To graduate during a pandemic

The graduate in your life half smiles and looks away before answering your question, “how are you feeling about commencement being postponed/canceled?” Their head may shake once or twice, as they respond that commencement was never the important part anyways. That it sucks, but hey, they didn’t like being in front of a crowd to begin with. Your graduate will chuckle like it’s a joke when they say they’ll save almost $70 on a cap and gown. You will tell them, “Things will be better soon,” and the subject will go on to face masks or how boring it’s been and you’re assured that they are alright.

I have been this grad, making excuses and sneering at the thought of walking across the stage like it is fruit hanging too high for me to reach. I embrace Aesop’s fable of sour grapes like it is my bible for making it through this pandemic.

“Well I’m sure I would have been bored. It was expensive to buy the gown. I’m really not missing out on much.”

These are the comments I make to others. It’s after they are gone, and everyone is asleep when my real feelings creep up on me, wrapping me up slowly as I recognize how agonizing this really is. Four years that I was never sure I’d make it through, and yet I am waiting for my degrees as we speak. Five years almost to the day, I was walking across the stage in my high school auditorium, in heels too tall for me, carrying the knowledge that only one parent would hug me once I was done holding hands with my classmates, singing our Alma Mater. Now, I can barely risk a visit with him and neither one of my parents will see that defining moment of truth. I had made it. After years of promising them I would, but not convinced in my own will power, I did it. I proved many people wrong, but mostly myself.

Junior year of high school, after witnessing my mother pass on into the next phase of this universe, I wasn’t sure I was going to make it to senior year, let alone my last semester of college. Depression is a disease that has walked hand in hand with my family for generations and he certainly didn’t feel like skipping me. Late nights of tossing and turning, only to find my desk in science class was the comfiest place I knew. Panic attacks that I was convinced were heart attacks while going to homeroom, choking back tears as my ex had to take me to the secretary who had no idea what to do other than let me walk and walk until I could breathe again. Self harm and eating too much or too little became comforts for the emotional turmoil I was being swallowed by.

Teachers doubted me. Doubted my worth. I went from an attentive student to one who they barely saw twice a week. I still maintained good grades, due to my close companion anxiety, but that’s not enough for a public school system. One teacher took to grumbling about me to the rest of the class while I was at home with yet another illness caused by my poor mental health. The day I found out about her harsh words, I couldn’t figure out if it was the fluorescent lights that were blinding me, or the sheer embarrassment. I wanted to quit school. I wanted to quit everything I was involved with. I wanted to quit living all together.

But time waits for no man, woman, or heartbroken teenage girl. Senior year approached, and I swore to be better. I swore to stand up for myself and get the grades my mom wanted. Do what she wanted me to do. Even after death, no one else controlled me more than she did. I’m sure 80% of the credit that I am about to graduate should go to that woman, even if it’s been six years since I last heard her voice physically.

I did better senior year, but simultaneously worse. I have guilt in my heart for many things, but especially for how I behaved that year and what the people closest to me had to see. I was determined to destroy myself while keeping a good image. Until the destruction caught up and I was so sick, I couldn’t leave my bed. No one reached out to me. Not teachers or counselors. I don’t know if I could blame them though. What do you say to a girl who had lost her mom, three other people she was close to, as well as her childhood home in less than a year? I’m sorry? The phrase everyone has been using recently: things will get better? At 17, I didn’t know anything besides grief and it was easier for them to write me off as a lost cause. Pay attention to the kids with good attendance, good grades, and parents who could help in school activities, or show up to parent teachers conferences. I was no longer a student who had a chance to go to college, even though I kept fighting for it. I took the tests, I made honor roll, I did extracurricular activities. Even though I spent half the time in the bathroom, my head pointed towards the toilet, wearing blue jeans and hoodies in 80 degree weather.

I fought myself, for myself. For that “better” I was promised.

As I said before, time doesn’t wait. Somehow, it's deft hand pushed me through. I went through more pain, abuse, fear. All for that word: better. Staring at the path in front of me, I go blank. All I can think is, “I did not think I would get this far.” Like a child chasing their sibling for doing something wrong to them, but having no idea what to do after finally catching them. And yet, I feel that I can taste “better” on my tongue. It felt like that word was just across the stage. After I’d shake the president of the university’s hand and smile for a picture I’d ultimately hope gets lost somewhere, the word would slide itself comfortably into my life and I would be able to say without a doubt, things were better.

This pandemic has taught me that things do not get better in the way we are promised. They get bad, stay bad. But somewhere in the middle of fighting all the bad, better things come to help. Better friends. A better relationship. A better job. A better understanding of your own self worth. They sit there like small beacons of light, reminding you that better is not an end goal, but a journey of cleaning up the path with what you have learned and walking through a little stronger than before.

I was afraid to say how much the lack of a ceremony hurt me, but I’m not now. It breaks my heart, but I know that while this is bad, I’m finding better and more important things. Love from good friends who worry about me, plans for the future I never even took the time to think about and a stronger connection with my father, who has done nothing but love me enough for two for the past six years.

I believe that we will all find our little pieces of better, and even now in a time where nothing seems okay, we will find better, together.