Success is a murderer

I was a success, whatever that means to you. I reached it in my childhood, all before fifteen.

I remember my swimming tournaments back in elementary school. I started winning medals in my first grade. Not only swimming, but I was also MVP in basketball, football and athletics. To make it more perfect, I continued to be in the top 10 academically.

If there’s a magazine that lists successful children below fifteen, my school will select me as their representative.

I was loved. Admired. Praised.

And my most spectacular failure is believing that I will always be that kid who is good at anything. I trust myself to be talented at anything particularly sports. No efforts needed.

Successful childhood won’t guarantee success later. Too many compliments and praises could backfire, especially when it came out of nowhere-without earning it. That happened to me.

Reality hits me hard. I wasn’t that great kid anymore. My success sinks. Suddenly, everyone is better than me. Praises and compliments became scarce, even from those who used to love me. I didn’t care. I still believed I was that talented kid.

When I’m older, I took shortcuts. I cheated. I lied just to prove that I was still that kid. It poisons my behaviour. I became focused solely on the result. I crave those compliments. I yearn those praises.

I did anything to look good. In front of everyone. I want to be great, and I want it now. I hate the process if it doesn’t show my greatness if it doesn’t satisfy my ego.

My success kills me.


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