Gifted Kid Burnout
I know what it feels like to be on top.
Top of the class. On top of the level. Walking up the stage, looking into the principal’s eyes. Bow. Look down at the camera. Smile.
I’ve heard ‘congrats’ and I’ve seen eyes of envy. I’m used to questions I’m not meant to answer.
“How do you make getting good grades look so easy?”
I can’t lie and say that I don’t enjoy it. I do. I bask in it, and revel in pride, joy, and jealousy. I’ve grown too accustomed to the cycle which drives and drains me.
It’s almost like a drug, you know. I get that hit of dopamine, with every award and compliment. It’s exhilarating in an instant. It keeps me coming back for more.
If academic validation is like a drug, then I guess I’m a drug addict. Because like a drug addict, I face withdrawals. With every failure and every dry spell, I get weaker. I begin to doubt myself.
When I base my entire identity on my grades and find the drive to study from external motivation, I need that validation to keep me going. It’s the fuel that keeps me running on a hedonic treadmill.
Other students, they’d wish they could get just one hit of what I’ve gotten. But hit after hit, after hit, and now I’m addicted.
And like a drug addict, I’m supposed to want the drug. Why? It’s a natural correlation. The drug addict wants drugs. I want my five seconds on the podium, the backhanded compliments.
Maybe, just maybe, I want my father to look at my report card, and say something other than ‘good’ for once.
I don’t just want good grades, I want the outcome of getting good grades.
Many a times, I turn this thought around in my head. And every time, I struggle against it.
Have I really grown so pathetic?
Do I work myself to death, studying, for other people?
I’m not a genius. In fact, I consider myself pretty average. I’m not smart, I’ve just conditioned myself to be good at studying. But I’ve managed to convince everyone that I’m pretty smart.
I wear intelligence like a mask, a sad jester.
Hello, Imposter Syndrome. She lurks in the dark recesses of my mind. She’s like an old friend, or a long-time nemesis. It’s hard to tell when she’s been around for such a long time.
She tells me that I’m not as ‘smart’ as other people think I am, or that there will always be people better than me.
She tells me I’m not good enough.
It’s hard to deny her autonomy, when I’m all alone, staring at a blank piece of paper. Willing myself to write but unable to lift a finger. Outside, there’s the whirring, click, click of the fan, but it’s drowned out by the tumultuous voices inside.
So really, what was all of this for?
Growing up was realising that grades don’t matter in the ‘real’ world. (I love it when they say that. It makes me feel as though I’ve been living the life of a formless blob in a simulation all this time.)
When I dig my head out of the sand, I’ll realise that everyone’s way ahead of me in other aspects of life, while I’ve been obsessing over a meaningless goal. I’m starting to get it, now.
I’m tired. Tired of having to live up to my expectations, and tired of caring. These bones, these structures of my life, are brittle and I might crumble with another blow.
I know that the road ahead of me is long. I have all these habits to undo, all these wounds to close. My healing process has only yet begun, and the pangs of withdrawal still make my mouth dry and eyes tremble.
But the authority of institutions that used to govern me is growing weaker. The mindless desire for the glitz and glamour of academic success is diminishing. Their grip on me is slipping, and I can feel it.
Recognizing and denying their access to me is a start. What’s before me is an uncertain, individualizing, and rejuvenating process.
I’m ready as anyone can ever be for it.
