The Blessings of Meekness

   ***NOTE: I began writing this blog post exactly a year ago today as I took the train from Warsaw to Poznan. When I first began writing this post the concept, potential conclusion, and plan were completely different from what I ended up with. Over the year I came back to this post several times, each time adding something new but never taking anything away. Aside from small stylistic changes I have kept all of the beginning paragraphs and the title the same, resulting in a blog post that easily and obviously chronicles my shifts in thinking throughout the year. Although it is obvious that the conclusions I come to are not the ones I was working toward in the first few paragraphs, I think this clear delineation between sections of the blog post is part of its appeal, and its use a tool of learning. ***

Thy Sire's Eternal Love

"I've never heard of anyone whose parents will be mad if they get into Oxford," Saamir tells me as I explain my elaborate ruse, "it's the best school in the world." 

"They're just weird," I say, shrugging it off, "that's my family."

The truth is that my parents have every right to be angry. I not only lied to them about my trip to England but in my naive and self centered way didn't tell them about any of my law school applications, choosing to believe instead that my life doesn't affect anybody elses.

I talk about it as if it's all one big adventure, a big prank I'm playing on my parents. But that's because if it's not an adventure then really, it's just sad. There is nothing adventurous about interviewing with some of the leading scholars of law and not being able to tell your parents about it.

* * *

I've been spending a lot of time praying and going to church recently. Of course I prayed that I would get the chance to head to interviews, for the strength to get through them, and to be accepted, but mostly I've been praying that I can remember and be careful not to attach my self-worth to the results. 

* * *

About a month ago I participated in a role play competition at school. Apparently I did a rather good job of playing a bad mother because I received an award for it. I sent the video to my parents, my dad's only response was, "maybe that's because you've had so much practise being a bad daughter." The nightmares returned.

My nightmares are always the same basic plot and chatacters but in a different context. They've been rare since I left Canada but every once in a while I still wake up kicking and screaming, trying not to hear my dad say, "you're stupid, you're worthless." 

It was exactly these words that I woke up from hearing moments before I found out that I'd gotten an interview at Oxford. After a brief moment of stunned tears I almost instantly set about informing everyone. First was Michael. Partly because he'd been asking, partly because knowing him reminded me of dreams I used to have. Then it was Deanna, because she'd had to listen to detailed analysis of my application for several nights in a row. And then it was Bert, because he's the one person who always tells me he's proud of me, no matter what. There were then a few more people, friends, teachers, current law students, people on whom I could rely on for encouragement, not judgement. Not my parents. 

* * *

When you have social anxiety you learn to think of fear as your enemy, the one thing you need to learn to fight. Fear though can be positive and useful, often reminding us to tread carefully and avoid danger. It's only too much fear that is bad. When you're shy though, that distinction can be very difficult to make. The same applies to self doubt. You're always having to fight so hard for a shred of confidence that sometimes you fight a little too hard.

These are the kind of extremes that make you move to Korea and dismiss Eton students as just 17 year old kids. When you have those fighting moments.

Truthfully I am extremely intimated by private school students. Not because they're smart - they're often not - not because of their pedigree - they often come from families like mine - but because of their knowledge and their opportunities. Perhaps I too could have understood Othello just as well or better than they, but I never read it. Perhaps I too could have taken AP English, CTY courses, and gone to Harvard Summer School but these didn't exist in my world. Because in my world the one university evening course I took generated amazement amongst teachers. Because in my world I feel inferior to them in every way. 

Let's be honest though, I feel inferior to pretty much everyone. 

* * *

Random Notes that were to go somewhere in this post:

Sometimes it makes me sad that I have to pray to be reminded that I'm not worthless. The shyness is a handicap I'll never rid myself of. Imagine how much I could accomplish without it. Imagine how much I could accomplish If I were someone else. 

* * *

 I realized that at my age the only reason I was asking myself this question is because of my parents. Not because they didn't send me to good schools, but because they taught me to hate myself. It was the moment I knew I'd made the right choice. Because I'm a stupid daughter if I don't go to law school. Because I'm a bad one if I do. Because no parents' love should be that fickle. 

I've 'made it' in Singapore.

