An Objective Sense of Self

   

       I am big on self-evaluation. Now, this might not be good, but I love those tests that supposedly allow you to place yourself in different categories. I am an INTJ according to Myers-Briggs (I have taken the test like 3,000 times just to be sure),  I think I am a type 5 on the enneagram, and, according to Buzzfeed, I am Ariel out of the Disney princesses.
      From the age of twelve, I've kept diaries religiously, and scattered before then. I've been obsessed with recording the present moment, because nothing will ever be exactly like this ever again, and what if everything I thought didn't matter actually does? The memory of everything that has ever happened as well as my feelings about it is too much to keep in my head, so I spill it out on paper. This has allowed me not only to remember mundane events I would have otherwise forgotten, but I can also track my growth through things like my self-image, image of the people around me, and of the world.
      This probably started earlier, but I only remember beginning to be conscious about in eighth grade. I convinced myself that I was able to look at myself completely objectively, to be able to say I am good at somethings and bad at others. And that was okay. Now, this is a good and important part of self-evaluation, I just wasn't doing it right. I put my greatest fears in front of me, and then stated them as fact, and followed that with, "and it's fine." I "knew" that nobody liked me, or that most things I did were bad, etcetera.
      I eventually became better at it. I was able to actually look at facts, and still self evaluate in an actually constructive manner. I am able to say I have a fantastic face but not that great thighs. I can sometimes make videos that are good, and some that are bad. I'm pretty good at calligraphy. I watch too much television. I am great at time management. I idolize celebrities to an alarming degree.
     Though I am able to look at all of these as fact now, I am sure that I wouldn't have a couple years ago, and will not be able to a couple years from now.
      Back in May, I wrote a short film script. I've been doing this for like four years now, pumping out work until I wrote The One, The One that was finally good enough. This was of course, not a good plan, but it was my "Objective" mind at play. This script was different. I wrote it with the intention of being made. So, once I'd finished it and was sure that it was the best it could be, I gathered some friends and I made it a reality.
       The next day, I sat down to edit it, and I couldn't even watch through the footage. I can't really categorize all of the emotions, but there were some key ones at play: 1, embarrassment: I purposefully wrote it to be very, very awkward, I just didn't realize how painful it would be to actually see; 2, fear: I was afraid that it was not going to be good. Before, it could be anything, it was only limited to my imagination. But now that it had been made, it was trapped within the confines of what I had; and 3, anxiety: actually different from fear, I was anxious because this was a thing I'd been wanting to do for a very long time, and now that it was actually happening, my body didn't know what to do.
        I edited it together, only watching what I absolutely needed to and, because I'd made the film with the intention of sharing it, shipped it off to All American High School Film Festival. I wanted to say that I did it. I had entered a film festival. I had put myself out there. I was not proud of the film. I was able to look at it objectively and say that it was not good. But it wasn't about that, it was about the experience. So, of course, I wasn't expecting to get in.
        But, on July 16, when the official selections were announced, I anxiously scrolled through the list and had to restrain myself from screaming when I saw my name. How could this happen? I "objectively saw" that since my film was short, it was easier to fit in, that it was likely right before the cutoff point, or that it got leniency because it was my debut. Whatever I did, I convinced myself that I didn't actually deserve this. This is because of, of course, insecurity, but also because it was challenging my sense of self, and I had so much pride in knowing who I was. (and am, don't know why I am using the past tense).
        I am not always this critical of my work. When I am certain I've done a good job on something, I will shove it in everyone's faces whether or not they care.
       Anyway, I still don't understand it. But all I know is that, come October, my film that I still struggle to watch will be screened in New York for many, many people.
      Maybe I need to look at my feelings as what they are: feelings, not facts.