Imposter syndrome: will I be able to make it so long as I fake it?
Though the metric system may be the internationally recognized system of measurement, my self-worth was always drawn against my level of productivity for the day. With each decline in the increments of productivity, I would measure up to by the end of the day came the daunting realization that I had allowed for yet another day to go to waste. I felt as though each success was ridiculed and disregarded in mere seconds be it as silly of a case as failing to fill in the questionnaire I’d planned out earlier on my drive back home. “You cannot afford to slack off,” chimed the voice inside my head, high pitched as she shrieked and demanded my attention. There was no escape. Each nanosecond I sit aimlessly without a thought in mind is a millennium lost. I begin to envision my chances of succeeding, in the long run, fleeting at a moment’s notice. I am the sole reason behind my own undoing.
I was never the innately smartest or most gifted kid in class, not by a long shot. I was not born into the intellect that some may express in their phenotype. I would spend countless hours re-reading the same paragraph, lagging behind in class as I failed to connect the dots and fathom the words (which appeared to me as gibberish at the time) drawn out against the textbook pages. I was not born into a family of scientists and engineers or whatever occupation your parents and relatives rave on about during each family get-together. Time was gold, a luxury I could not afford to lose once I got a taste, the boundless opportunities I wished to secure all the more invigorating. Young and naive, I was fooled by my own seemingly high ambitions and my fear of being singled out by the masses as an outcast, a leech that holds no position within society.
I could not dare to dream. I felt ashamed of myself and of taking up space. My classmates had only tolerated me due to the fact that it wouldn't be long until the bell sounded off in the distance. I felt heavy in my own skin, incapable of blending smoothly into the background, as being anywhere where anyone could catch a glimpse of me would be far too shameful. I buried myself in my books, resorted to any form of escape I could indulge in without troubling those around me. I did not wish to be seen nor heard, all I wanted was to disappear, leaving no traces in my wake. I served no purpose and so little managed to spark my interest (be it artificial at times—anything to keep the pitiful eyes that looked down upon me at bay). Who was I? What was I like? I felt trapped behind the cages of my own insecurities, shackled to the expectations I had set for myself.
As someone who has had to build herself up from scratch, I pride myself in my work and accomplishments. Though what’s ironic is that a simple look of disgust within the eyes of a reader has been capable of destroying the confidence I had mustered whilst working on a piece; bringing me right back to square one. Nothing ever phased me. I felt devoid of life and joy.
It’s quite easy to lose sight of who you are, to blame yourself over matters that are out of your hands, for one always wishes to exercise control over every passing moment of their lives. We fear helplessness, dread facing reality, and revel in our independence. To me, asking for help had appeared as a taboo I did not wish to be associated with; I wanted to be the master of my own destiny, I wanted to believe that I was capable of defeating the destructive nature of time. Though that is what we often forget, what I would not bring myself to admit for the longest time: we are not alone in this world. Billions of lives are equally at stake when faced with the forces of time, asking for a helping hand is not be the end of the world but rather the dawn of a new beginning. As I began learning to let go of my high expectations (all of which I should have noticed as being beyond my threshold at the time), I had come to realize that it hadn't been the world that was out to get me all these years; it had been my own taunting feelings of self-doubt that fueled the contentment I practiced every waking moment of my life.
Long gone are the days I allow my fears of appearing as a conman to take charge. Long gone is the self-blame and hatred that threatened to tear me whole. I am not a failure, I am a genuine depiction of the girl I built from the ground up and not a fraud that conceals her true identity behind a veil. I will no longer be my biggest critic but rather relish in the minute and simple joys of the world; the raindrops against my windowsill, the warm embrace of a loved one, and the glimmering smiles I wish to plant upon the faces of others. Only I may define my worth. These high expectations and materialistic imprisoners will no longer shackle me to the ground when I am meant to soar.
I will not have to resort to faking it, for I will make it. I am certain of this.
I'm Haneen, a 17-year-old Bahraini-Moroccan. An avid reader and writer, I rejoice in writing narrative and descriptive fiction. I write in search of a path to the depths of the universe and its secrets, I write to understand myself and others. With a mind that buzzes with ideas, topics I dabble into include all of humanity, teenage-hood, feminism, and (the hopes for) world peace (we still have a shot at it!)