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phantumpoftheopera · 4 years

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Having a “gifted” sibling really sucks

Apologies for the length of this, but it's something that I've struggled with voicing for a while now.

I see posts all the time about how hard it is for "gifted" kids and of course there are plenty of studies about how hard school is for students who struggle academically as well, but you know what I never see?

Posts about how hard it is for the siblings of "gifted" kids.

I wonder why that is, honestly. And it bothers me, as a sibling of a former gifted kid. And here's why.

When I was a kid, I was "smart." I knew I was. I was a little full of myself, probably. My brother and I were both praised for our intelligence by family members all the time.

But something changed when I was entering fourth grade (he was entering second).

See, his first grade class had done some testing to see if any of them qualified as "gifted and talented" enough to qualify to go to the new magnet program at a different school the next year. He was one of the three in his class who got in.

And I was jealous. And once I found out I could also take the test to see if I could get in, I wanted to. I begged my mom to let me take the test. And she did. And I did not get in.

I was not "gifted" enough.

And so then, at the age of 8 (because I had not yet turned 9), I realized the difference between me and my brother. And I was jealous. And that jealousy would haunt me for a long time, and yes, continues to this day.

When he had to leave the magnet program at the end of second grade, partly because he missed his old friends, but mostly because the teacher required all assignments to be printed from a computer, which was hard for us as a family that did not own a computer until I was in middle school, I was happy. I felt guilty about it but I was happy, because it meant he was no longer "special." He was the same as me.

But he wasn't. Not really. And as years went on, not being gifted like he was hurt more and more.

Like most gifted students who aren't challenged enough academically, he slacked off. His grades were bad because he wouldn't do homework. It was a waste of time to him. He would finish assignments in class and then read a book the rest of the class instead of finding something else to do. You know, the typical gifted child burnout stuff.

Our grades were pretty similar. I did my homework more, paid more attention in class. I got mostly A's in my classes throughout elementary school. And I got praised for it. Even when I didn't get an A, it was okay because I was doing things to the best of my ability. But when he got a B, he wasn't living up to his potential.

It wasn't an intentional slight against me. My parents didn't really know what they were subconsciously teaching me. Until recently, I didn't consciously think about it either. But I learned that no matter what I did, he would always be better. My former teachers praised his abilities in ways they never praised mine, always with the caveat that he would be so successful if he just applied himself more.

Middle school came. For the first time, I almost failed a grade. A lot of things contributed to that, mostly unrelated to any of this and a lot to do with switching schools midway through the year and being bullied. My parents actually paid attention. For once, I got the "not living up to my potential" speech. This continued into seventh grade, back at my old middle school, because I had fallen into a habit of not doing homework because if my brother didn't have to, why should I? We were still in different schools. He was still in fifth grade at this point.

Then in eighth grade, suddenly, we were in the same school and I had to try again. I had to be better. Only now, I was behind. I had been "smart" before. I was still in honors classes. But now I didn't know how to study. I didn't know how to take notes. I hadn't bothered learning any of that before. And while my grades improved, I had unknowingly sent myself into a spiral I couldn't escape.

After two years of horrible grades (I actually failed math in sixth and seventh grade), the fact I was now getting Bs and Cs was enough to please my parents. An A made them ecstatic. But we were back to the old days of my grades being "the best you could do" and "at least you tried" while my brother's similar grades were "not applying himself" and "laziness."

Deep down I wanted to shout at them, to tell them that this was NOT the best I could do! I didn't try at all! But there was a lot of other stuff going on at home and it was my job to be as accommodating as possible and not act out in any way.

Instead, I wanted to prove myself, to them and to myself, and start fresh in high school. For the first time since my first term in sixth grade, I had straight As again in my freshman year. I could do it. I was finally the "smarter" kid.

But my brother still got the academic attention. My mom started asking me to type up my brother's papers for him if he dictated them. I liked writing, so of course I would agree. She acknowledged it wasn't fair to ask that of me, but I did it anyway. But God, I resented myself for agreeing.

Tenth grade was okay, I think. I had an English teacher I hated and my stubbornness won out, earning me a C in both English and Journalism that year (he taught both classes) but overall I did well.

And the rest of high school, well...I didn't really attend classes much. A lot of factors went into that. And I didn't do my homework as often as I should have. But it wasn't because of my brother by this point. I just didn't expect to live past 18 anyway or go to college, so what was the point? I have a lot of regrets about those two years, especially regarding college, but...well...it's in the past.

And college was a struggle too, since I never learned to study or take notes or manage my time. It's still a struggle, even now, after I somehow finished undergrad and am a grad student. I still can't take notes well. A lot of it is mental illness, because I mean...depression makes doing assignments very very difficult most days. But a lot is also this sense of inferiority, that there's no point since I'll never be smart enough.

I know it's not true. Intelligence does not determine your value. Being good at something or not does not determine your worth. But living your life always comparing yourself to a sibling (in my case, a younger sibling especially) who gets praised for things you thought you were good at when he doesn't even put any effort in (a college professor we shared praised an essay he wrote that he barely tried on, he got a better score on the writing section of the SAT, etc.) is discouraging. I know now that comparing yourself to someone else, even a sibling, is unfair to yourself and that person, but it's a habit that's hard to break.

Basically, I wish people would pay attention more to how hard it is for the "ungifted" child, the one who is smart but not "smart enough" to get special attention. It's so easy for those kids to get swallowed up without anyone ever noticing or caring because all the attention is given to those who shine the brightest.

