Two Years of Academic Hell
My dad always told me to make sacrifices now in order to establish my goals in the future. As genuine as his advice might have been, it was not until only recently did I realize to what extent I would take his words. In reflection of these past two years, it dawns on me just how much I am willing to abandon to make my parents proud, my self proud, and above all else, my idealistic dreams come true.
  From the beginning of sophomore year, nearly everyone is ready to accomplish the University High School Equation: [(good scores + extra curricular activities) x AP classes = the College of Success]. Now, we all know this infamous formula has various degrees with various students (regardless of appearance and achievement at school). The degrees are: ‘I’m a lost cause’, slacker, mild, average, above average, and, of course, extreme. However, I believe this is all simply relative. Why? Because, believe it or not, I was an extremist.
  The first mark of my extremism was in the destroying of my one chance at adolescent love. That’s right, I took a budding relationship and crushed it in the palm of my hand like a wilted flower. What a pathetic move that was. Not only did I intentionally lose him, I unintentionally hurt him. From that point on, my character made a horrible swerve into the wrong lane. I would crash into hate and jealousy.
  With romance out of the way, I began secluding myself from my friends. Birthday invitations were quietly declined or given a lame excuse, and lunches were suddenly spent in an already over-crowded library- my head bent over some text book I cannot even recall.
  As these days grew more and more isolated, I found my personality darkening along with the drastic change in social atmosphere. My mind would not stop nagging about my hopeless transcript as compared to others with grade point averages that de-calibrated the scale. I heard silent screams of: ‘You’ll never make it’, ‘Who’s going to accept you?’, ‘What right do you have to complain? Everyone else has harder classes! Why can’t you keep up?!’
  The harassment would go on into the night, and sometimes even later. Several times, I confess, I spent my sleepless hours watching the early morning light peak over the horizon and spread over my home. I was consistently tired, and unable to obtain any peace of my mind.
  All this took place in one year, and somehow, even after summer, it leaked into junior year. That was when all hell broke loose.
  With the combination of pent-up anger (for myself, mostly), self-deprecation, insomnia, and stress, my self-esteem took a great dive 100,000 leagues under while my depression shot into the air like a sputnik. Suddenly, it became a lot harder to concentrate on my subjects. Simple concepts became utterly mind boggling, and keeping my eyes open in class was painful! At one point, I actually blacked-out. Whether it was from fatigue or severe chest pain, I still don’t know.
  Then, as my grades went down with S.S. Self-Esteem, I tried to save myself by dropping an unsalvageable subject, and multiplying my concentration on what I had left.
  I’m sure you know, this ‘ingenious’ plan did not work out.
  Never actually having failed miserably before, my coping skills were rather inadequate. My parents gently supported and lectured me on my situation, making me understand the gravity of the ordeal. Henceforth, I began cutting myself from all sorts of distractions: TV, internet, diaries, phone, painting class, volunteering, dances (heh, I’ve only been to one), long walks, photography, writing poetry and stories, companionship, memories- I threw it all away. My room is evidence of this. Pictures of friends were taken off tables and stashed into an album. Leisurely books were slammed into their shelves instead of lying near my bedside. Finally, keepsakes were tossed into the closet. In the end I had so much space, but even more emptiness.
  For the time being, the only thing that kept me reasonably sane besides my family was the letters sent to me by my net friend all the way from Tennessee. In desperation of needing someone to talk to, piles and piles of paper with scribbled down emotion were sent from me to her. Everyday I would get the mail, hoping with all my heart I would receive something that would really make me smile.
  My dear friend managed to sustain me for some time, until finally it happened: I snapped, and there was no means for me to paste on my deceitful grin to hide my actually state. Days of studying, weeks of tutoring, months of energy, and years of unceasing anxiety won me nothing more than another failed quiz. I couldn’t believe it, nor accept it. Tears literally exploded from my eyes and blinded my vision. I felt as though I was drowning in a whirlpool, and I was merely struggling to keep my head just above the water.
  Yet I was saved- not by myself, as I had tried so many times before, but by the people at my side. They, my friends from class, sat down and listened as I bawled my brains out.
  “At least you’re trying hard…” said one.
  “Don’t give up.” Said the second.
  “I’ve been there, trust me…” said the third.
  In retrospect, I feel so ashamed for thinking I could do away with love, friendship, and humanness and still succeed Yes, two of these things don’t last forever, but if they’re there to comfort you- help you when all seems hopeless, where’s the sense in giving them up? Having nothing will get just that: nothing.     Therefore, I am so lucky to say that the simple happiness I disowned miraculously came back to me.
  I’m aware there are readers out there who are rolling their eyes at my childish boo-hooing, saying to themselves: “so what? I have six A.P. classes. I’m still alive.” Well then, my question for them is this: “Are you really?”