Exceptional

Good isn't good enough.

It never has been.

Not for me.

You'd think that after nearly sixteen years on this earth I'd understand the whole concept of "humans aren't perfect". Clearly, my brain has an entirely different opinion—that others are allowed to be imperfect; that others are allowed to make mistakes, but not me. Somehow, out of all seven billion humans on this planet, my mind decided that I am the only one that needs to appeal to a different standard. A higher standard.

Does that make me sound like an arrogant, pretentious bastard? Hell yeah, it probably does. But my point here isn't to be polite or be cautious with my words. Screw it, I'm just gonna let my thoughts do the typing from now on.

I try really hard. And before you cut me off here, I mean I try really, really fucking hard to do well. To be good, that is. At everything.

It took me a few years to accept the fact that I wasn't always gonna be the best. Again, I must sound like I think I'm King of the World or Head Bitch or something but that's really not what I mean.

Growing up, I was the angel child. Perfect, sweet little Maya. Could never hurt a fly. Couldn't do a wrong thing in the world. I went to bed on time and ate most of my vegetables and wiped my feet on the mat before going inside and never broke any promises and cleaned my room and finished all my homework and most of all, I kept my parents happy. I was the child all parents wish they could brag about. I got good grades, I was friendly to other kids, I always said please and thank you, I made eye contact, I smiled and nodded, I was relatively talented, I checked all the boxes that spelt "perfect".

Despite these things, I was always a little bit off, a little too eccentric, a little too different. I found out that I felt things more than others. I wasn't sure why.

Pre-K, I remember the teacher telling me it wasn't nice to bump into that kid during snack time. In reality, it had just been an accident, but the teacher had misunderstood and thought I'd shoved myself into Yasmine. I could've sworn I hadn't. Tears sprang to my eyes at the thought of being chastised and at the thought of hurting someone else. You did bad, Maya. You did bad.

So Ms. Karen put me in a time-out and I cried my entire way through the ten minutes. I remember saying sorry over and over and over, that "No, Ms. Karen, you don't understand—I'm really, really sorry, and I won't ever do it again!" She kept saying she understood, that it was okay, that I didn't need to apologize anymore but she really didn't understand. I was apologizing for being bad, yes, but I was also apologizing for failing to be perfect. I was what... five? Almost over a decade ago.

Yet the same things apply now.

For a consecutive six years, I got the highest GPA in my grade. I was used to receiving honor roll and certificates and diplomas and medals. I'd hear other students talk about how their parents were going to buy them a new phone if they got a 80 on their Social Studies test. I didn't even own a phone.

See, the thing is everyone acted like Maya getting 99s in every class was normal, like it was easy. Not trying to victimize myself here but just how easy did they think the pressure I put on myself was? It certainly didn't come from my parents. They were always the "get good grades but don't stress, just do your best" type. My brain thought that was bullshit. Whatever voice I had inside my head screamed that everyone would be disappointed if I didn't succeed. And eventually I started to believe it. So I worked my ass off and stressed about the impossible and the irrational.

I always concluded that in the end, no matter what I did, people would hate me.

I'm not sure why that was always end game for me, but it was. That's the only thing I was always 100% set on, no matter how wrong I was.

I think my parents got a bit too used to my success because sometimes they'd walk in on me hyperventilating over sheet music and wonder what was wrong.

"Maya, why on earth are you stressed about this song? You've sung it a hundred times!"

But it's not fucking perfect yet. I have to get it right. I need to. I need to. I need to.

It probably didn't help that I was in about a thousand extracurriculars because again, I felt the need to accomplish as much as possible and keep people on my good side and maintain a flawless reputation, bla bla bla. But I kept smiling and laughing at people's dumb jokes and handing out empty compliments until I turned into the most tasteless, impartial and bland human on earth. I had entirely forgotten who I was. I knew damn well who I wanted to be. Unfortunately that goal will forever be realistically unattainable. Oh well.

I had physically become the scum of the earth. A liar. A poser. A fake.

Or at least that's what the voice inside my head told me. Whether it's true or not is another matter entirely.

At some point when I was fairly young, I discovered that I was talented. Not like my brother, no—I couldn't draw. Or perhaps, maybe I could, but everyone was always so intent on calling Yan Diego the artist that I gave up before I had even started.

So I decided to be talented in something else.

I wasn't coordinated enough to play a sport, so that was out of the question.

I did ballet for a while and I was pretty good at that.

I liked to read but I didn't consider reading a real talent.

With reading came writing but I thought that people would get bored from looking at words for too long, so I refrained from showing anyone my work.

Then I found out I could sing. And that was pretty cool.

Then I found out other people could sing, too. So I decided I had to be better than them. I had to be special.

