latin letters and a membership to several honor societies and it all means nothing. I don’t believe that there are inherent meanings embedded in most things in life, when things happen we create the meaning, this is what I told my mom after my sister died, there was no purpose no grand design, if you want it to mean something, you are going to have to create that meaning. I guess I took it too far because it has taken me almost 5 years to realize that all this time I haven’t been trying to make a meaning out of why my sister died, I’ve been trying to make a meaning for why I lived. For over 5 years, I’ve jumped from graduation to school, living in a state of purgatory to make up for the fact that I was alive, and only now I realize that I consigned myself to a state of limbo because I wasn’t really living. I don’t have to feel bad that I’m alive and I don’t have to find a meaning for why I’m alive because my life has meaning in of itself. While events may need to have constructed meaning, the meaning in each individual human life is derived from the fact that they are a person, with thoughts, feelings, and complexities. It’s not something that can be created or destroyed, it just is.

I guess this is a brand new start. Maybe,  I’ll always wonder how I’m going to live without my sister and I know that I will always love and miss her, but I know I need to try to stop feeling guilty for being alive and just live. I don’t need to make myself worthy because my worth is inherent. I don’t think by any stretch of the imagination that this is going to be easy, but I think it’s time I learn to live. I suppose, let this be a cautionary tale or a word of encouragement, nothing you do and certainly nothing that happens or is done to you can take away the meaning that is your life. You are worth just as much as anyone else, you don’t need to find excuses and you don’t need to recreate yourself into someone better than you are because there isn’t anyone better than you. You are amazing and unique and worth it because you are you, anything else is just a poor imitation of someone else and the world is less for the lack of your true presence. This doesn’t mean you need to have everything figured out or that you can’t feel confused about who you are, but never feel bad or unworthy for being you.

Finally, here are some articles discussing contingencies of self-esteem if you are interested in taking a look:

Crocker, J., & Wolfe, C. T. (2001). Contingencies of self-worth. Psychological Review, 108(3),          593-623. doi:10.1037/0033-295X.108.3.593

Crocker, J., & Park, L. E. (2004). The costly pursuit of self-esteem. Psychological Bulletin,          130(3), 392-414. doi:10.1037/0033-2909.130.3.392

 
—Why am I giving you articles you ask? It is because I am a nerd. = )