A phone quickie. Needs editing.
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'I really should eat a hot meal,' I think to myself as I pass by a cute quirky looking cafe, its pure white interior accented only in bits of red and photos that make my mouth water.
'Later,' my brain replies, 'it's not lunch time yet.'
It may not be lunch time, but all I've eaten in the past 36 hours are some cookies, a sandwich, and a piece of bread. Any hour is lunch hour.

I return to the same spot a few hours later convinced that I will buy myself a nice meal, but this morning's quiet and quaint cafe had transformed into the hottest lunch spot downtown. 'It's too busy,' I hear in my own familiar voice; I keep going. I head out to the Marina Bay Gardens, park myself on an empty bench and take out a pastry I'd managed to pick up from a bakery this morning. Mmmm chocolate fudge: delicious, but not exactly nutritious.

The minutes tick by as I debate what to do. I need to get food, but my all too familiar fear of restaurants only multiplies in this alien culture. The secret of these restaurants isn't locked up in a vault in the basement of a downtown skyscraper though, it is, in fact, not a secret at all. But what everybody knows, that you need only to walk up and order what you want, remains elusively hidden from the voice inside my head.

This is usually the moment that self-hatred begins to take root. Why is it that I cannot talk to people? What am I so afraid of? 'I fucking hate myself. You're so stupid,' the words, not at all unusually, don't stay silent in my head but rather roll off my tongue into what feels like an ocean of air around me. The humidity seems only to catch them and throw them back as the oppressive heat reminds me of what I would give to sit inside for a moment.

Apparently not enough because I don't move.

My spell of silent self-hatred is broken when an older man waiting for his wife to catch up sits down beside me. His language sounds Nordic, though I'm unsure of where he's from. I listen as he and his wife bellow with laughter, seemingly about the flowers. Not wanting to intrude, I just smile and look the other way.

As I turn my head I catch a glimpse of the Singapore skyline behind me. With the boat perched atop three skyscrapers and the downtown core in the distance, Singapore's skyline is a mixture of both hope and opulence. A South East Asian powerhouse that has remained stable amidst economic uncertainties, it's a Wall Street of the world, where the nouveau riches come to play. Unlike Wall Street though, for an expat here, it means they've already made it.

I, myself, am just a tourist who, like so many others, sees a job in Singapore as a symbol of accomplishment, of having 'made it'. But as I train my eyes across the length of the skyline, my only thought is that I'll never make it here.
'Why do I have to be so stupid?' the words stay silent as the air suffocates me further, but in my head I hear the voice screaming, reminded that any possibility of me working here is much further than those skyscrapers appear. There's no mirror distorting reality here though, only the heat bouncing from sidewalks as if it were playing a game of chicken, beckoning those air conditioned fortresses even closer.

Across the bay though, I spot a plane coming in to Changi Airport: full of tourists, immigrants, and a few people chasing dreams. Landing at Changi Airport they'll be a whole lot closer than they were yesterday. And so am I.

Working in Singapore never has been and still isn't a real dream of mine, but it's what the absence of that possibility represents. If I fail even at communicating the simplest of things, I won't ever be in a position to be offered an overseas posting. I'm going to fail at life.

Except that yesterday I was roughly 3000 miles away from Singapore in what is another powerhouse of Asia, Seoul. I was a further 8000 miles away from 'home', a place I haven't seen in over a year and a half. Today I'm looking out over the Singapore skyline alone. Alone. If I'd depended on a friend to come with me, I'd have never come to Singapore. If I'd desperately searched, I'd have come with someone I dislike. If I'd taken a tour I would be well informed, but then I also would be sitting in this park, Alone.

People who peer through the screen at my life see one of jet setting fun. The computer screen hides the fears, the agony, the anxiety, those parts of me, and of travel that people might question if they saw. Why, as an adult, am I still so incapable? Why bother if my arrival in a new country sparks fears so acute that I can only ever observe, like a fly on the wall.? Why bother if I don't see it all? It's a good point but at least I'm on the wall, those asking are still safely in the clouds, peeking through a tainted window.

As the sun begins to set and the oppressive humidity lets up just enough to allow me to breathe again, I get up and walk back to city. I go to the Esplanade, drop by 711, and buy a sandwich. A hot meal can wait, sometimes you just have to pick your battles.

