I had a breakdown at the end of second year where I simply couldn't write a word of my long-overdue essays without wanting to cry, delete the word documents, throw my laptop into the flames of hell and jump in after it. 'Whatever happened, Seun? You were doing so well.' There it is, the disappointment and confusion in Helen my beloved personal tutor's face. Except it was not the same disappointment I thought I was hearing when she said those words, and there were a lot of things I was yet to fully realise about myself as I sat down on the couch for my last end-of-term report reading of the year.
Whatever happened? Well over the past few years a little thing called 'impostor syndrome' had been gnawing away at me, and it went on largely unnoticed because it had cosied up right inside my blindspot: my ego. What a big word for three little letters, yet look how it leeches on to so many important things. This is what was happening behind tightly-sealed doors. By the last term of second year my lack of self-confidence, low self-esteem and low sense of inherent self-worth had chewed up so much of my ego that my mind could only lie in a desperate state of self-pity, crippled by the terror of inadequacy and failure. I could not bring myself to write and be satisfied with whatever came from myself. Because, as far as I was concerned, myself would never ever be good enough for me. And being one so in love with writing, my demise came when the very act and art had got caught up inside the impossible web of ego and self-loathing. Writing became repulsive, I became repulsive. I won't even go into the damaging thoughts I constantly had about whether I deserved my place in Oxford at all, whether I deserved to be happy here, whether I deserved to be happy anywhere - that'd be a new essay in itself. Helen's reassurances that she thought I had a magnificent writing style, that she thought I was killer at close-analysing texts, along with the glowing feedback I received from my other tutors, didn't make me feel any better. The fact that I knew these things to be true from experience actually made it far worse. My experience of myself wasn't adding up with reality and so I decided to sabotage myself - if the former was the only thing I 'knew' to be true then I would make the latter conform. And so I stopped writing. I ground to a halt and had my breakdown.
It was in that stagnant state that I seemed to develop a deadly talent for simultaneously forgetting all of my greatest past achievements and pushing them far away from my present failure of a self, whilst latching onto them as though they were the only frayed lifeline I had. But no, it wasn't the achievements I was holding on so dearly to, it was the praise I received through them. That was what I (thought I) needed to survive and thrive. The praise and recognition took the place of my own depleted sense of self-worth, and it is what barely kept me going. Of course, that frail structure upon which I heavily depended would come crashing down eventually, and it did so not with an almighty roar but with the quiet sigh of despair and resignation. I had given up on myself. I wasn't even trying to coast through the term anymore, I was very much ready to sink ass-first. It seemed my self-sabotage had been successful and I had finally failed. Helen's parting words rang with such a hopeless clarity as I sulked back out into the midday sun with my usual 'everything is a-okay, really great, just dandy' smile stuck on. 'It's not me or the other tutors you disappoint when you don't try - you're not here for us. It's you, this is your place in Oxford. You have to take responsibility for yourself.' Helen had done all she could and more to help me, whether I did eventually sink or swim or coast was entirely my choice. It always had been, I'd just not come to a point where I was ready to accept that.
A few months and miles away from Oxford, Trinity Term 2016, and I have gained a better perspective on the matter and this is what distance has helped me to see: my inability to trust myself not to fall flat on my face as I put that first foot forward was the only way I 'failed' if you want to call it that. I am a good writer. External validation does not change the fact that I am a good writer. I am a good writer. The sadness I feel after performing the habitual flinch of discomfort away from that phrase only makes me more determined to finally pull myself out of this rut. I am a good writer, and it is okay for me to acknowledge that by myself, and it is more than okay to actually believe it without the weight of others' opinions, whether good or bad, upon me. I am a good writer and I will do well of my own accord. I can only do well of my own accord, as long as I use my God-given talents and have some faith. In other words, I must finally take up responsibility for myself and stop treading water.
So what exactly does taking responsibility for myself mean to me? To begin with, I must unlearn the way I think about myself in relation to my work and to others - the three are separate but correlating entities that shouldn't end up merging into one confused mess. I am not what I create, I do not amount to people's views of me. It is important that I shed this hardy but misleading image I have tried so hard to build and maintain, as one who is constantly striving for perfection, who has her shit together, or is at least close to having her shit together. I must accept the fact that very few people on this earth, if any at all, ever have their shit together. Despite being reminded of this time and time again, owning my inherent imperfection and not killing myself to be more than what I am does not come easy to me. I remain my most damning judge and a big part of me always believes there is at least this 'better' version of Seun that is closer to her perfect, that I cannot ever stop striving until I get to her. It is a noble cause to want to improve yourself, but when it begins leading you further away from yourself perhaps it's time to step back. But this idea of perfect, this hardy vision I projected, relied primarily on what those around me saw from the outside. I realise I speak in the past tense as if this is one flaw that I have long since outgrown, as if I don't still want to be that ideal I have yearned so desperately for. Oh, I'm still yearning. I'm still wanting to say to the world that my life is 'actually really successful despite the minor ups and downs', and show them that this mask will never slip because it is super-glued on. But it's still a mask and it is apparently dangerous to super-glue things to your face. So let's begin to pry it off. Let me be vulnerable to myself and the world by releasing this painful hold upon my ego that I have also forced into the hands of others. I think it's about time I accept myself as I am, stop trying to undermine or hide from myself and my success by making it a bigger deal than it really is. Because it isn't. Success is wherever I place it, so let me place it in the act of being okay with my imperfect face, let me be okay with putting one foot in front of the other one day at a time, let me be okay with knowing and trusting myself.
