Recently, I’ve been trying to learn how to sacrifice. Not in the sense of giving up a possession or a fight. I don’t mean quitting. I mean self- preservation.
I look around me at all the Lancers and citizen leaders, all the award-winning young geniuses and all the people who can fall asleep in class and still get an A on a test – I look around at my peers, and I only see myself falling behind. I see myself lose time and not utilize it. And I notice the simple, little things I thought I could control slip through my fingers like sand.
The way we view ourselves is an important aspect as to how we view the world. This may sound a little weird, but right now I see myself as a sand sculpture. There are moments when I feel so strong and stable that you would swear I was made of stone. In this moment, though, it’s like the sun has been beating down too hard, and there are parts softening and weakening, and if I don’t watch out and pack the sand all back in, the whole sculpture will collapse.
Earlier last semester, I went to the Health & Wellness Center during Finals Week without an appointment, desperate as my skin broke out in hives and the dreaded realization – “Is it today already?” – was happening all too frequently with my work and classes. Despite the audacity to squeeze into a nurse’s schedule uninvited, I was allowed some time.
The nurse laid me on the table and placed her hands on my stomach as though she were treasure hunting. She shined a light in my ear and checked my temperature with cold medical steel that tasted strangely sweet and comforting. She asked me what medication I was taking, any allergies, anything new that I had ingested. Nothing new.
The hives, though, were what caused me to enter the office. I had woken up with them a day earlier, and they were continuing to spread. One on my shoulder, on my chest and the side of my face, a few on my feet and one on my leg – there weren’t too many, but there were enough to itch. There were enough to worry me, and there were more every few hours.
I was hoping for a miracle diagnosis that would solve whatever was causing the red splotches and bumps. I wanted the nurse to say, “Your problem is _____. Now, here is your easy solution ... ”
But of course it wasn’t so simple. She asked me how much sleep I had been getting. I told her my sleep schedule hadn’t been so good, either too much or too little. Lately, sleep felt like giving up, and just relaxing suddenly felt like betrayal. She asked me how my diet was. I told her I was trying to eat better with more fruits and vegetables. Sometimes, though, I would binge with fatty foods alongside them.
She asked me how many classes I was taking. 18 credits. She commented that that was quite a load, but I denied it. Numbers don’t mean anything.
“A person with 12 credits could have a more stressful workload than me,” I said. “18 credits isn’t so bad.”
She then asked me about my extra-curricular activities. I ran off the list. She commented that that was quite a load as well, but I denied it again.
“The number of clubs I’m in doesn’t mean anything. A person could be in 100 clubs and feel the same amount of stress a person in one club could feel,” I said. “It’s not about the number of organizations; it’s about what you put into the organizations.”
I had said this before many times to friends who often told me the same line: “You do too much.”
“I don’t do enough,” I always say, and I still feel that.
The nurse told me about a “phenomenon” that small campuses like Longwood tend to have. It’s where the students tend to be “hyper-involved.”
Now, that’s a word I’m familiar with. My ironic diagnosis: “Hyper-involved.”
This semester, my previous love for stress and my attachment to it as a fuel has become a sort of fear. Before, hives were never a problem for me. I never grew up with them. Honestly, when I woke up with them, I wasn’t even sure what they were.
I’m afraid of what it will mean if they appear again. But I already know what it means. It means more than being “hyper-involved.” It means putting myself so far last that not even my health is a factor. It’s scary because it’s like poisoning myself intentionally.
It makes me frustrated when I look around because I am so in awe of what my peers can do. I keep trying to figure out how so many people can do so much. It inspires me to challenge myself to be better. I try to do just as much or at least just enough. How do they do it?
And it’s sacrifice. What is worth success? What is worth happiness?
What is the price of putting yourself first?
*** This editorial is an opinion stated by the writer and does not represent the views of The Rotunda or Longwood University.