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pickupthepen · 7 years

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The School

I didn’t go to an Ivy League school, but I sure as hell act like one of those Harvard kids that won’t shut up about Cambridge twelve years after graduation. I still have some residue in my lungs from my self-assignment of being the “smart kid” that got into the engineering university. It was my last hope for worthiness when looks, personality, friendships, talent, athleticism, and everything else seemed to fail me.

“Well at least I’m smart! Smarter than you.”

Sometimes I let my veil of self-confidence about it all slip a little, and I’ll tell you about how I hated almost every second of those excruciating five years with every fiber of my being, but I’m interrupted by “you had to be smart to go there” and “you got the degree, now you can do anything!” I twisted between being filled with pride about those five years and everything I survived and hating every second of it to the tip of my spine.

I had the whole plan mapped out when I got the acceptance letter. Actually, it wasn’t a letter, it was a browser screen. I logged in on a Friday night to check my acceptance status and my parents took me to sushi to celebrate. The plan was in motion! I had been saving my Smoothie King checks to pay for the sorority, I got into the best freshman dorm, and I’d be building rockets and making millions in no time.

I didn’t get into the sorority. I told people I walked out of rush because it was overwhelming and I didn’t see myself pledging- I dropped because ZTA cut me and the first step of the plan- to get into my dad’s college sweetheart’s sorority and be the perfect collegiate daughter- was shattered. That was the very first time in my life that I was heartbroken. I had a second, brief, encounter with heartbreak and an emotionally unavailable man not long after, and then my heart didn’t break again for five years.

Those years were spent in bleak purgatory. I nearly failed a handful classes in which I poured my blood. I switched from one major to another because the buildings smelled weird and I was afraid of failing intensive courses. I discovered early on that I could drink during lectures. I spent a summer experimenting with alcoholism for the first time. I blacked out at football games. Sometimes people hit me. I paced behind other students in labs. I copied homework. I felt stupid. I dated a well-liked fraternity guy for a summer. I went, unwelcome, on a beach weekend with another. I spent mornings cramming for quizzes and exams. I turned in some good work. I turned in some really fucking bad work. I counted the hours that I studied, hoping that if they piled higher, my grades would, too. I loathed that library that I only graced with my presence when a test was coming up. I guzzled high gravity beers in my car in the gym parking lot before morning lectures. My hands trembled as I typed notes in almost all of my classes. I was consciously aware of the way the my professors looked at me and couldn’t remember who I was. I got C’s in classes that I gave little effort. I blamed it on the drinking. I drove to a nearby university for AA meetings and got a little sober time. Then, C’s became D’s. Then I drank again. Then I got sober again. I sat by the campanile on a perfect, warm, breezy day, and I wished I could be anywhere, anywhere else.

Then, at the very end, it all turned for a moment. I survived my last two semesters without a drink. I was gifted with new types friendships - real friendships. I sat in the front row on Wednesdays at open mic to see Wood perform. I watched the Babadook from under a blanket with Mala. I went through my python script, line by line, to make sure it was perfect, and it was. I got straight A’s. Our team won the senior design project competition. I began walking down every street on campus, my campus, confident and proud. I got a call from the perfect job in the Bay Area and laughed through tears as I accepted their offer. I was suspended in a temporary bliss.

The night before graduation, I sat on the football field and I stared, soulless and empty as the fireworks erupted and my classmates sang the fight song. The year of contentment was but a reprieve, and all at once, every moment, every notion or wink at my own failure as a person crashed on me. My vacation from myself was over, and my distraction had come to an end. I felt like a fraud. I knew I didn’t deserve all the praise I was receiving, and two weeks later, with 8 months of sobriety, I chugged a beer in my parents’ garage and shot-off on my last bender. I still swing on a pendulum between success and failure, genuineness and fraud, pain and peace, and sometimes, if I try hard enough, I am queen, impostor, thief, judge, poet, zen-master, child, hangman and ghost at the same time.

Some days I’m still there, on that field, hiding from every pair of eyes that see through my not-so-polished exterior into the reality of my inadequacy. Truth be told, an atom-sized piece of my heart is still afraid that I’m just alright. I wish I could tell you that I don’t sometimes still tote around my “smart” badge because I’m terrified of the cataclysm of of the final realization that I am just... average. Some days the domineering commander in the back of my mind calls out orders that matter what I do, if I gave it everything I had, it would just be mediocre. After all those years, whether I was consumed by addiction or pushed my limits with my studies or recreated myself in pursuit of acceptance, I faced an uninspired, forgettable, boring phony at the end. I couldn’t see, through everything I did, what I was worth and why I deserved to exist. I fell through myself.

Most days I’m here, though. Often, I can feel all the great moments that have happened since then. I think about the time my friend and I chased the cops down California Street in San Francisco to see where they were going. I have experienced freedom. I can sometimes taste the difference between the times in life that felt hard, and the times that didn’t. I can sometimes see clearly that none of this would make any more sense if I didn’t experience pain, if I was never liquefied by heartbreak, if I wasn’t an alcoholic, or if I didn’t have to trudge through the mud sometimes.

Interestingly enough, because of the burning of the tower of my identity, I was accidentally given birth to the resilient, passionate, tenacious woman I was always desperate to become. Every day, I am more lovingly accepting of the messy, imperfect collage of myself, and I sing my experiences and heartache from rooftops so that someone might see it one day and say, “I’ve felt like that, too.” Maybe I’ve finally accepted that being a mediocre is quite alright, because “mediocre” isn’t really a thing. Lovely.

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