The Superman Complex

Expected

It's been forever since I had a single moment where I had nobody to please, no expectations of me.

I've been expected to be the author who was publishing books on Amazon at age thirteen. Joe always pushed me to get something done and onto the internet. "You could make money," he urged me, "you can have an income on your schedule. It's what you have to do. You know why I played in polka bands? Because it paid the bills. You have to get a book finished, Hanna."

I've been expected to be the kid who offed herself halfway through middle school. Not many people expected me to make it this far because I was Katt's best friend. Because they intended to bully her to death and in turn either push me to kill myself or join in their conformity.

I've been expected to be the aloof pop star who was self-absorbed and only wanted attention and music. They didn't expect me to be lonely or to want friends because I was a talented musician, and talented musicians don't think the same way that us ordinary people do, right? In truth, I was alone at the top of the musical food chain and alone at the bottom of society.

I've been expected to be the cold, apathetic Aspergian who always tried to make things go her way and would never be a normal kid. So maybe that was the case, I'm far from normal, I want things to go my way. But I don't know how apathy really feels - as such I shouldn't, seeing as it's a lack of feeling. I think my diagnosis of Asperger's Syndrome is bull. But I've been expected to abide by the rules of the specialists.

I've been expected to be the pure one, the girl who chose a boy and stayed with him as he became a man and waited with him so she could become a woman. That, too, was cast aside. My innocence was torn from me, and I spent the years following trying to protect what was left. But when I turned sixteen, I realized there was nothing left to protect. I was a whore, and I felt I'd stooped to a level far below my own by following my heart to the right person.

I've been expected to be a genius with a perfect GPA. I've been expected to stay sane while balancing work, school, a band, and time with family.

Recently, Mom and I had a fight over what I was wearing to my cousin's wedding. I had put on the cleanest black skinny jeans I could find, a black button down, a purple necktie, and my black fedora. But the jeans were ripped and the shirt was wrinkled and the sneakers were dirty. It wasn't good enough. And although she didn't mean the message I got, everything that had been happening - the news of the divorce, my poor grade in AP Comp, the stress from my group in Advanced Ensemble, my absence from Self Sacrifice, Logan's troubles - piled into one mess of self-destructive energy and slammed into me with the words. She said, "Those clothes aren't good enough!" I heard, "You're not good enough!"

On the way to the wedding, I hid the sounds of my crying behind my jacket and scarf. I checked the time, only to find my beautiful timepiece, a spherical clock spinning on a chain, stopped dead. In my blind anger I had thrown my beloved charm across my bedroom. The glass-and-metal globe had not taken any damage, but the inner mechanisms must have been jolted to a stop. To most, it would be no big deal - I could easily get a new one, even if I had to order it online - but to me, it hurt. I had broken something I cared about in the throes of my rage.

I think it should be called something along the lines of a Superman complex: the constant feeling of pressure to be perfect. But I can't be Superman, not for my parents, not for Logan, not for anyone. At this point, I'm hardly capable of being Hanna.