“They told me pratice makes perfect. But then they told me nobody’s perfect, so I stopped practicing…”
I thought that if I had to fail time after time, if I had to be the Girl Who Got Her Boobs Handler By Her Brother In her Sleep and the Girl Who’s Step-Father Abused Her Mother In Front Of Her and the Girl Who’s Friend Tried To Kill Herself, I could at least be the Girl Who Succeeded Despite Everything. At leats that. At least.
But then I walked into the exam room and only made my already bad grade worse. I finished about four pages before realizing that my two hours were almost up, and I had about 5 more pages that I hadn’t touched. Then I froze. And while all the 12th graders (I’m the only 11th graders taking the Data class) finished their test and were openly cheating because our teacher is denser than bread, I started panicking. And stopped breathing. And had to teach myself how to breath as I tried to recollect my thoughts and make the most of the last twenty minutes to at least write down the equations to show my understanding of each question.
But I couldn’t.
I got up, went downstairs with the full intent of telling my dad that I was not okay, that I couldn’t do it, I needed help.
But I couldn’t.
So I went to the fridge in his office and grabbed a juice I had left there. And left, knowing that I was going to go back upstairs and hand in my exam the minute I walked in, even though by then I knew my teacher was going to give us extra time.
As I handed it in, I told him that the exam was too long. And he replied with, “But you managed to finish it.” He semmed tremendously dissapointed when I informed him that no, I had not finished it and yes, I am sure that I don’t want extra time. And I left.
And as I write this down, I realize that the reason as to why this event saddens me even though I decided to give in my exam early isn’t quite clear. See, it was never about the exam. It was about me. Me being unable to finish a simple exam in a timely manner. It was about me faling in that moment, defining the first of possibly many times that I will fail myself and give in to the weaker parts of myself. It was about me having racked up the above-mentioned failures and wanting to remedy them, to put them aside and say that I went on to bigger and better things that make me feel fulfilled.
But I don’t feel fulfilled. I realize now that I only feel empty.
Because I am no longer the succesful one. I’m the pityful one. The one who got stomped on one too many time and is now a paper full of wrinkles: same content as a nice smooth paper, but you know it’s not the same. I have more dents. I have more bruises. I hold cuts on my skin just as I hold the sins of others. I realize now that I will never be normal again: I’ll forever be an mass of these failings, with the worthless end result that is my current self. I wish to end my life.