Fill in the Blank

Mere seconds ago had I pulled up the blank Vocal template, but now—it seems like now has always been—I stare hypnotically at my computer screen, that white glow attracting my eyes in the midst of this naturally lit, near-nightfall room. My gaze hangs, loosely tethered to this page of potential, this "could be," this "not yet," until some unknown force inside of me urges my eyes to focus. I blink rapidly, a few times in succession, and shake my head. I had in mind to write something instructive and encouraging about grad school. Perhaps a "you can do it," or a "at least just try," but now all I can think about is "blank page," which leads to "unwritten thesis," which transforms into "failure."

That's what grad school has been, really: a parade of failures waltzing past me in their glorious obscenity, ambling slowly down the road before me, seemingly autonomous, yet absolutely belonging to me, within me, part of me. Me. I am failure. And grad school has only confirmed it.

From all this talk, you might suspect I'm flunking out, when in reality my GPA stands at a solid 3.7. But for those of us who dare apply to grad school, for those of us who—gasp—actually make it in, the bar has been set. And the standard is high. C's are no longer considered passing by those in charge of our programs, although that is certainly the least of our worries. For no one can hold expectations higher than we do ourselves.

When I first applied for grad school, I conjured up grand visions of receiving my acceptance. I believed such a moment would bolster my confidence, would give me something to point toward to prove my own merit. However, when the scene actually unfolded, rather than feel victorious, I felt an imposture. "I have them all fooled—they actually think I'm grad school material," I thought. My then-boyfriend jumping in circles around me, excitedly chanting "you got in, you got in" only fueled the doom within. Failure was surely on its way.

My first semester proved difficult indeed. Many tear-filled, shuddering-with-sobs-but-typing-anyway evenings earned me a C for the first time in my life, but I hit my stride in some capacity and went on to earn only A's after that. Now, in my second to last semester, I feel more inadequate than I have in my entire life. Grad school can do that to you. I am surrounded by people just as smart as me day in and day out, and 95% of them work 3x harder than I do. Every A I've earned has felt unjustified. I am merely skating by, carried abreast by my natural proclivity for reading and writing and learning, meeting deadlines only when they absolutely matter, and giving up my grandiose dreams of writing the masterpiece thesis I had planned. Instead, I hope to simply graduate. The piece of paper will maybe earn me the right to call myself educated and accomplished, but that is doubtful. I am not blind and I can see the pattern clearly. A degree will only confer upon me more anxiety over my own inadequacies and more shame over my own fraudulent behavior. I'm not brilliant. I don't even work all that hard. I've got them all fooled.

After writing that last sentence, I pause. "Where to go from here?" I wonder. I read over the piece I just wrote. "Not a very uplifting sentiment thus far," I chide myself. The sun has set. Darkness has invaded the room, so I lean over to turn on the light. No longer do I stare lifelessly at a blank page, for the page has been filled, and I am the one who filled it. Of course, writing a personal narrative is FAR easier than a thesis. It might take several months of tear-filled, shuddering-with-sobs-but-typing-anyway evenings, but I WILL do it. I have no other choice but to continue skating by, my failures parading before me all the way. My thesis won't be a masterpiece, but it will allow me to graduate. And when I walk across the stage, I'll be staring at another blank page, all these filled ones behind me.