Killing the wunderkind

It’s occurred to me that the farther I am from grad school, the more I’ve been relying on academic achievements to shore up my shoddy self-esteem. It’s been sickening is how much I’ve clung to this anachronistic self-ideation. It’s as if I haven’t developed my non-intellectual identity at all. I still hang onto that damn NSF as if it’s some sort of validation of whatever preconceived notions and expectations, even though, at some level, I feel like a failure at best, and possibly even a fraud.



Ever feel a victim to expectations? It happens, even late in life, even among really smart people. I’m sure there were people at Cornell who were wondering what the hell was with the guy who got an NSF, yet couldn’t seem to really do research, or turn in completed assignments.

So maybe this depression thing, while real, helped me dodge this idea that I might not be “smart” enough to make it at the level I thought I was capable of achieving, and in fact destined to achieve. I mean, if medical science tells me it’s not my fault for a lack of serotonin, then we’ll never know for sure that I wasn’t actually smart enough. Right?

Is it that easy? Is that the damn mystery of the last five years, or the last twenty? Is it really that I haven’t had the balls to just say, “Fuck you and your expectations! I’m not going to internalize this shit any more!” I don’t even know who I’d say that to, or if a 27-year old can get away with saying crap like that. Logically, it doesn’t seem particularly coherent to complain of vague expectations and an absence of structure and supervision on the one hand, and unreasonable expectations on the other.

Maybe it’s not a big paradox. Maybe they’re related. There seems to be plenty of literature indicating a correlation between giftedness and idealism, and consequently, depression. Maybe that’s why I’ve been working so hard to blunt my mind the last few years – if I get too dumb to know that things could be better, then maybe I’ll stop driving myself friggin’ insane by thinking they ought to be better.

Ok, let me try this from the top.

I was not “smart” enough to really succeed in my line of research at Cornell.

I was not “smart” enough to figure out that it might be a good idea to work before I went to grad school.

I was not “smart” enough to develop a more grounded, somewhat materialistic understanding of how I’m going to support myself in the future.

I was not “smart” enough to figure out how to develop enough deep relationships to nurture my various interests. Shitty nerd jokes fed a very small part of my life. So did military history. I regret I didn’t find a writing group, or people who appreciated poetry AND I could relate to on an emotional level. (Passwords didn’t cut it, for various reasons.)

I was not “smart” enough to figure out the whole “dating” thing, to develop the security that I didn’t have to intimidate/entertain with my memory and intellectual song-and-dance alone, that heart would’ve counted for something.

I was not “smart” enough to figure out emotions, why I seemed to feel them so intensely, yet felt the need to stifle them in the name of rationality, logic, and above all, not displaying any symptoms of bipolar disorder.

I was, and am, not smart enough to build enough character, identity, and structure in my current environment to move forward, build my self-esteem, get a job, move out, find a fuck buddy, fall in love, host dinner parties, and write poetry and argue politics with equal  and intense passion.

I’m hoping that by stating all of these things, I’m going to bury that ideal young Einstein  from Rosemead that never was, and never will be, and start building from the top.

I’ve got a long menu list of things I need, things no one person can be reasonably expected to provide guidance or mentorship on. It sucks that I’m also not smart enough to just start asking for and taking these things, and not isolate/emotionally cockblock myself by not asking for it in the first place.

Before anyone reads this and decides to run to my rescue, or offer some brief words of support, be warned. I need a lot of help. A LOT. And chances are, if you’re reading this casually, you don’t have the time, you don’t have the technology, and don’t have the energy to “fix” anything. You may not have those things for even anything remotely relating to a real relationship at any level. Furthermore, you might get burned and interpret my lack of responsiveness as my judgment that your help isn’t wanted, isn’t good enough, for even a basket case like me.

It’s not you. It’s me. But don’t make it become about you, and your need to fill your own voids by saving people. I tried that before, and it didn’t work out so well – it leaves you bitter, and makes you overly focused on your own emotional neediness. Would-be counselors, philosophers and friends: heal thyself. Or heal each other. And maybe, someday, I'll be ready, and we can commiserate on how truly, truly shitty it was to be targeted as bright, or beautiful, or whatever the hell made you special and alone.

And so, I tell my sorrows to a stone. A digital, writhing mass of emotional and intellectual diarrhea and half-assed voyeurism that is Facebook. It beats holding it in, until this shit ruins whatever relationships and future prospects I’ve got left.