바보: Running the risk of speaking Korean.

„Hello, my name is Paula and I’m Canadian,” even in Korean the words roll off my tongue as if I’d been practising for years. “Crap,” I whisper to myself, “I forgot the Polish part.” It’s not that I’m having an identity crisis – I’m just as Polish as I ever was – it’s that I’m having a crisis of nerves.

Even standing alone in my room I buckle under the weight of social anxiety. I’m looking at myself in the mirror but the only audience I have isn’t happy with my performance. Three days from now I will have to stand on stage and recite this speech in front of a hundred people but my reflection has found fault in everything, from the way I speak to the way I stand; perfect is as far away as my reflection, often in sight but impossible for me to touch.

Stage fright is nothing new, most people are familiar with the shaking hands, dry mouth, and butterflies that often accompany getting up on stage. It’s a rare few that are lucky enough to be unconcerned of what their audience thinks. Right now though my audience consists only of my reflection in the mirror, and apparently the person looking into it is afraid of who is looking back.

We are all usually our own worst critics, finding fault in things others will never see. Some of us though are more than critics; we’re villains that look for every opportunity to tear ourselves down.  It’s an unfortunate phenomenon whereby you might as well not try at all because you’ll never do anything right. And maybe my calling myself a villain is really just a reflection of that.

It’s not that I want to be mean to myself but what I see in the mirror represents to me a wider audience. What my reflection thinks is what the audience will think three days from now. I spoke too quickly, I spoke too slowly, I stuttered, I mumbled, I said something stupid. Why would they think that what I have to say is worth listening to? Why would they notice the good things if they’re peppered amongst the bad? Why do I think so poorly of my audience? It’s unfortunate that while attacking myself is ultimately about me, I simultaneously insult the very people I’m afraid of. My fear is a reflection both of what I think of myself, and what I think of my friends, coworkers, and colleagues.

For three months now I’ve been studying Korean at the Yonsei University Korean Language Institute (KLI). Not at all abnormally for me, I mostly don’t say much in class; I take notes and listen. We do have speaking practise though, an episode that daily fills me with fear. We all make mistakes, it’s part and parcel of learning a language. It’s a strange narcissism to believe that everyone will remember my mistakes and judge my intelligence for it, as if I do that to my classmates. I don’t. And they probably don’t to me.

Even more so, why would my teacher do that? Having been a language teacher myself I’ve had my fair share of kids say what would for a native speaker sound like ridiculous sentences. Not for a moment did I think badly of those kids, if anything I found the errors endearing. Having what has got to be one of the kindest and most invested teachers I’ve ever met, it’s unfair to her, more so than to me, that I’m scared of every interaction we have. Most of the time I have little trouble understanding what she’s saying but not being 100% certain my response is a look of misunderstanding and confusion. It’s easier not to answer than to risk being wrong.

Ironically though, remaining quiet is often more damaging to one’s reputation than the things one was too scared to say. Studies have shown that quiet people are routinely thought of as being less intelligent, contributing less, and having worse ideas than those who talk a lot. Often though, quiet people have rich inner lives and dialogues that they’re unable or too afraid to share. The way you might feel differently and unable to express yourself in a language you barely know, is how people with social anxiety might feel every day.

Stepping away from the mirror and out into the streets of Seoul my anxieties only multiply, here people could talk to me, bother me, see me. But crucially I can’t see myself. It is here that I no longer see a reflection in the mirror but a real live audience that is mostly unconcerned with my existence. I stand out as a foreigner but having been here long enough I don’t even notice. Too often I take it for granted but in having lived abroad and travelled alone I’ve accomplished things that some people without anxiety never will. It’s enough for that inner villain to soften her opinion for just a little while.

Unfortunately the harsh critiques will always come back. Practising my speech the person looking back at me will always think I’m stupid, and sadly, at least for now, I’ll go on believing it. With a mindset like this it’s not difficult to understand why the weight of anxiety is crushing to me. It’s difficult to stand up straight on my own. Thankfully, once in a while I meet great people who wish me luck, give me a hug and promise me ice cream, or simply keep being my friend no matter what stupid things I say. Communication is a risk; I don’t always like it but I run that risk every day.