Shaky Hands

Earlier this week I shared a phone call with a friend of mine from years ago. She's a junior currently attending U-Maryland as a Mech-E. We haven't seen one another in person since we last worked together at the Philly Naval Base (Summer 2003), but we've been in contact via e-mail for the last three years. It's always nice to have a conversation with her, catch up, and share our similar woes on topics such as thermodynamics, fluids, and relative mechanics ... yes, we really are that cool.

During our conversation this time, though, she eventually brought up the topic of stress and the different feelings she seems to be experiencing this year as an engineering student. She said that while stress has always been there and sleep has always been wanting, there's just something about junior year that has been pushing her closer to the edge. We both then mentioned various situations we knew in which individuals had finally succumbed to the emotional instability that seems so prevalent in college. Trapped under the crushing fears of finding a career, getting grades, and fighting the pressure to achieve, these students had snapped, freaked out, and most of them had been sent home. Some returned; most did not.

In discussing our own symptoms related to anxiety, she and I even tallied up the following list (emphasizing the fact that each of them seems to be getting worse as time passes):

-blurred vision
-headaches
-stomach aches
-inability to focus
-narcolepsy (mostly in class)
-shaking

It was, in the end, a very intriguing conversation, and I enjoyed the chance to talk about this sort of thing with someone who seems to understand it so well. Over the last few weeks, I've been thinking a lot about why I'm so nervous all the time, why I can't seem to feel good without social validation, and why I've been basing so much of my happiness of various sources outside myself. The conclusion my friend and I came to, eventually, was that someone long ago must have told us that we were smart. Some teacher, or parent, or fellow student must have mentioned how well we'd done on a test or assignment, and we'd been delighted. With so much emphasis on school during our childhood, it was only natural that our reaction would have then been to continue our academic success as long as possible. After all, when we brought home good grades, mom and dad were happy. Our teachers were happy. Our classmates respected us. Who could have blamed us for not wanting it to end?

Somewhere along the line, we became so enamoured with this idea of being the "good student" that we ourselves came to value it more than anyone else actually did. We became obsessed with it, and in the process being the most successful member of our class became our identity. I, for example, was no longer Jeremy Walsh ... I was Jeremy Walsh, the "smart kid." There was no point to being just myself anymore- some regular little boy who liked video games and baseball and playing in the pool with maybe a bit of talent in the classroom. There was no reason to continue with that, because everyone was like that and it didn't merit any extra attention. I wasn't very good at sports or music, the other main outlets in which a kid could distinguish themselves, so being academically astute was my way of defining myself. All that probably happened in elementary school.

The same system continued is middle and high school, during which time I actually hit my peak nerdiness (you think I'm a nerd now, you should have seen me at 13). I branched out to music in high school, discovering that practicing two hours a night can earn you a spot in the jazz band, the all-state band, and even the all-eastern band if you prepare well enough. The main theme of my motivation was still there, however ... to be the best. Making the transition to college almost pushed me too far, as my friends and family from the time can tell you, because it meant I was going to have a chance to redefine myself. And in that redefinition process, I might no longer be able to be the "smart kid;" who knew what challenges college academics could present to me. If I couldn't hack it, what would I be? Another guy who likes video games, drum corps, and girls (thank God girls replaced baseball)? What consequences would there be? That's what everyone else was ... what was I?

And here we are, my friend and I, three years later ... and somewhere along all that way, we think we've missed something. We'd been so bent on being the best, identifying ourselves in that way, that the truth of the matter has finally arrived and we now have nowhere to hide. Because "the best" is something that can determine some small fraction of "what" you are, but "who" you are ... that's something else entirely. "Who" you are is whether or not you're kind, or giving, or open, or honest, or helpful. It's what you do that defines who you are, not the other way around. All those smart kids who would have lived or died by a test score when they were 9 years old- "who" we are now is just a bunch of cowards. Afraid to disappoint, afraid to fail, afraid to be rejected, and afraid to face the truth. Afraid to realize that we're just as clueless as everyone else.

So I guess that's why our anxiety is getting worse. The time has finally come to begin facing up to real life and adulthood, and we don't know who we are or what we want. Every assignment and exam just brings us one step closer to leaving Lehigh and facing the world. Yet we still desperately cling to the idea that we've been doing it right all along, that our stellar GPA is the answer, that being the best is what life is all about. Because that's who we are ... the "best."

My friend and I agreed on a couple final points before we ended our chat. That being the best and succeeding do have a place in living, just not in being a total definition of a person. That the real sources of happiness in life are the people around you, and the things you do for them. And that maybe our hands would stop shaking so violently if we got a consistent amount of sleep.

Have a good night, everybody.