I was once asked what my greatest fear is. I said failure. I was wrong. My greatest fear is the fear of not meeting up to the expectations of my future. That I will burn out now, get horrible grades in high school, and live the rest of my life miserably. Everyone who once knew me as the A+ student won’t see that girl in me anymore. I won’t become as successful as my math teacher thinks I will.

“Can I take you out to dinner too?” I exclaimed.

“Yes, of course, when you’re so very successful,” she responded. Though said earnestly, I realized that was the expectation I had set. 

This fear just hit me after I got my first B. After I lost in the spelling bee. After I got my first non-100 on a math quiz. After I didn’t do as well as I hoped on the midterm. After my first time of not immediately understanding something. After it all. I lost my perfection shield, like a power-up that ran out of time, out of juice. I would like to believe that there is more to me than my grades. But isn’t that everything this school system is centered upon? I was once confident in my abilities. My comprehension skills, my test taking skills. But no more. I’ve lost a sense of myself that used to keep me grounded. 

There are two things I hate about myself: my vision and my height. I hate. I hate. I hate that I can’t see everything that’s not within a foot of me. I hate that my glasses get all dirty so easily. I hate how easily they fall off and smash on the floor. I hate how when my glasses fall on the floor, I can barely see them and avoid stepping on them. I hate how fuzzy everything looks around me. How disorganized, how unclear, how confusing. I hate it so much. But it’s the only thing that makes me look good. Makes me look better than plain. Makes me look attractive. Makes me fit right into the smart stereotype. 

I compare my height to everyone's. How short or slightly taller I am in comparison to them. Everything is a comparison, isn’t it? I hate how stout I look, how nothing can look good on me because I don’t have long, slim legs. Just fat, short ones. I just don’t want to realize that this will be the height for the rest of my life. I told my dad this. He just said that you have to accept it. I saw this YouTuber make fun of these videos with activities to make you taller. Dumb and false of course. He didn’t advance a single centimeter. But so desperately did I want to try it. Even after knowing it didn’t work, I wanted to buy the stupid-expensive materials. I wanted to believe in the false comments that said how they grew from 5’2” to 5’7”. How desperate I am. And I hate how my brother discounts my insecurities about my height. How he compares me to his tall girlfriend and when I get down by it, he laughs saying I can’t possibly be insecure about it. He teasingly asks about what height I want to be. I say 5’4”. He laughs again. That’s what every girl wants to be, he says.

“You’re lucky,” he would say, “height is a problem for boys more. Girls can be whatever height, but guys- no.”

I want to yell at him. Tell him that he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t get to discount, to discredit someone like this. That he doesn’t deserve to tell someone about what matters and what doesn’t. I thought our age gap wasn’t a big issue, and that we had reached an understanding. But I’ve realized that we’re just strangers, forced together by predetermined circumstances and polite, distant conversations. A stranger doesn’t understand any hardships of mine. I hate him so much, he is my second most hated person of mine. The first is me.