Emotional intelligence (n.) the ability to identify, assess, and control the emotions of oneself, of others, and of groups.

The test results were in. A nice lady in a hideous colorful sweater told me to stay seated in the chair from which my feet couldn't reach the ground and left the office to call my parents who were sitting in the waiting room.
 

She called me exceptionally emotionally mature for my age, with the scores falling far above the average range of other four-year-olds. She even pulled out some graphs and charts from the depths of her ancient collection of proof of exceptional emotional maturity and let my parents bathe in the warmth of promises that in her life, their daughter was undoubtedly going to reach unheard-of greatness.

I was 5. My brother was almost 11 then.
My aunt had come to visit and brought us chocolate bars. My brother ate his the same day he received it. I saved mine and pulled it out from somewhere several days after our aunt left.

"Would you like a bite?" I asked.
"Why'd you ask that?"
"Because I'd feel bad if I didn't."
"I wouldn't want that."
"Wouldn't want what?"
"Have that kind of feeling.

I was seven. My mom asked me what kind of a Christmas gift would make me happy. I said I didn't really want anything other than for all kids in the world to have homes, families and enough food. I got the Christmas usuals and a Barbie doll.
 

I was twenty-two and on my way home from the supermarket. There was a shaggy-looking homeless man on the corner of the street and I thought he must have been hungry.

"Would you like a loaf of bread?" I asked him.
"Keep the bread and give me money instead."

I couldn't believe it. Completely and utterly shocked, that sentence left me speechless. My body decided to follow my legs and as I turned to continue on my way, I heard:

"You're just a pretty girl who knows nothing about life."

 

I'm not a kid anymore. In some aspects, I really haven't changed much: even today, my greatest wish is for everyone in the world to live in happiness. However, the difference between now and then is that these days instead of Barbies I get people's amused looks. And no, I haven't learned. I still know nothing about life.

I guess I've just gotten used to the fact the joke's always on me.

On the edge.

It's hard to feel beautiful

when someone keeps pointing out your flaws.

It's hard to feel accepted

when someone says that all you do is wrong. 

It's hard to feel worthy

 when you're never good enough.

It's hard to feel happy

when someone constantly puts you down.

It's hard not to feel misunderstood

when no one ever tries to see through the walls.

It's hard not to feel useless

when with one word all your efforts go to waste.

It's hard to enjoy life

when you're slowly dying inside.

It's been a difficult week.

Hurtful things were said.

Multiple lines were crossed.

I tried. But I have my limits, too.

(Haven't spoken to my father in two days.)

Desperately looking for a job so I can move out and live my life.

Maybe I'm just being the drama queen they used to call me when I was younger.

The truth is that I can't take this any more.

The good thing is I found the tears I had officially declared lost a while ago.

I discovered that I can still feel. Sadness, misery, failure, disappointment.

I'm telling myself all of this is better than nothing. But.. is it really?