When I was young, my parents always told me to strive to be the best.

“Why be number two,” they asked me, “or three, or four, when you can be number one?” With wide eyes, I nodded and agreed; who didn’t want to be number one? I went to school on weekdays, went to prep school on Saturdays, and went to piano lessons on Sunday, every week without fail. My parents worked all day, every day, in their own Chinese fast food restaurant, and so I rarely spoke with them. My older brother took me to school, took me home, and helped me if I had homework questions.

My parents urged me to master everything. “Piano will look good on your college record,” they said. “Drawing will be a useful skill. Just look at your brother’s drawings.” I began drawing lessons on Saturdays, arranged right after prep school.

For many years, it was easy. I felt smart, like I was special. Nobody in school seemed to know how to do anything I did. They didn’t know what algebra was in fifth grade, and struggled with long division when I was studying geometry. They didn’t know how to draw beyond stick figures, or how to play any instruments outside of blowing a few notes on cheap plastic recorder.

Things began changing in middle school. The day of the citywide high school admission test drew closer, and suddenly, nothing except the test mattered.

“This test is very important,” my parents told me, over and over, almost every day without fail. “This test determines your future. Your brother goes to the best school in this state, so you should be able to as well.”

A few months later, they told me, “Don’t waste your time in high school. Your brother plays games all the time, and that’s why his grades are low.” 

“What if I don’t get in?” I asked, and my mother laughed. 

“Of course you will get in.”

That didn’t reassure me. 

But to my relief and joy, when I opened the white envelope that I knew concealed my high school future, the small, bolded text of the school name greeted my eyes. I immediately took a picture and sent it to my parents.

I didn’t receive anything other than a thumbs-up emoji.

“Remember,” they told me as I began high school, “don’t waste your time. Don’t be like your brother.” Their attention was no longer split between my brother and I as he entered university. Their pressuring expectations were now solely directed towards me.

High school was different from elementary or middle school. Almost everyone knew how to do math as quickly and efficiently as me. Almost everyone knew how to play an instrument, or excel at a sport, or was an artist, or excelled in some other aspect outside of academics.

I wasn’t number one, or even number two, or three, or four. I was quickly falling behind, and I was hit with the cold, hard truth:

I wasn’t special.

I wasn’t a one in a thousand genius.

Bitterness sprung in my heart. My parents had always told me to be number one. I couldn’t be number one. How were they going to accept that? How was I supposed to explain to them that I wasn’t special? That I wasn’t the daughter they wanted me to be? 

I stopped drawing. I had no time to. Playing piano every day slowly dwindled to about once a week. My parents were displeased, but I had no energy to play nice with them. I was struggling with my classes, and I continued struggling despite my efforts. 

When report cards came out, it turned the household into a war zone. My parents noticed none of my efforts, of the time I spent on schoolwork; to them, my worth was defined solely by the small numbers, arranged in a neat little column, one after another.

“If you don’t care about me,” I shouted, “why would you care about my grades?”

My mother froze, and my father raised his hand threateningly. 

“Watch your attitude,” my mother warned.

I didn’t get the message. “All you two care about is grades, grades, grades! Why can’t you see that I’m trying!”

A searing pain exploded at the side of my face, and I staggered. Identical pain blossomed as another blow landed on me, and I stepped backwards, slipping and falling. Black dots swam in my bleary vision as my father screamed at me. My mother grasped his hand, whispering softly to him. 

They left me to retreat into their bedroom, closing and locking the door. 

It was a while before I could stand up and not have the world spin upside down. Hot, unwilling tears streamed down my throbbing cheeks and dripped off my chin as I walked slowly into the bathroom, quietly closing the door, locking it, and then leaning on it. I slid to the floor and buried my head in my arms upon my knees. 

It wasn’t the physical pain that really hurt.

It was their lack of concern.

I wasn’t able to really look at them eye to eye again for months.

My grades fell even lower, and I made little effort to pull them up again. When just months ago I was dissatisfied with anything less than an A, I was numb to the later B’s and C’s. My parents didn’t mention anything about my grades, and I never bought it up. We almost never looked at each other, let alone talked. They acted as though as I didn’t exist, excluding me from meals and ignoring me when I pulled all nighters. 

A part of me wanted them to yell at me, if only to stop them from ignoring me. 

My freshman year came and went. The summer was almost unbearable; not talking to my parents when I had to spend more time with them was difficult. I busied myself with a job, and my brother, far away in university and safe from the tense home environment, expressed what appeared like obscure concern for me when I informed him dully that I still wasn’t on speaking terms with our parents.

I could no longer sleep at night. I often spent them instead staring at the ceiling, replaying the arguments that I had gone through with my parents, and weaving scenarios in which I hadn’t spoken back, or shouted, or cried. When I returned to school, insomnia took a toll on me. I couldn’t maintain my attention during school, and I began the school year with lower grades than I had ended my freshman year with. 

