Final Room

14 | sookie stackhouse

CHAPTER FOURTEEN | SOOKIE STACKHOUSE

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          My World Literature professor does the unthinkable: she decides to read our essays out loud—excerpts from them, at least—and I sit in silence, completely mortified, wishing I could somehow make myself smaller, or even invisible.

          She doesn't name anyone, which saves me from the embarrassment of having my thoughts publicized. I'm biased because I know my writing style and I know exactly what I said on that paper—authors are not their characters and a character's views and opinions don't necessarily reflect those of the author, but yes, it's hard to separate the art from the artist when the artist is bigoted—but I'm praying no one else recognizes it. 

          I fear I may be, once again, overestimating my relevance in this hall.

          I'm far from being the most talented writer in this class and it's already been established I'm not that good of a critical thinker and reader, either. Those are important skills to have and to master while taking a course like this, something I'm painfully aware of thanks to how utterly mediocre I am, but there's a hopeful voice, small and frail, resting at the back of my head reminding me I still have three years of college to go and this is still my third week. There's always room for improvement, and it's fine if I'm not at the same level as my classmates.

          Realistically, I know that. However, I can spend the rest of my days spewing out rational bullshit I don't believe in and can't act on and still feel inferior to everyone around me, made worse by the realization that these people are much better than I'll ever aspire to be. Believing there's room for improvement is only a good thing if you believe you can improve; if you don't, you'll spend the rest of your life feeling like a failure everywhere you go.

          Next to me, Claudia visibly perks up when she recognizes the passages from her own paper, with the kind of confidence I can only dream of having. I'm not really surprised by the smug look on her face, as the arguments she raised during the first lecture along with Nadia were well thought out, and sometimes it's easier to get the point across through text.

          Meanwhile, while my passages are no longer the focus, I have some time to be grateful for the therapy session I've scheduled for this afternoon, something I'm certain will come in handy following the meeting. Even with Doctor Albott's support, I'm not sure I can do this without her physical presence, but it also feels impossible to drag her to one of these things. Just thinking about possibly being the only person showing up to a casual meeting with their bored beyond belief therapist tagging along with them makes my blood freeze with embarrassment.

          All things considered, panic attack in public aside, I'm doing okay, probably better than I ever thought I'd be.

          My bad days are terrible, leaving me with the impending sensation of doom, and it takes everything in me to keep moving forward, even if I have to constantly look over my shoulder. It's sad that what are supposed to be my good days are nothing but average, days when I manage to get out of bed and function properly, days when I do the bare minimum. I miss being happy, but it seems like a whole lifetime ago, so out of reach I can hardly remember what that feels like.

          It's pathetic, it is, the way I desperately cling to slivers of my past life like it all happened in a previous incarnation, when all that separates the two Wendys is a matter of months and a traumatic experience. It hurts, though; it's like my one chance at being happy was mercilessly ripped away from me the second one bad thing happened to me.