They say brilliance and insanity are on the same gene. It’s just a matter of which way the line tips for complete manifestation one way or the other. I’ve been precariously straddling that line most of my life.
When I was in junior high school, the powers that be gave us all a “placement” test. I must have “placed” very high, as they were convinced I had cheated and made me take the test over again. By myself in a room under watchful eye. I apparently scored even better the second time. My mother still likes to tell that story to this day, because it’s a great example of how the average person just can’t comprehend there are smarter people in the world than them. And in answer to your questions, yes it was an IQ test and I scored in the 160’s. I was twelve. Shortly afterward I was visited by a creepy old guy (okay, maybe only late 30’s, but I was 12 so what do I know?) from MENSA who wanted me to join them so I could fully develop my potential. At the time all I cared about was reading science fiction, making straight A’s, winning the next solo and ensemble competition and my first crush whose name shall remain confidential lest he learn he’s still associated with the likes of me. So, I just wasn’t interested.
But that brings up the other part of the brilliance factor. When people find out you have a genius IQ, they automatically assume you’re going to spit out the next Theory of Relativity or solve the world’s hunger problems in an afternoon. Sorry. Intelligence doesn’t work like that. And the average person doesn’t understand why. If it’s any consolation, neither do the geniuses.
Mostly, though, people just feel threatened by you and stay away. I’ve spent a good chunk of my life alone because of that.
Which brings us back to the flip side of brilliance: that whole insanity thing.
Not that I’m insane by any measure of the vernacular or medical definitions. Though I’m sure my friends and family had their doubts at one time or another. My brilliance is balanced by the curse of depression. It is a genetic anomaly in my family line. Previous generations self-medicated with recreational drugs and alcohol. Nothing like a bunch of intelligent, creative people drunk off their asses. As a child, I was described as moody and shy, and my writing and music became my therapy. As an adult, the depression began to manifest more obviously and I struggled to maintain a solid front while silently fighting to the death with my own mind. You see, the other problem with having a high intelligence is you think you can correct any problem just by shear reason and will. Unfortunately, the depression didn’t care that I had a superior intellect and I finally found myself crushed under the weight of its irrationalizations. Counseling, a formal diagnosis and a wonderful cocktail of prescriptions brought me back from the brink and taught me a lesson in humility. Not to mention biochemistry. Your mind is an amazing thing, but sometimes it needs help from modern medicine.
But there are times when life keeps kicking you and you go days, weeks, even months in a downward spiral and there is just not enough medication in the world. Being repeatedly turned down for jobs I could probably do in my sleep, being overlooked for a leadership position in the volunteer group I’ve spent nearly 30 years supporting, even being ignored on Facebook, all have really done a number on me. Not that I had such great self esteem to start with. But the gene has spun to the dark side of the equation, and I’ve been wallowing in its depths. My husband, bless his heart, tries to rationalize the issues away, desperately trying to find some light in this whole mess. Men just want to fix things, you know. But women don’t generally respond well to rationalization under the best of circumstances, so you can just imagine what a depressive writer/musician has to say about the whole thing. I am at war with myself, my intellect trying desperately to work with the nice little pills to pull the rest of me out of the pits.
So welcome to my therapy session. Maybe I’ll find that line again while you watch.
(c) 2009 Cheri K. Endsley. All rights reserved.