Mary Solomon. I never understood what brought my dear parents to give me a name like that. Then again, my parents were given the names of John and Jane, so I guess it's traditional. Some people think it's a joke to call me Mary Sue because they regard me as perfect, pretty and eternally pleasant. I can't argue with that. I really am a Mary Sue.

Life is like a routine for me. Every day of the week I find myself knowing what's going to happen. My whole life is planned out. School on weekdays, ballet on Saturdays and church on Sundays. My after-school schedule: Monday is piano day, Tuesday is violin day, Wednesday is drama day, Thursday is yoga day and Friday is the only day I have where I can do whatever I want after school.

I wake up every morning to expect what's going to happen during the next couple of hours. Everything is predictable. What I wear is predictable. My wardrobe is loaded with preppy dresses, floral tops, pastel-coloured flats, shiny, striking 6-inch heels… you get the idea. What I do is predictable. I smile at everyone I know in school, I hang out with the same girls, I help teachers if they need assistance and I ace all the tests.

Unfortunately, what I see is never predictable.

People assume that they know what I see everyday. Strangers smiling at me, girls gushing about my hair in whispers and telling me how much they love my skirt, boys checking me out in broad daylight. My friends keep telling me how jealous they are that I get all this attention. But honestly, I never care to notice these things. These things are not important to me. I only know that they happen based on what others tell me, but I never pay attention to them.

It's extremely easy for me to smile sweetly and say "thank you" when a lovely person compliments me, or to wink at a boy who's staring at me. Snap your fingers and I can do these things in a split second. Yes, things like that happen to me practically every day. But I never cherish them. People may be genuine with their perceptions of me and the compliments they present me with, but although they may appear to be, my reactions can never be sincere.

I notice things that are supposed to go unnoticed.

Where should I start?

I notice the dampened aura given off by the fragile, slender young boy who walks along the road towards his school with his head bowed down. I notice the two jocks who always walk a distance behind him, laughing and mocking him behind his back, imitating his posture and the way he walks.

I notice the haggard lady who walks aimlessly to and fro the supermarket with a distant expression on her face, and I notice the working men and women who breeze past her or push her out of their way in their haste. I notice how she complies with their pushing and looks of disgust, and continues walking, as if searching for something.

I notice the homeless people on the streets. I see the way they look at me. I see the stoic and hopeless expressions on their faces transform into those of spite when they divert their eyes to me.

I notice the way those girls who compliment my looks scrutinize my face and I notice the very slight frowns on their faces after they let out those words. I notice how they then instantly flash a smile at me before prancing off casually. I notice the hint of envy in my little sister Sarah's eyes whenever she tells me she wishes she were as beautiful as me. I notice how that envy would then develop to subtle hatred, and this would show in her drawings I find in her little diary where I would be drawn as the princess being killed by a witch, monster or alien.

It first started with me noticing melodramatic indications of desperation, but it has come to the point where I notice even the slightest hints of misery or doubt in people, things that would typically pass the eyes of others.

Why do I notice these things? I find it strange that I should even ask myself why, and I find it strange that the law of conventions should even make me question myself about it. Is it wrong that I notice these things and refuse to acknowledge those that are supposed to matter to a person like me? Am I really supposed to be sheltered and loved by everyone?

Maybe it all started with my boyish, freckled, pixie-like cousin Maisie.

I noticed how Maisie would glower at me from the corners of her eyes whenever her parents told me how lovely or smart I was ever since we were seven. I noticed the deranged behaviour she would display after the times people told her to stop acting like a boy and start behaving more like a lady, like Mary. I noticed the strange way her eyes would fill with even more disdain whenever her laugh became heartier. One Christmas evening when she came over, I noticed how her breathing was starting to sound a bit strange and irregular. I noticed the plastered eyebags beneath her eyes, the sort that did not indicate the lack of sleep.

I noticed the way her hair started to look unkempt when it was previously always neatly styled. I noticed how she would wear thick, baggy sweaters even when the weather was unbearably hot. I noticed how she would sweat profusely even when she was in cool surroundings. I noticed the shiftiness of her eyes and the way she would nervously glance at people as if they were going to kill her. I noticed her sudden stares into blank space. I noticed the way her eyes would well up but never allow the tears fall, so that they would appear glossy and pained, and how she would fake a yawn when she realised it.

I decided to talk to her and ask if there was anything bothering her. She didn't answer me and told me to go away. The sleeve of her sweater fell back a little and I caught a glance of the scars. She was outraged and screamed at me never to see her again. With one last expression of how much she hated me, she stormed out of my house.

That was the last day I ever saw Maisie's face.

Her parents were bereaved. I told them how I found out about her scars, and how I felt that I was at fault for her death. I couldn't stop myself from trying to apologize.

But they told me that I had nothing to be sorry for. They told me that they never expected it to happen, and that Maisie just didn't know how to handle her problems. I expected them to know why Maisie did it, I expected them to know why their baby girl took away her own life, I expected them to notice anything that had been going wrong with Maisie. But they didn't. All they had to say to me was that they were devastated and wish they knew why she did it themselves.

I am the one everyone turns to if they want to forget about their problems, the one no one turns to for actual advice because of her lack of experience, the one who never seems to experience any life problems herself. Am I not supposed to interfere with anything that has to do with pessimism or the dark side of life just because people think I can't handle those things? I've grown tired and frustrated of having to face this fact. I want people to stop being so patronizing towards me. I want them to know that I am just another human being. But that can never happen.

I know that people mock my apparent lack of knowledge about how deluded I am regarding the problems they face and how I have everything that is technically impossible to have. And there's nothing to do about it.

Because I am, by default, Mary Sue. This may be something that can get on the nerves of so many people to the extent that they could develop feelings almost murderous towards me because they really think I'm that clueless and airheaded.

But the truth of the matter is that people still choose to prioritize their acknowledgments of me over that of those who actually need their attention.