Admittedly, I was pretty confident as a child. My parents used to call me a “social butterfly” because new people never bothered me. I’d talk to anyone and everyone.
I even sang a solo in front of my entire kindergarten class. The song was probably “The ABC’s” or “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” or something like that, and frankly, I have no recollection of doing this, although my parents insist it happened. I’m glad I don’t remember either; I was in band and not choir for a very, very good reason.
Around the age of twelve, I started developing perfectionist tendencies, which really took a toll on the vibrant confidence I once had. Seeds of self-doubt were sown, and my inner critic, who found error in everything, had discovered its voice.
In middle school, my perfectionism was directed toward academics. I strived for the best grades, and there was nothing quite like the euphoria of seeing straight A’s on my report card. Those delighted feelings were always fleeting because at the dawn of a new term, the desire and drive for perfection started all over again.
The motivation to achieve all A’s had faded by the time I started high school, but the voice of my inner critic certainly did not. I was still a perfectionist, but my energy was aimed at my musical abilities and the way I interacted with my peers.
Whenever I would make a mistake, that wonderful inner critic of mine would berate me for the rest of the day. I was no longer a social butterfly. I was quiet and reserved with most people, save for a few friends, scared of saying or doing the wrong thing. I was more like a butterfly in a chrysalis than anything else.
Therefore, I believed the answer to my problems was to escape. In my view, I needed more than just a mental or an emotional escape, as I often got when I would sit in my bedroom, close my eyes, and play random, improvised ditties on my saxophone. I needed a physical escape, and I thought that going to college and moving to a new town two hours away was exactly how I could do that.
I remember move-in day of my freshman year of college quite well. After getting all my bins, bags, and boxes (oh my!) into my dorm room, my family and I hiked to the campus bookstore to pick up my books and to grab lunch at the food court connected to it. My parents wanted me to go up to the counter of the little sandwich place and order my meal for myself, citing independence and giving me encouragement that I was capable. But by that point, the seeds of self-doubt had taken root, and I didn’t believe them. I didn’t want to say the wrong thing, or look stupid, and I was terrified.
“If you can’t even do this…” the nasty voice of my inner critic mocked. It was then that I began to cry, not because I was going to be living away from my family for the first time, but because I had made a startling realization.
The epiphany hit me like a ton of bricks: when your worst enemy is yourself, there is no escape. I could have gone to college on the other side of the world and it would not have made a shred of a difference. Suddenly, I was defiant. I was going to order that sandwich.
And I did. It was delicious too. From that moment on, I didn’t think twice about ordering a meal for myself, even if it was at a new place.
Though I had made considerable progress, the burden of perfectionism truly began to be alleviated in the middle of that first year of college.
After a semester of no musical activities, I felt I needed to be in a band again. I ended up joining the campus concert band for non-music majors. It only rehearsed once a week, and was less intense than what I had been accustomed to in high school.
I had arrived early to one of the rehearsals, and I went straight to the instrument storage room to retrieve my saxophone. The band room had two sets of double doors, and upon attempting to walk through the second set, disaster struck.
Only one of the doors was actually open, but thanks to my lack of peripheral vision, my head realized that before my eyes did. Yes, I walked straight into the door.
I could not stop laughing. There were other students in the band room setting up chairs and music stands, and I could only imagine how ridiculous I looked. And all I thought was: “I just walked head-first into a door. Guess I’m not perfect after all.”
Throughout college, my eyes were fantastic at disintegrating the facade of perfection I had built up for years. Whether it was me taking my sweet time while descending an unavoidable flight of stairs, stumbling on curbs, or bumping into poles and doors, by the time I graduated from college, the perfectionism all but vanished.
A little levity goes a long way
I am only speaking for myself here, but I love making blind jokes and find most of them to be hilarious. Humor has been my way of accepting my eye condition and learning how to cope with it. I often say that when it comes to my situation, I’d rather be laughing than crying. So I do. I laugh.
I am quick to make a joke at every opportunity. If that door is open, of course I’m going to cross the threshold. I tend to have a sarcastic, self-deprecating sense of humor. I have learned to laugh at myself, and in doing so, I have quieted the persistent voice of my inner critic.
Thus, not only has humor helped me become more comfortable with my visual impairment, but it has also allowed me to be comfortable with imperfection. And through all of that, I have been reacquainted with the confidence of my childhood. Whereas a lack of confidence is almost as debilitating as an eye disease, having true confidence is entirely liberating.