I’ve started working on my college applications.

I’m meticulous about it. I’ve watched countless YouTube videos; guides from ex-admissions officers, tips from current Ivy League students, and hacks from people who appear to be relatively qualified. I’ve finished my first draft of my common-app essay with a topic that’s been achingly thought over and measured against other prospects. My extracurriculars are piled high – sorted in a specific order to maximize the chances that the admissions officer read the most important ones first. 

The biggest part is preparing myself for rejection.

It’s inevitable. I will not get into every school I apply to. This is not news or some grand epiphany – it’s a fact. Yet, even as I write this, I am struggling with it. I don’t like to fail. Failure is scary. It’s unknown. It creeps into your mind at your weakest, evidence for every dark and doubting thought you’ve ever had. 

Giftedness, as defined by the NAGC, exists in students with a heightened capacity “to perform—at higher levels compared to others of the same age, experience, and environment in one or more domains.” For better or for worse, they’re often offered more support and programs to realize this capacity. This, more often than not, gives way to the Gifted Kid Complex; a hellish psychic conflict of perfectionism and an undying need for validation. 

I was gifted. In grade five, I took some kind of aptitude test and scored well enough to get placed in the program. I did all kinds of strange activities and even placed well at the gifted-specific debate competition. I was constantly told how smart and talented I was, and how far ahead I was compared to my peers. I also struggle, and struggled, with a fear of failure. I cry when I fail and my heart aches when I lose. Trying new things is difficult; what happens if I’m bad at it? How do I blame anything else but myself? 

These are not isolated facts. I wish I had been warned in advance, or been given some sort of disclaimer; WARNING! CRIPPLING FEAR OF FAILURE AHEAD! EXIT NOW! 

For some, their fear of failure leads to low-effort syndrome, the phenomenon in which someone stops trying to protect their ego (I am guilty of this). For others, their fear of failure leads to anxiety, an irrational tremor in their heart and mind (I am guilty of this too).

Chasing perfection is a death wish. I know this. 

But I can’t stop running.

She’s right in front of me, so close I can feel the wind off her back. I swear I can catch her, I am reaching forward, her hair just missing the tips of my fingers. Her head is thrown back in wild laughter (laughter at me). 

I disembowel my mind; emptying myself fully and pushing it into everything I do. I can’t help it. I can’t stop. The school system is a fucked up dealer who gave me a taste and got me hooked for life. I’m an addict; searching for the high in every aspect of my life and terrified of recovery. It’s a part of me that I can’t seem to shake. But it’s not the same anymore, I’ve got a tolerance now. Academic validation isn’t enough; the itch school created is somewhere it can’t reach anymore. 

I’m running on empty, I can feel the flames of burnout licking at my heels. I can’t tell if I love or hate it. Maybe I’m delusional. I can’t tell you if I wish I’d grown up differently, or if I would’ve been better off without the label Gifted at all. I don’t want to risk what I have; would I have it without fear? Could I be as successful as I was without it? Is a me without this fear me at all?

I also wonder if this is my fault. Can I blame teachers or parents for supporting me? For complimenting me? For giving me the resources to excel? Am I broken? Is this complex truly a product of the Gifted label, or is it a pre-existing condition? Will I get over this? Can I? 

What happens to the rest of my life? Am I done for? Will I live in this anxiety forever?

When I write, I often find myself in a post-piece limbo. I’ve expressed and given all I have and drawn no conclusions. The reality is that I will write and write and write until I die and conclude with more questions than I started with. I hate it. I want to give you answers, I want to give myself answers, but I can’t. I don’t know how to solve this problem and it’s killing me.