Here's the reason the past few days were slightly rocky:
I was studying for Ochem in the library with Sometimes Friend and one of his acquaintances when he asked me how I did on the Biology final. I checked the online gradebook.
And received a punch in the gut.
My grade for the class was a B. That's impossible, I thought to myself. I only needed a 72 on the final to get an A. I scrolled down the page.
68.
I collapsed. As much as I tried to stop myself, tears started running down my face. Here I was, on the most crowded floor of the library, with two bewildered boys who had no idea what to do with the sobbing and sniffling girl who, seconds before, was discussing aldols.
The night was still young, but I didn't feel like I could go on. I packed up my stuff and left.
I barely made it to my room before I collapsed crying on my bed. Hysterical sobs, the bad kind, the kind that leave no room for breathing and make your nose run, the kind I hadn't had for almost a year.
I knew I cared about Biology, but not to the point that it could make me physically sick.
The grade hung like a hunk of rotten meat in my stomach, sending a wave of nausea every time I moved.
Failing exams is not something that happens to me. Especially not in Biology. I knew the answers to all of the questions, I could have explained and taught all of those principles to a roomful of inattentive five-year-olds in my sleep, I could have drawn a thousand diagrams with my eyes closed.
But I got a 68.
There's nothing like failing the final in your best subject to kill your self-confidence. Nothing like having your ego chewed up into a million pieces and shoved back to your face.
The Boy, miraculously, was online and not busy at the precise moment I decided to turn to the internet for someone to talk to. Breathe. Calm down. I'm here. Slowly, ever so slowly, I regained the ability to think, to talk. He soothed me, drew out enough of the anxiety that I was able to settle and study for a couple of hours. He gave me enough confidence that I could face the final in the morning.
Since then, the panic has subsided. I talked to the professor and have come to accept the fact that it cannot be changed. I took some solace in the fact that the class average was a 61. When I left her office, the nausea was gone. A slight discomfort remains, yes, but that cannot be avoided.
I know that in the long run, grades do not matter as much as I think, as we are made to think they do. In any case, a B is not so terrible.
But I liked my almost-perfect record.
I was studying for Ochem in the library with Sometimes Friend and one of his acquaintances when he asked me how I did on the Biology final. I checked the online gradebook.
And received a punch in the gut.
My grade for the class was a B. That's impossible, I thought to myself. I only needed a 72 on the final to get an A. I scrolled down the page.
68.
I collapsed. As much as I tried to stop myself, tears started running down my face. Here I was, on the most crowded floor of the library, with two bewildered boys who had no idea what to do with the sobbing and sniffling girl who, seconds before, was discussing aldols.
The night was still young, but I didn't feel like I could go on. I packed up my stuff and left.
I barely made it to my room before I collapsed crying on my bed. Hysterical sobs, the bad kind, the kind that leave no room for breathing and make your nose run, the kind I hadn't had for almost a year.
I knew I cared about Biology, but not to the point that it could make me physically sick.
The grade hung like a hunk of rotten meat in my stomach, sending a wave of nausea every time I moved.
Failing exams is not something that happens to me. Especially not in Biology. I knew the answers to all of the questions, I could have explained and taught all of those principles to a roomful of inattentive five-year-olds in my sleep, I could have drawn a thousand diagrams with my eyes closed.
But I got a 68.
There's nothing like failing the final in your best subject to kill your self-confidence. Nothing like having your ego chewed up into a million pieces and shoved back to your face.
The Boy, miraculously, was online and not busy at the precise moment I decided to turn to the internet for someone to talk to. Breathe. Calm down. I'm here. Slowly, ever so slowly, I regained the ability to think, to talk. He soothed me, drew out enough of the anxiety that I was able to settle and study for a couple of hours. He gave me enough confidence that I could face the final in the morning.
Since then, the panic has subsided. I talked to the professor and have come to accept the fact that it cannot be changed. I took some solace in the fact that the class average was a 61. When I left her office, the nausea was gone. A slight discomfort remains, yes, but that cannot be avoided.
I know that in the long run, grades do not matter as much as I think, as we are made to think they do. In any case, a B is not so terrible.
But I liked my almost-perfect record.
3 comments:
I know that this probably won't make you feel any better in the short term, but take it from someone who knows: failing one exam, in the grand scheme of life, is not going to take anything from you.
You're only a Freshman, right?
You still managed to pull a B for the course, and a class average of 61% might say more about the quality of the teaching than the quality of the students.
Plus, now it's finally over and you have the whole summer ahead of you!
There was a time when I would have said that everything that happens to us happens for the best and that out of this would come something good: the sort of Nietzsche approach. After many hours of discussion with Friend Who Knows Too Much (about me) I have come have to accept the Voltaire view. Whichever, you will have learned something: about yourself, about the standard of the class, about your courage in sharing how you feel with those who care and many more things besides.
I actually feel gutted for you but I am old and you are young. I don't sweat the small stuff. You do because you don't believe it is small stuff. That's good. It will spur you on.
And Summer is another life.
Be happy.
God. Don't we oldies ramble on!
Post a Comment