Normalize

Being normal was never possible for me, to the degree that I just never bothered with any attempt to pursue that goal. I was a military kid, shaped by that life but raised in a farmer community, where people pass generations in the same homes. Oldest of a large, homeschool family, but forced to attend a church where neither large families nor homeschoolers were welcomed. And, just to add another level of oddity - brittle, curly African hair in a family where no one is darker than milk.

[Personally, if I were consulted about this mysterious, suspicious, possibly African heritage, I'd have preferred the color without the unmanageable hair, thank you very much! Or, at the least, some adult who knew how to oil and braid it, such that I would have options when I grew up.]

Yeah, well, as I said, I was always the freak. And I say that without the faintest trace of self-pity and with, perhaps, a touch or more of pride.

I had a friend, though, who insisted on telling me (every single time I confided in her) that I was perfectly normal and that everyone felt whatever way I was telling her I felt. This didn't go down well. I always felt like she was chiding me for pride in my uniqueness, or for indulging in self-pity, or for wasting her time by treating normal things as if they deserved attention. Possibly even all three at once. Couldn't figure out why she wanted to pretend I was normal so bad. I wonder if something about me frightened her?

In retrospect, I doubt she'd have been aware of pride as a possible motive. The second, self-pity, might have been in her mind, as I suspected it was, but not necessarily. As for the third, well, she got there eventually, and did tell me I was wasting her time, but maybe that wasn't her starting point. Who knows?

Point is, I don't know what she meant by "that's normal." And, none of our conversations went all that well either, so we never could figure it out.

That's just the way things go sometimes. Just because everyone's speaking English doesn't mean they understand it the same way.

I often wonder what she thinks now. Her husband was convinced that ordering me to be silent, barring me from social activities, and listing off all my faults that he had so thoughtfully recorded for me would be an excellent move to protect his wife's stress levels. No doubt they saw an immediate benefit. I wonder how long it lasted? I wonder if they ever regretted it? I wonder if it ever occurred to them that, perhaps, listing off my faults was the one move that would guarantee I would cause them as much stress as I could possibly dream up without harm to myself.

They told me they loved me. I saw that merely as honey to smother the poison's bitter taste. I wonder now if, perhaps, there was even a chance that they told the truth. Seems unlikely. Still can't stop myself from wondering and hoping.

Love is just a childish fantasy. Love's for those lucky few who win life's lottery. If you don't win at that game of chance, well, then, it sucks to be you. You can't earn it. You're just stuck - heart breaking, throat burning, eyelids drooping because you haven't the strength to pretend anymore. And everyone who ever claimed to love you proves their true colors with their mockery.

Is that self-pity? Maybe. More like burn-out though. I was told to keep trying, but that was a long time ago and it doesn't seem to be working at all.