It happened. A full month into the semester and I didn’t even notice until my boyfriend pointed it out. I was missing another day of class to sit in bed and watch Netflix. “I had that dream again,” I tried explaining to him. The dream where I completely forgot I was taking an online class and was overwhelmed with the possibility of failing. He wasn’t concerned with my nightmare, just the fact that he woke me up to get to class and there I was, still in bed hours later.
Usually it starts a few weeks before classes began. I can’t stop crying and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m going to flunk out of college. This semester, my second to last semester, was different. My anxiety was dormant and I was excited, unstoppable, armed with text books, note books, pens, everything. I was ready. Then, four weeks later that excitement flat lined. I’m known to take the most natural approach to my hair–knots and tangles are welcomed—but now my hair was brittle and dull. My nails, usually well groomed, were uneven and rugged, I went out with lipstick-less lips and no signature cat eye. This was not me. Or maybe this was me, but not the me I was used to seeing. I had slipped into depression with a co-morbidity of anxiety. Suddenly I was grappling with the unbearable weight of failing—school, my family, myself—and I didn’t notice it until someone else pointed it out.
I’m the first person expected to graduate in my family. I was once told that I didn’t come from a home that adequately encouraged my academic growth and I was furious when I was told this. Now that I’m older, I can understand the sentiment: while my mother did all she could to navigate me towards higher education, I didn’t have someone that could show me why obtaining an education was important beyond “making it out of the hood.” Being a first generation college student comes with the burden of getting your degree for everyone. And I’m terrified of failing them and myself. For this unsettling fear to sneak up on me even after I mentally decided that success was my ultimate objective was unfair. I couldn’t understand why my back to school anxiety didn’t come on time. I still don’t know, but I’ve been slowly freeing myself from its grips, I think.
Opening up to my about my self-inflicted expectations and catastrophic ideas of failure helped me get back on track. Expressing these fears, especially to my mother, helped me understand that just because I don’t come from a family where everyone has attained a college degree, I still have an adequate support system. One that understands how important it was for me major in English, versus something more lucrative because this is what I love. For that, for them, I am appreciative. I’m still trying to indoctrinate that same spirit I had at the beginning of the semester, but right now I know I’m going to be fine.