I wanted my parents to talk to me again. I wanted to tell them I was sorry, that I would try harder, that we shouldn’t be strangers in the same home. 

Yet a part of me was bitter. They were my parents. Why, how, could they cast me aside so easily? Did it not bother them if I didn’t exist? Was I really so insignificant that they could go about their daily lives without a hitch when, because of them, I couldn’t sleep nor focus on anything I wanted to?

My conclusion was that I was, indeed, that insignificant. 

After all, I wasn’t special. 

I wasn’t a one in a thousand genius.

I wasn’t the daughter they wanted me to be.

A horrible, panicking feeling crawled through my stomach and up my throat. I was constantly anxious, and one day, when I was alone at home, I was hit with a sudden compulsion. I took two wine glasses from the kitchen, raising them above my head.

I dropped them, one by one, watching the once pristine stemware shatter upon meeting the mahogany wood. The noise stirred something in me, and I was, for the first time in a year, completely relaxed.

For a few days, my anxiety went away. When it began growing once again, I searched desperately for something else to calm me. Music only reminded me of my neglected piano and the piano lessons I had abandoned. Drawing reminded me of the numerous presents I had drawn for my parents on their birthdays and holidays. Writing always turned into homework.

I got my answer when I was cutting meat to prepare myself a meal.

I nicked my finger, and for a split second, pain flashed through my hand before it was gone. I lifted my hand closer to my face, watching the blood slowly drip down my finger and palm. I caught it with a towel before it could drip down my wrist and off my elbow. 

In that moment, I realized that the pain was like a tranquilizer. My troubles seeped out of me with the blood, and I was flooded with a sense of relief. It lifted the tension that was plaguing my mind. It was something I could control.

It became an almost daily routine. 

Old wounds never had a chance to heal properly as I went over them again. I couldn’t get my parents to talk to me, and I couldn’t do anything right academically or socially, but at the very least, I could control my own pain. Did it matter to others that I was doing this? They didn’t have to know. They would never know. My parents would have the blind continuously drawn over their eyes.

After all, I wasn’t special. 

I wasn’t number one.

I wasn’t the daughter they wanted me to be.

And I didn’t have to be. 

Or so I thought.

My clinic doctor noticed the thin lines of slightly elevated scar tissue when withdrawing blood for a blood test. Within a week, I was arranged to attend therapy. My parents were made aware of my situation, and when they gave me uneasy looks, as though as I was mentally insane, I realized something.

I no longer just wanted them to notice me.

I wanted them to love me.

I rejected help. I refused to talk to my therapist, and my parents remained convinced that I was a psychopath in the making. I still couldn’t sleep at night, and more nights than not, my gaze returned to the blades in the kitchen.

One early morning, around three, I exited my bedroom to go to the bathroom. On the way, I paused by my parents’ bedroom; hushed whispers tickled my ears through the partially open door. 

“It hurts, down here,” I heard my mother whisper, “that our child doesn’t understand we’re trying to help. The things we ask for aren’t for us… Why doesn’t our child understand that?” Her voice was broken, and her words ended with a small, watery hiccup. 

My eyes widened.

“We… We should’ve spent more time with our children when they were younger, instead of working all day for money. We could have prevented this. We should have done more.

“I love my children. I really, really do. But… 

“Should I just… Give up?”

Would that make me happier? 

I resisted the urge to walk in and shout that I wouldn’t trade them for the world, that I loved them.

I wasn’t insignificant. I plagued their minds at night the way they plagued mine, and they clearly couldn’t sleep either. It bothered them that I wouldn’t talk to them, that I wouldn’t greet them when they came home after a day’s hard work. 

I existed. I definitely existed.

The next day, a Saturday, I woke up early. 

Breakfast was on the table with freshly boiled water by the time they were awake. My mother looked surprised, but my father’s face was stony.

“I’m sorry.”

The words slipped out of me so quietly they could have been mistaken for the hissing of the stove fire. 

“I’m sorry. For everything.”

They never gave me any form of recognition of my apology. They sat down and began eating instead, and after a second of hesitance, I joined them.

When I collected the dishes for washing, my father gave me a long, scrutinizing gaze before leaving for his room. My mother sat at the table, eyes never leaving me, and I swallowed hard.

“I’m sorry,” I repeated once again. 

Her voice was quiet, but it held none of the iciness I was bracing myself for. “Wear an extra sweater if you’re going out today. It’s cold.” With that, she stood up and left to join my father, and I was left staring after her.

The uncertain expression of my face slowly morphed into a small smile. 

I wasn’t special.

I wasn’t a one in a thousand genius.

But I was a child that my parents loved and cared for, despite every wrong choice I’ve made. 

And in the end, I was okay with that.