No, I had to be exceptional.

I was (am) so afraid that I wouldn't be remembered, or worse—remembered for being the absolute worst human on earth.

I wanted so badly for some part of me to stick out. I wanted to be beautiful. I wanted to be clever, I wanted to be smart. I wanted to be good.

I wanted to be fucking exceptional, you see, but I didn't quite realize yet that there would always be someone far better, and always be someone far worse.

But no, I had to be at the top. Grades, friends, family. I had to be on top. I had to be in control. I had to control things. I had to be able to get a say, to have a choice, a voice—

Then I became best friends with someone truly exceptional. She was beauty. She was smarts. She was wit. She was talent.

To this day, we are still good friends. But she was always exceptional. And that hurt.

The thing is it shouldn't. Why the fuck should I care? I should be happy for her, goddammit. Not bitter about what I can't be. Yet she was always better, better, better.

Two things happened at once: my inflated ego (or so it seemed) had reduced itself to the size of a pea, and at the same time, I demanded that much more from myself.

Maya get with the program. Shoulders back. Head high. Louder voice. Wider smile.

Fuck it. That was me for so long. It was always me against her, except she didn't really know about the competition. She just did things and they were right.

Somewhere along the way to highschool I snapped. Exceptional was just too fucking hard. So why was I still pursuing it? Why was this so important to me?

Oh right. Parents. Happy. Good grades=good college=good job=success=financial stability.

I somehow felt and still feel responsible for their happiness. Not just theirs. Everyone's.

That's why I wanted to be perfect.

Not for me.

Okay maybe a little for me.

But I wanted to be good for others. I wanted approval. I wanted to be great. I wanted people to love me.

I wanted to be kind. I wanted to be needed. God, I wanted to be needed. I didn't wanna feel useless.

The voice inside my head made me feel useless.

You ruin everything. You're no good. You're not enough.

You're not enough.

You're not enough.

I just want to be enough.

Do you love me?

Can I love you?

Is that okay?

Are you sure?

But I'm not who you think I am, I'm really not.

You shouldn't have me love you. You shouldn't love me.

Come back please.

No wait.

Please come back.

Love me love me love me love me love me please.

I'm trying.

..........

And so goes the rest of the conversations I have in my head.

In short, to whom it may concern, I am a lot better now than the picture I painted here. Granted, I have my moments, but for the most part I don't really care about being exceptional anymore. Not really.

I wasn't really writing this for any reason in particular other than needing to go on a rant by myself with no interruptions. The page doesn't interrupt. Thanks page.

Might as well post my feelings to the internet because that's always a fantastic idea, right?

Hasta la próxima,

Much love xoxo

Maya

1898

1898

Maya Wilson

"It's on the third shelf," he said,

So I looked and found nothing but

An old copy of a Webster dictionary.

The year was 1908.

I couldn't recall anything special happening then

But then again, what if I was missing something?

"It's on the third shelf," he said,

And his eyes were so sure of it.

They doubted nothing and something

In them said: believe me.

I searched again but only found a postcard.

1898. Brooklyn. She says she loves you.

So there was a woman but who was she

And why did he care so much?

"It's on the third shelf," he said.

Now there was a tiny little box

Engraved: Angel.

I almost didn't dare open it but his

Eyes were so sure and his words so pure

That I snapped off the lid and

Let the most precious stone I've ever seen

Fall to the ground with a thud.

Her name was Denise.

Grandaddy said he'd marry her one day

But the next, she ran away and left

Nothing but the scent of her hair.

Peaches and sugar.

"It's on the third shelf," he said,

And again, it was good ol' Webster,

This time with a bookmark.

The word was love.

"Hold to it, my boy; you'll never know it 'til it leaves ya," he said.

Then Grandaddy stood up and went.

Well Worth The Pain

Hi.

It's been a while.

I have several posts that were meant to be published before this one but I'm afraid this particular one couldn't wait.

..........

Empathy... It's a horrifyingly beautiful thing. I'd like to believe most relatively "sane" people on this earth possess at least an ounce of it. This could be considered the human standard or minimum decency level.

I happen to possess about five tons of it. And sometimes, that can be the hardest thing in the world.

Forgive me as I go off on a tangent here, but I don't think I could ever explain how much hurt I feel when another is in pain. Instinctually, I care about everything that moves or breathes or lives or simply is. I develop a protectiveness over them all—hoping, in vain, that I can shelter each and every one of them from that which causes them pain.

I don't tend to talk about it unless we're super close but I've played my fair share of battles against depression and anxiety. I can proudly say I've come a long way compared to where I used to be. So yes, I am genuinely proud of myself.

Good job, Maya.

