My mother has a folder full of honor roll certificates for me. I have a trophy for being on the Dean's list for my brief but terrifying stint in private school. I got into the 19th best high school in the nation. One of my short stories got an Editors' Choice award from a teen writing magazine.

I guess you could say I'm pretty smart.

"He's so intelligent."

"He's going to be something."

But when you live in a world where you're always pressured to do better, test better, learn better, work harder than you're capable of because you have to compete with others, it's hard to think you are. It's hard to think you're as good as they say you are.

It took me a long time to be thankful for my brains. And it took me a long time to stop hating myself for feeling like I wasn't thankful.

"You're so smart."

Well isn't there anything more to me? More to my personality? Can't you comment on anything else? Aren't I pretty? Aren't I funny?

Those are the kinds of thoughts I used to have before I embraced being smart. I thought it was a curse, really, until I sat down with a psychiatrist and he told me I have Bipolar Type II Disorder. After that, I clung to my studies like a shield. I hoped the Trojan War, Hamlet, and the Pythagorean Theorem would save me from the chaos that was going on in my head and the pressure that I was always feeling in my lungs because I was always struggling not to cry.

Now, I don't anymore. Because there's something about me that I've learned is more important than my brains.

"You're a fighter."

Yeah, I am.

Sometimes I wish I could stop being so insecure, but you know what? That's life. And I'm human. I'm also not the only one that's feeling this way.

For now, I'll just stay content with my brains and my brawn and be happy.