I don’t quite know when but, at some point, I stopped
identifying as “smart.” That is not to
say that I don’t consider myself to a critical thinker, or intelligent. What I mean is that I no longer consider
those attributes to be points of identity for me. I would much rather be seen as empathetic,
resilient or even affable than “smart.”
When this comes up in conversation with old friends from my overachiever
days, they often scoff at this development.
Often times, they feel as I am doing myself some deep disservice by no
longer considering this trait to be essential to my notion of self. I, however, find it incredibly freeing and integral
to my personal journey towards authenticity.
As a product of a severely abusive childhood, my sense of self was
pretty fucked from day one. Venerable psychologist Abraham Maslow went as far
to say that those individuals who lack the very things that child abuse robs its
victims of (ie. safety, love, occasionally food and water, family and
confidence) are destined to have “a cripple psychology.” Dr. Mary Ainsworth, another key figure in modern
psychology, made it her life’s work to study the importance and life-long
influence of parent-child relationships.
Put bluntly, having as shitty parent not only fucks you up during the
abuse but, to some extent, for the rest of your life (even with therapy.) Your essential sense of self is not allowed
to form.
Prevented from forging relationships with others, both
directly (being literally locked in rooms) and indirectly (interacting with
people in meaningful ways means having to explain why your Mom is nuts), I
focused on school. It was a sanctuary
and a battleground where, regardless of what happened at home, I could reign supreme. Aside from the obvious physical safety it
provided, I was also able to escape to lands and lives I’d never imagined
through reading. And I definitely took
pleasure in consistently scoring higher than the rest of my classmates, much to
their chagrin. In school, I was finally
able to dominate.
The older I became, doing well in school provided more tangible
rewards; extra-curricular activities and summer long “nerd camps” allowed me to
escape my home. These rewards culminated
in gaining a scholarship to a school where housing was paid for by my financial
aid.
However, it was also around this time that I realized I had
no personal investment in school for…well, school’s sake. While I was thankful for the knowledge I’d
gained, I longed for something else.
Something that everyone seemed to have. Now that I was in college, I was forced to think about what I was going to do with this education – and that was
terrifying.
This ennui, this existential search to find out what the
hell I was doing, lead to a very
reckless part of my life that lasted years.
Even after graduating with honors, I shunned my past. I felt that my education was worthless, as it didn't magically make anything better.
So I escaped with drugs, sex, and other self-harming behaviors. Education didn't “fix” anything. Being smart didn't make me anymore “me.”
After years of therapy, I've come to a more nuanced
understanding. I see now that, it may
very well have been the critical thinking skills I honed in school that allowed
me to overcome my childhood. The friends
I made in college are now who I consider to be my “family” over a decade
later. So, it wasn't all for
naught. I work in a job where , while
not setting the world on fire, I am able to call upon my education to
creatively solve complex dilemmas on a daily basis.
So…”smart.” That word
is empty, and laced with desperation; both for an identity and some external
approval. So, while it may fit others,
that’s a skin I've luckily shed.
