The Imposter Syndrome

So I started this here blog thingy because I was required to write a personal statement for graduate school. This prospect TERRIFIED me. Every time I sat down to answer the big questions of the whys and wherefores of my desire to pursue further education, I’d suddenly remember that some tiles in the bathroom needed re-caulking. Or that I hadn’t played fetch with the cats in a really long time, like at least since yesterday. Or that the Daily Show was on.

It wasn’t that I didn’t know what to say. I had a fairly firm grasp on that subject. I was simply frightened that I wouldn’t be able to make a point coherently and in such a manner that would impress admissions people with my worthiness. It’s been a few years since I’ve written anything other than emails to friends or routine business memos. The last thing I composed requiring a modicum of intelligent thought was probably back in college, and I’ve certainly killed a few brain cells since then by sheer dint of watching one too many episodes of ANTM.

This is where the whole blogging idea came in. I told myself that if I started to write things that I enjoyed writing about, then maybe it wouldn’t be so painful to write about something that could potentially determine THE REST OF MY LIFE. But I couldn’t just jot stuff down and file it away on my computer. That would turn down the anxiety a notch, but it wouldn’t completely suffice as a panacea; hence the publishing of weird little anecdotes anonymously on the internet.

I finally accomplished the task of composing my personal statement one afternoon in a local café. The commotion distracted me from the pressing nature of my pursuit, and the dyke barista calling out orders served as my muse. The essay wasn’t bad, I thought…initially. And then doubt settled in. My misgivings lasted for two months.

Every other part of my applications was complete. My professors had submitted letters of recommendation. I’d checked all of the boxes declaring that I’d never been convicted of a felony. The last remaining step was to send the essay out for some trusted friends to edit, get their basic approval that it wasn’t complete drivel, and I would be good to go. But I couldn’t do it. I only finally submitted the statement for their review a couple of weeks ago and let the applications go out last week.

The day after I sent things off, I was talking about the whole ordeal with a coworker. I mentioned the extraordinarily superstitious new tick I’ve developed of knocking on wood whenever I see the clock register multiple same-digit times, like say 11:11, and making a wish for positive admissions results. She gave me the kind of look that I, personally, usually reserve for grown women who admit on talk shows that they’ve never had an orgasm. It was all, “Oh, honey…”

“Have I talked to you about the 'imposter syndrome?'” she asked.

“No. I don’t believe you have.”

“Well, I have this friend who’s a psychologist,” [And I’m going to stop right here for a moment. When people say this, I generally assume that it’s their psychologist about whom they’re talking, and that they’re just too embarrassed to admit to seeing a shrink. There is nothing wrong with seeing a head doctor. Just own up to it. I won’t think any less of you. In fact, I’ll think you’re brave for keeping up with your mental health.]

“Yeah,” I played along.

“And he has this theory about why people find themselves stuck in situations like yours. He calls it the 'imposter syndrome.' When I first started my dissertation, I worked on it for maybe two years without showing anyone on my committee my progress. It wasn’t that I hadn’t written anything or didn’t have a theory; it was just that I kept scrapping stuff I didn’t think was good enough. I was afraid that I’d present my ideas and the committee would wonder why on earth they’d let me into the program. Well, when two years went by and I hadn’t shown them any of my efforts, they did start to wonder if I should be writing a dissertation.

“The thought of presenting my work made me panic. I felt like if it wasn’t what the committee wanted, someone would tap me on the shoulder and say, ‘Miss, we’re very sorry, but there’s been a mistake. You don’t belong here.’ That if I wasn’t perfect, someone would come along and reveal that I was an imposter.

“I had a bit of a crisis when my committee confronted me. And then I realized that I was my own worst enemy in this situation and that no one reasonably expected me to be perfect. So I finally loosened my death grip on my work, showed it to them, and it all turned out fine. You, I can see, are doing the same thing. Don’t go down that path. You’ll get in where you want to go. You’ll be fine.”

I thought about what she said, and she was right. My biggest worry was that some admissions officer would take a look at my application and say, “She thinks she belongs here? Ha! She probably couldn’t successfully greet people at Wal-Mart!”

