My youngest is 16. She was diagnosed with anxiety in 1st grade and could have been as a toddler if we’d known to look for it. She’s also a smart bunny and a good kid.
Monday afternoon she was going through her binder, rearranging things due to the change of the order of classes in her second semester of 11th grade. She pulled out a paper and said “My creative writing teacher told me this was funny. He said I should write sarcastic essays but I felt like he was laughing at my anxiety.”
“Well, did you write in a sarcastic way? If so, that makes it funny and you can’t complain that someone thinks it is. Can I read it?”
“Don’t laugh at me, ” she says as she hands it over.
I was laughing out loud within a paragraph. I finished it, after several breaks to explain what I specifically found funny.
“You should have a blog. This is great stuff.”
“I’d be too anxious about the people reading it to be able to write anything.”
“What do you think that the Bloggess does? She writes even though she has anxiety and she makes it OK to laugh at things that shouldn’t be funny like rapists on the other side of the door and panic attacks and dead animals.”
I think my Large Fry has captured some sarcasm from me and some writing ability from Jennifer Lawson. This must be what happens when you let your then 12 year old read Let’s Pretend This Never Happened.
(The assignment was to write about an accomplishment or something you were proud of.)
I can’t think of what to write. Well, no. I can think of what to write, but nothing’s going well. I get about a paragraph in and I want to delete the whole damn thing. My brain’s fried after winter break and a gratuitous amount of time spent playing video games. So I guess what I’m proud of is being able to write anything at all.
I’m just exhausted. After a nice, relaxing break, we’re slugged in the face by the imminent exams. That’s not what I want after a vacation. Final projects, deadlines, worries over passing, all of these are culminating into one giant mound of stress. Fortunately, the pressure hasn’t really gotten to me yet.
I thought of the concept of “blood raptors” and while this sounds cool, I have no idea what I can write about it. Raptors made of blood? Vampire dinosaurs? Hell if I know. I’ve got ideas and I can’t use them.
I’ve got background stress from my quantitative literacy final project. Basically, we’re figuring out living on our own, based on income from randomly picked jobs. I make less than $2,000 a month as a bus driver, apparently, and I don’t think I can buy a car with that money and still have enough to live. Unfortunately, I can’t live on my bus. Or with my parents.
In game development, the class has been split into two teams to work on making a game. We’re getting half a school quarter to do it. I’m sorry, but organizing these people into various tasks like coding or designing levels sounds impossible. It’ll be like herding cats, and the cats are blind and deaf.
Right now, I just want to lay on a couch and sleep/read, or play video games. School’s important, yes, but so is my willingness to even do anything.
This class is fine. I just utterly loathe the idea of reading my creations out to a classroom full of people I don’t even know. The poems, the stories, those are all mine. I don’t want complete goddamn strangers judging them, and don’t say something like “Oh don’t worry about it!” because worrying is an inherent quality for me. That, and social anxiety amplifies stage fright to result in me having a breakdown at my seat.
There are people who are nice to me, but I’m worried they’re not being genuine and just use me to get help on assignments. Maybe they’re being genuine, but it’s a trope and my anxiety is no help.
I need to check that I’m registered for the Accuplacer, and I’m scared I’ll forget to check, or that I won’t find the people I’m supposed to talk to.
My mind is a mess. All these worries and fears are, unfortunately, burning me out. I can’t wait for finals to be over.
Honestly, I’m proud of this because I wrote and I vented.
The above is from the brain of my kidlet, MFS. Copyright 2016.