Doing the best I can

For those who desire photo descriptions, the text reads "The Spirit of the LORD God is upon me, Because the LORD has anointed me; he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release to the prisoners...–Isaiah 61:1"

On one of the last ordinary Tuesday nights of my semester: my classmates are in shock and disarray. Spring Break is within reach, but many are preparing for distance learning and mentally avoiding the possibility that their last year at college might be cut short.

Meanwhile, I'm sitting on the floor of my parents' bedroom with mascara running down my face. I've gotten to the point in college where I can't just get by with my intuition. I'm working my ass off and disappointing myself. My parents remind me that I have nothing to prove to anyone, and I need to focus on my learning rather than the letters on my report card. I have a hard time believing them. Here's why.

The day before, I'm sitting in the lounge next to the choir room with my close friends. All of these lovely humans are wonderful singers, and my good friends are discussing the difficulty they're having with their music and their struggle to adapt to their ever-changing instruments. The conversation led me to a point of comparing myself to all of my fellow mezzo-sopranos and their splendid growth. My friends assured me that my development as a musician is on the right path, but I feel the need to argue. I didn't know why in that moment.

I walk away for a drink of water and a moment of reflection. All I can think to myself is "stupid, stupid, stupid." My self-bullying makes me reluctantly go back and sit quietly among my friends. Amid their conversation, I realize why I'm so upset:

I'm not mad at my voice. I'm not mad at my grades. I'm mad at myself.

I've been mad at myself for a long time now. The summer of 2019 started with an ugly breakup and ended with my first and only episode of self-harm. The school year continued with what my friends have described as a date-of-the-month club (none of which started or ended particularly well). I was seeking love and attention that I didn't have for myself anymore, even though I was trying to justify that I was in a better place than when I was with my significant other in the spring.

I've been confiding in many friends about this inner turmoil. I tell them that I can't grasp that I am more than the sum of all of the things I want to change about myself. Being around other people is a temporary pick-me-up, but I revert back to my helpless state when I'm alone with myself.

Now, I'm away from Luther. And I will be for the rest of the semester.

I'm not afraid of the virus, so long as I stay at home and stay sanitary. I'm haunted by the isolation.  With my mom working her ass off as a key communicator in the health crisis and my dad advising people from home, I'm alone with myself and my screens. Yes, I have books and a nice neighborhood to walk in, but I'm overwhelmingly isolated. I needed a break from the rhythm of my hectic life; I just wasn't ready for it.

In the midst of my social isolation, I'm really evaluating why I'm here. In this climate, on this planet, heading toward this future–what will I be equipped to do?

Mom told me while I came home crying that Tuesday evening, "I want you to think back and remember when that professor talked to you outside of class to apply for a scholarship–not just because you got by in their class, but also they appreciated your character. And also when you were asked by multiple people to work with them because of research that you did all before you turned 19. You have nothing to prove, Ab. I struggle with this, too, but maybe it's time you stopped equating who you are with your successes or struggles and start finding worth in your capacity to use them for other people that need it."

Mom tells me this as I sit on the ground with my head bowed forward to hide the mascara streaks on my face. Although my mom is about six inches shorter than I am, she sits above me on her bed like the Creator on a cloud. The reflection in the mirror doesn't look like a defendant sitting before a judge. It looks like a daughter sitting before her mother. Neither of us have failed, but we feel the load crushing us.

The structure of my time home is still a mystery. It will get there, but not without the help of my parents. I've been keeping in contact with my friends, but knowing them, they've needed to catch up on sleep as much as I have. Mama is upstairs, working from home in her office but still watching over me. I'm spending the smallest bit of time on this painful reflection of my journey, and, truly, doing the best I can.