The Problem with Being a Genius

I do what I do. I do it for me. I don’t do it for anyone else.

And it REALLY sucks that I was born the way I was, because everyone either loves me or hates me and there is no in-between. Jealousy, admiration—don’t even think about it. Don’t even think about it. I get it if you’re jealous. I do. I must look fantastic from an outside point of view.

I wish I was what everyone sees. Smart, hardworking, talented, friendly—no. Just no. I get it. I’m smart.

You don’t have to constantly shove it in my face, because I have a hard enough time as it is trying to cope with all the pressure of everyone’s expectations. Even little snippets: “Oh, you’re so smart.”, “If I had a class full of you, I’d never have to teach again.” They hurt. Because it reminds me that this is who I always was and this is who I always will be and there is no changing that, no matter how hard I try to blend in.

It doesn’t help that the schools are pushing me to my limits—”Oh, you did fantastic as a thirteen year old in freshman Geometry? Algebra 2 will be too easy for you. Skip it. Stick your fourteen year old sophomore self in Precalculus, with juniors and seniors three and four years older than you. See how you do then.” “Wow, you’re such a bright kid.

Let’s stick you in middle school at 8, shall we?”(I can’t thank my mother enough for turning that down—who knows what would have become of me otherwise) “Gee, little girl. You seem really smart. Why don’t you skip that grade all together and come into first grade at five years old?” It’s a game of dominoes. I lost. I let myself get noticed.

And now they won’t stop until I break. But I broke a long time ago, so why hasn’t it stopped? Because I’m a self-righteous, prideful brat who refuses to admit defeat, even after begging to be home schooled and falling to a tearful wreck because I’m not used to having to work to maintain good grades. I’m not. Up until now it’s been smooth sailing. Never had to do any homework, kicked butt on tests—even then, I hadn’t realized that I needed to stop and act normal and stupid so that I wouldn’t become a walking corpse with bags under my eyes and an A+ in every advanced-honors-whatever class they decided to throw me in.

I’m terrified for my future. College? I don’t want to go to college. But it’d be such a waste if I didn’t; I’d be ungrateful of my gift and do you know how many people would die to be in your position— I don’t want to go to college. I don’t want to get a job. I want to marry someone rich and sleaze around all day. But that won’t happen. Because I’m smart.