I bleed my heart out on this paper for you, so you can see what I can't say

I hate being put on a pedestal.

Because I know myself better than anyone else. I am not smart. I am not hardworking and neither am I the nicest person on earth. In fact, I'm such horrible a person that I wouldn't want to be my own parents nor would I want to befriend myself. This might be perceived as self-loathing but for me it's honesty.

So stop.

Stop saying that I'm better. Smarter.

I am not.

Better means that I'd have been happy on results day seven years ago because I had managed to get first in class.Smarter means that I would have been praised for the marks that I got for my history paper. Being better and smarter means that I wouldn't have flunked my chemistry tests four years back.

On the day where I'm supposed to celebrate getting first twice in a year, I was brought down from my cloud of ecstasy because my brother's sum of marks the previous year was higher and he only got second place.

During the times where I should be grateful that I scored quite adequately in my history paper, when many others had failed, I was told that I disappoint because my brother never makes mistake and achieve relatively high marks for his objective and subjective paper respectively.

And during the moment where I needed support the most, I overheard that I'll do badly in my result and that came from my mother mere hours before I was due to collect my PMR results.

If I am indeed better or smarter these wouldn't have happened.

If I am indeed better or smarter, I wouldn't be cringing in agony every time I see my cgpa.

I'm not bitter about these events so don't conceive the notion that I am, I'm just acknowledging a series of events that had helped to mould who I am today.

Twelve years ago, when I went shopping for the latest barbie doll to commemorate me getting first place in class, my father told me something that my then eight-year-old self might not and would not want to understand but are now eternally imprinted into my mind.

Scrolling through the aisles for a barbie doll that would catch my eyes, he told me to not be so easily satisfied. He told me that, getting number one is good but it's not the best. That I might have gotten first but what about all the other people out there that have gotten first too, but with much higher marks and better grades than mine.

The obstinate and naive me then, told him in a way that only a stubborn eight years old can, "I don't care. Why does it matters anyway?"

It matters.

It matters a lot, unfortunately.

It matters because if it doesn't, then I wouldn't be on the brink of crying now because I just got out my midterm examination knowing full well that I've sabotaged my own result.

It matters because I see myself in one of my kids and understand her need to be second to none.

It matters because I've finally understood the need for perfection and, unfortunately, my inability to achieve it.