I am in a happier place than I used to be.

But, that does not mean that the darkest corners of my brain have ceased to exist. No, they're still very much alive but I rarely stumble across them anymore. Most of the occupied area of my mind shines with uncontainable light, generally blinding anyone who dares enter it. My point being, I hold far too much happy inside of me that it confuses some people XD That being said, those who do have the pleasure, if not "interesting experience" of meeting my mind, are often delighted by the brightness there. I like to think I'm full of sunshine and squirrels and ice cream and happy thoughts.

Still, there are times when stress or sadness or anger get the better of me, and so I retreat back to the dark, secluded corners of my brain. I haven't dusted up there in a long while so for the most part, it just makes me sneeze.

Hah. I made a joke. See, 'cuz you sneeze when you feel sick and being up in the attic of my brain makes me feel sick, get it?

I'm not really sure how to describe it to you.

It feels cold. Sort of like the wind felt outside today. The kind where you wish you had on gloves and a hat or wish that you'd brought an extra coat. You sit there on the floor—by yourself—and you begin to wonder if you really are alone and whether these dust bunnies and cobwebs just keep appearing or whether you keep putting them there? After a few minutes, you think you're starting to feel peaceful, even though you're alone, except your eyes aren't accustomed to the dark yet—not in the least—but you don't want to be sitting on the ground anymore so you get up and explore. It doesn't take you long to realize you've come to the front of a door. You're not sure how it got there and you're not sure where it will take you but curiosity takes the better of you, so you push it open. You've now entered somewhere more quiet—more peaceful—yet this place drowns in darkness you've never even dreamed of. Your eyes can't perceive any depth whatsoever so you reach out your hands to feel out the walls. You're in a maze. You turn left; there's no exit. You turn right a couple times; there's no exit.You're in there for what feels like hours and by now you wish you hadn't strayed from the original door. You hear the dull sound of something slamming shut. Slowly, but growing in intensity, the slamming is nearing you. It's chasing you. It's dark, the walls are closing in, the slamming is muffling your shouts. You can't get out. You can't get out. You can't get out. Your chest heaves gulps of air in and out and in and out but it's only getting darker and now screams have joined the slamming but you can't tell if they're someone else's or your own. Your chest is on fire but you gotta keep breathing to survive. The sounds become deafening and before the worst is over you open your eyes and you're back in your little dark corner full of dust bunnies and moth balls and you wonder if you ever even moved from that spot in the first place?

I'm sorry if I got a bit sidetracked there.

Back to my point: empathy. It's a bitch. A beautiful bitch, but a bitch nonetheless.

I've never had any children and I don't plan on it for a long while but I'd imagine empathy/protectiveness is 90% of what a mother—a parent—feels. It's like you want to shelter that someone from anything that could ever possibly go wrong. And if anything does go wrong, it's like you're experiencing the pain yourself. You want to wrap them up in a hug and never let them go. You want to shower them in kisses and tell them that they are loved. So so so loved. You want to tell them that they are not alone, that they are never alone and should never have to feel alone. You want to tell them that they are beautiful, and special, and clever, and loved. You want them to see themselves the way you see them: as a ray of sunshine or a shooting star or the moon or a sweater on a rainy day. You want them to feel so fucking happy and you want to sew up all the holes in their despair. You never want them to feel hopeless.

And so yes, I may have an excess of empathy, but no matter how much it drains me at times, I like to think I'm exceptionally lucky.

Not many human beings (that I know of) care so deeply for matters that don't even directly concern them. How lucky I am to love so unconditionally.

Because along with the bad times, come the good times, and it's the good times that I live for.

When someone scores their first goal; or when they hit that note they never thought they could reach; or when they play a piece so beautifully, I think I might cry; or when they finish a masterpiece that's taken them weeks to complete; or when they get an A on a test; or when they're excited about seeing a friend they haven't seen in months; or when they've had a fantastic night; or when they dance to their heart's content; or when they write a poem that leaves me speechless; or when they're giddy about eating a cupcake; or when you can just see the plain joy across their face, radiating from within; or when you see their simple smile that lights up the whole room.

Those are the moments that make it worth it. Those are the things that make all the pain so much more bearable.

Because there is so much pain in this world; so much misery; so much suffering. But I couldn't stand to live my whole life focusing on the negative.

Yes, there is pain. Yes, there is suffering. Yes, there is misery.

But there is also joy, and there is excitement, and there is bliss.

Feeling both isn't necessarily bad. It just means you're human.

..........

And there you have it, folks. Just a few thoughts I've had on my mind for a while and thought I should share.

Hasta la proxima,

Much love xoxo

Maya

P.S: Thanks for toughing it out with me, C <3