On intelligence

26 Mar


So, I am quite intelligent. Legitimately brilliant, genius, whatever. Sounds cool, and let me tell you, when I was eleven, I thought I was hot shit. 

As an adult, I just realize how truly isolating it is. Because of the way my brain works (in a very logical, practical, efficient manner) I alienate a lot of people whose minds do not work in this way. Ordinarily I wouldn’t care that much, but as I have realized of late, it’s affecting my relationships with people. I don’t connect with people very well. I am bored or annoyed by most people.I don’t do a very good job of hiding my frustrations, so I am often and unfairly labeled a bitch. I understand that sounds conceited and horrible, but it is what it is. 

I have always had a seriously hard time making friends. I’ve had a handful through the years that have understood me, mostly because they were of similar mind, but a few that have just loved me in spite of my weirdness. Sadly, those people are few and far between. My own husband and family have taken to referring to me as the female Dr. Sheldon Cooper, except that I didn’t live up to my potential. (I fucking know, okay?!)

Now, it’s not a coincidence that many brilliant people suffer from serious, clinical depression and subsequently end their own lives. Now, I am not suicidal or anything of the like, but I can certainly see why people do it. A life of isolation and being misunderstood is hellish and lonely. I’ve been made fun of because of my brains and it certainly did not earn me any dates in high school, or college, or ever. 

Fortunately, I’m not completely hideous looking and that has helped considerably in my adult life. Now, that sucks because looks don’t last forever, and since I’ve fallen into this funk of the last six months, I’ve gotten kinda fat. Not obese of course, but heavier than I’d like, because I simply have no mental energy to provide myself with physical energy to get off my ass. It’s also a curse that I like food. 

In a perfect world, my perfect world, I would use this brain of mine to figure out how to climb out of this depressive state, because sometimes drugs just aren’t enough (though, I do love drugs). In the meantime, I suppose I will just keep writing and keep not killing myself. 


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