The idea that I, too, suffered from what she called the “imposter syndrome” wasn’t exactly what bothered me, but more the thought of why this was. I’m well aware that I’m not stupid. If you do well enough in school and manage to stay out of trouble (for the most part), parents and teachers will prostrate themselves to blow enough smoke up your ass to properly inflate your ego. A lack of self-esteem was usually not one of my concerns. Looking back on it, I think I’ve always been a modestly anxious sort, but my current level of diffidence can only be attributed to one thing: my first job after graduating from college.

Shortly after fleeing the undergraduate nest, I landed what I thought was my dream position at a small non-profit organization. The mission statement advocated for the empowerment of women. What could be better? Yet I should have known that something was amiss when I had an interview with my future boss and she managed to never once crack a facial expression other than sheer disgust.

The most accurate analogy I can think of for my work situation over the next year and a half was that it was something akin to what was portrayed in the film, Secretary, only without the sex part (thank god). A misplaced comma on a document would whip my boss into a frenzy that would end in a stern, half hour lecture about my failings.

I had fully expected that I would be taken down a few pegs upon entering the “real world,” so initially I thought this treatment was nothing out of the ordinary. I can be pretty dense, so when my direct supervisor remarked that I was so much better than Jane’s previous assistant because I didn’t cry at the drop of a hat, I took it as a compliment instead of a warning signal. My other coworkers pretty much never said a word to me about the way they saw Jane constantly berating me because really, who wants to get between the boss-lady and her favorite whipping girl?

My saving grace was a woman named Hope*. My supervisor, who was Jane’s lapdog, decided to pop out a baby nine months after I started. She was replaced by this wonderful, brassy woman who shook me out of my beaten-down stupor. Hope helped me realize that, in all likelihood, Jane was a fucking sociopath (no joke), and that I needed to get the hell out of there before she completely sucked away my soul. Hope covered for me when I slipped out of the office for phone interviews and provided a glowing reference when I managed to find another, more healthy position.

When it came time to quit, I decided not to give any notice. This went against all of the advice of just about everyone I spoke to, but I knew that if I spent another second in that place, it wouldn’t be pretty. So, the day after I accepted a job-offer, I walked into Jane’s office and handed in my letter of resignation. She dealt with the situation just as I expected she would; she went apoplectic.

“Sit down!” she commanded. “You’re not going anywhere until we talk about this.”

“No. I’d rather not,” I said, managing to look her square in the eyes even though it felt like my stomach was going to climb up my throat.

“You realize what you’re doing? You’re losing any possibility of my good recommendation.” This was a popular threat with her. I’d watched Jane attempt to destroy several senior coworkers’ careers by blackballing them. But what did I care? I already had another job.

“That’s not really something I’m concerned about,” I countered. Then I turned around and left. Just like that, I was free. (Hope later called my cell to tell me that Jane had actually chased me out of the building, making quite the scene whilst scuttling past cubicles in high heels. I managed to escape her by taking the stairs while she stupidly waited for the elevator. For some reason, I feel deeply proud when I think of this.)

In all of the time I worked as Jane’s assistant, she never once made me feel like I was worthy of the position. The complete absence of any sort of validation wore me down. I felt like I was in the job by mistake, and in a way, this was true. I didn’t deserve to be there. In an ideal world, I should have been working for someone who treated me like a human being rather than a robot.

It’s taken me a few years to rebuild (what existed of) my sanity, but apparently there are still some chinks in my reconstituted armor, as this whole graduate school application process revealed. At my office holiday party last week, I traded for a magic eight ball during the Yankee Swap. Even though I know, rationally, that everything will be fine, I keep asking it if I’ll get into school. The little fucker keeps coming up with, “Outlook Not So Good.” Damn it! I’ve decided not to believe the piece of shit (until it tells me something that I want to hear, of course).

*All of the other names I’ve used on this blog have been changed for the sake of privacy, or some such nonsense. This is her real name. There’s just too much serendipity here to alter it.