They Told Me I was Special.
They told me I was special because I could spell more words than the other kids. I could do my homework on my own, I could play the piano without looking at notes. They put me in different classes, made me take different tests. They asked me different questions; ones that demanded my opinions, not just regurgitation of facts. I began to create music, lyrics, and pictures. And, again, they told me I was special, that everything I did was the best.
But I never wanted to be special. I never asked for praise. I did what my brain felt it should do; isn’t that what everyone does? Wasn’t everyone as special as I was, too?
I am a product of my generation. You’ll hear about us on the news. Self-centered, ego-maniacs, with a short ambitious fuse. It turns out, we were all told we were special for our achievements in elementary school. And now we are growing up in a special world with no clue what to do.
It’s a struggle for me not to begin every sentence with a capital “I”. And my hands attempt rigor mortis just to prevent my own sub-conscious streams. I have to remind myself constantly that all of this isn’t about me, me, me. But in one thought like that, the blinders were locked on, well, me. What a neurotic irony.
In a month, I will be 19 years old. I’ve spent all that time being told I was a mature soul. But my maturity is a front for a childish fantasy. I want to be something in this world. And that is the delusion of this place in time. All us special kids want to be something, because we were told we could.
We’ve devalued anonymity for infamy. Put wisdom in those with popularity.
We can discuss it all we want, diagnose ourselves just to make our whiny need for attention seem as if it something more drastic and relevant. But it’s not.
I’m a spoiled brat, and so are you.
But I guess we could start our self-medication by being content watching old NickToons.