I am still alive!

Dear Reader (if you exist),

If you must know, I am at university already. Which can only mean that I have survived(!) IB. It has been nearly a month since I began my post-IB life officially, and I must regrettably say that the IB programme has prepared me for university life. But that does not detract from the toil, the pain, the misery, the pain, and finally, the pain that I experienced as an IB student. I am going to keep this blog up as future reference and am also hoping that those who are in charge of coordinating the IB programmes at their respective institutions read my experiences. To add, I have uploaded all the posts that were previously on a different blog here for easier reference.

As a sort of disclaimer: My final IB year was riddled with a myriad of personal troubles, so if my posts from that year seem depressing, it is due to my state of mind during that phase of my life. That is to say that the programme should not be held entirely accountable for my I-hate-the-world-the-world-hates-me-I-want-to-die phase. There is, after all, this interesting thing we call Personal Life which often gets in the way. I must assure you that I am not as tortured or depressive as I seem on this blog, nor am I that witty or brilliant.

One day, if you see a satirical novel at bookstores about a secondary school programme that is startlingly similar to the IB Programme and the personalities it victimises, you can be sure that this particular IB Student is the source of those wickedly humourous anectdotes. You will probably also meet a young woman at the book tours of said novel who may or may not be me and who will say she is representing IB Student.

For all the criticisms I have had and continue to have of aspects of the IBP, my reflections on the IB experience have sadly become testimonials to its strengths. How ironical that I should become a sort of spokesperson for the IB Diploma Programme. Ah, the places the winds of life blow you to…My former teachers have pointed out that I would not have been able to articulate such criticisms so eloquently had it not been for the IB. Thank you, teachers, you are really burgeoning my self-esteem by telling me that I am merely a product of an international programme, churned out as I am by the cogs of academic rigour. I am trying to be facetious here, but probably my intended effect has been lost on you, dear reader.

So was it worth it, all that strife? I would say yes, that had it not been for IB most of my university hours would be spent fulfilling general distribution requirements, which are often painful. Think of IB as suffering earlier for the sake of saving your future, collegiate self. At what cost? Possibly your mental health, your friendships, your family life, your sanity (oh wait–I mentioned that already), and your idealism. Actually, the worth of IB is up to YOU to decide. If you feel that you must keep the afore mentioned intact, there is nothing wrong with dropping out. My own stubbornness to “stay the course!” as a feverishly driven student  in the IB prevented me from dropping out.

I often wonder to myself how historical overachievers and brilliant writers in literature, like Plath or Sexton or Woolf or Eliot or Austen, would have fared in the IB and what they would have written about their experiences. That said, I am not a famous writer whose life and personality has been shrouded in mythology which tends to take the tone of a Grecian tragedy and whose life and works have been scrutinised over and over again by various parties. I am trying to avoid that from happening while I am still alive.

I am positive someone out there must be wondering whether or not I attended their school. I will not, ever, disclose my true identity for I am just as likely to type out my home address on the Internet as I am revealing my real name, my university, and my secondary school. Or even worse, posting a photograph of myself so as to make me completely identifiable. Note that I am not above fabricating details about my background, basic information, and other such information so if you do come across a photo you believe is of the BRILLIANT young woman behind this blog, then you are probably mistaken as I will probably be in some sort of disguise. As dark and morbid as I seem here, I assure you that I do not wear black all the time nor do I listen to depressing music all the time. If, perchance, you meet a tall young woman with kinky dark wavy hair clutching dearly to a textbook that seems to be titled Global Issues, that will probably be my literary representative and that is quite possibly the closest you will get to meeting me in real life while being aware of it. Do not read the sentenced with the strike-through.

Since I am sparing you the personal details of the author behind this blog, just think of me as the IB’s Jane Eyre. Or if you prefer more depressing “modern” fare, the Esther Greenwood/Holden Caulfield of IB. Although, as I have reiterated here, I am not as messed-up as I seem in writing.

So if you are still in the death throes of IB and in need some emotional support or just have some questions, feel free to send an owl my way–I mean, an email at arandomperson [at] whoever [dot] com. It’s a real email address, I swear! Give it a try.

Love,

Former IB Student

PS I will continue to write in this blog or perhaps a different one on wordpress.com.