Overachieving, Maybe

When I was in 5th grade, I had gotten my first C. The overachievers worst nightmare, the downfall of what everybody told you was going to be your own self made empire.

Teachers and parents praise you for learning early. They tell you you'll go far in life, you'll be smart and successful. You'll get into a good school. You'll pass your peers in the pursuit of knowledge.

You'll do fine.

I brought home that C to an angry father, a night I can't forget. I dug my nails into my skin, punishing myself. I fucked up. I'm never going to be successful. I can hear it loud and clear. The screams, the threats.

Why do we crush morale like this? Why do we raise the gifted but drop them when we find them useless?

My grades didn't get better. I'd collect low grades and I'd feel the bitterness, the anger. 6th grade turned to 7th to 8th. C's become D's. Harming myself gets worse. I go to bed wondering if I'll ever get back on track or if I'll end up at a dead end.

"You're being stupid," I'm told.

My peers are doing better, they're getting into the good classes. They're getting the bigger achievements. They have something I don't.

At least I don't think I have it.

Intelligence.

There's nothing like doing well when things were easy to you. Alphabets felt like a piece of cake, math problems could be done in seconds. But when the gifted kids fail, we are so easy to discourage them, make them feel like they've messed up their entire life in 5th grade.

Even growing up, years after leaving the hell that was school, I'm still left wondering if I had maybe tried harder. If I hadn't fucked up. If I hadn't ruined my life continually, where I would be. Would I still be sad? Would I still want to tear the world to pieces most days?

Would I be happier?