Sometimes I hate myself for not making more out of myself. I’m highly skilled and sell vegetables. That’s poor. But I have never experienced being highly skilled as a good thing. It just made things more complicated. I’ve been rated as arrogant when being bored in maths and rated as an idiot in other lessons. Moreover, having a high IQ did not provide me with the ability to make anything out of it, not to speak of the abuse. Sometimes I see and feel ways too much, sometimes I see and feel nothing at all. Sometimes I don’t even have the slightest idea of what I need or what I want. Most times when I’m to choose from a menu, I ask for an advise like “do you think I’d like this and that? Do I use to like those things?”. For most things it seems I have not figured out yet what I really like. Perhaps they just don’t matter to me, I don’t know. What’s the difference between scrambled and hard boiled eggs? They’re all eggs, right? On the other hand I get insecure and mad about the “wrong” cornflakes, an incidence that has the power to ruin a whole week and my well-arranged mind. Not to speak of events that take place suddenly and unexpected. If there’d ever be a dinosaur showing up in my kitchen, I would not be able to run. I would start a mental discussion about the chance that a dinosaur might walk into my kitchen and then get eaten.
Being highly skilled is not my own merrit. I did not choose to be. It’s just a kind of different brain development to the age of 12. One could monitor being highly skilled if the head would get X-rated. I tend to see that as a mutation, you know, like being one of those X-men, but without any superpowers aside from fucking things up regularly. Being highly skilled and being highly sensitive go together. No wonder things turn out to be too much, too loud, too bad sometimes. If the stress continues, I get numb and autoaggressive. The more stress, the more aggression.