Average Poem by Tracy Morgan

I am anything but average.
Mom, you think I'd understand the biology of my brain,
Because I take AP Bio,
I'm the smartest junior, they say,
Books against my chest as I walk the floors,

My life is like this poem,
I only rhyme, or do what I'm supposed to for the first few minutes,
And then all chaos breaks loose.
Which is exactly what I'm afraid of. Which is exactly what I hide. Which is exactly what I use to fuel the anxiety, to fuel the person I am on the outside.

Outside- is a very interesting concept,
It's where everything happens - cellular respiration, for example,
One of my favorite concepts.
My brain fails to work like that, mom.
My reactants are distractions and my products are failures,
And because I can't understand my biology, I count my pills.
One, two, three per day,
And then I focus like the medication didn't make me a dead zombie inside, I focus like I don't miss the way my brain races.

I am anything but average.
Mom, my anxiety helps me,
It has, ever since I was diagnosed a hyperactive, unsuccessful, middle schooler.
I count my pills, I check twice, thrice, to check - yes, I did answer that question, yes, I didn't read the question wrong, yes, I did pack my keys today, yes… I wasn't distracted by the ticking of the clock during the exam.
I get to be the girl I never thought I could be,
And it's all because I hate myself enough to do that to myself -
To develop that anxiety disorder.
To pull all nighters and chatter my teeth throughout the night from stress, mom
All to make sure my brain does what it needs to do with the reactants. Make the right amount of ATP, to do the right thing with the ATP.

I am anything but average.
Mom, you ask me why I throw temper tantrums over a bad grade.
For normal people, a bad grade is something they can talk about,
Something they can get over in a few days,
Something that they can make a depressing Instagram caption over,
But mom, I'm not like that, for me, it's just another brick that stacks itself over the brick wall I made of all my failures, and the wall gets higher and higher as I fail, and blocks the pathway to the love I have for myself, mom,
It's hard, mom. It's hard. Accepting me, it's hard.

Mom, the letter came in the mail today,
I made it to Dartmouth University. Aren't you proud, mom? Aren't you proud that I get to spend the next four years of my life just the way I spent high school, worrying if I'll Ever be good enough, worrying when the next inconvenience caused by me will crumble me down to nothingness?
My anxiety doesn't let me talk about the good things about me, mom, but I break the rule today.
Did you know, mom, before the medication, I could type a hundred-twenty words per minute? That's just a little over what a professional typist is aiming for.
Did you know, mom, before the medication, when I was seven, I used potato slices to prove my hypothesis about osmosis when I didn't know about the word itself, because I could think outside the box,
Did you know, mom, my handwriting sucked in grade four environmental science because I had too many ideas about lava slides to just print them down neatly, mom, my brain was faster than my hands,
Did you know, mom, that the lack of dopamine receptors in my brain are the reason why I skim through the questions on the exam,
Did you know, mom, that I stopped raising my hand in class because I was told I was better when I was quiet, better when I had no stupid ideas, better when I was normal?
Did you know that I'm no longer that little girl, that little scientist with that baking soda solution all over my mock lab coat - that now when I see a lab coat, I want to tie it around my neck and wait till I turn blue and choke myself in the thought that I don't love what I want to do anymore? That I had to rip down that little child I used to be because I hate her for not being the girl society wanted? Not being the girl who could succeed, not being the girl you wanted?
But you don't know, do you?
Because I am anything but average.