Sunday, 8 February 2015

All Of It


When I was a teenager, I had to live with my aunt and uncle. 
The day I moved in I couldn’t help but notice that everyones bedroom door had a lock on it, except mine. I also couldn’t help but notice the pile of freshly changed old lockless door knobs, that the handyman forgot to dispose of. 

That didn’t feel very nice.

When I was visiting my stomping grounds, I bumped into two teachers from my old high school. I politely said hello. They stared me in the face, giggled, then walked off together whispering “Oh my God, do you know who that was?”

That didn’t feel very nice.

When I was fifteen, I saved my mothers life from her attempted suicide. 
On that same evening, members of my family told me it was my fault and that I should be proud of myself and that they hoped I was happy.

That didn’t feel very nice.

I come from a generation where mental illness wasn’t really ...addressed? Is that the right word? It wasn’t really a thing. It wasn’t recognized. 

Basically, no one knew what the fuck was up.

With that being said, I was everyones biggest problem and the best person to blame for their own. I knew I wasn’t the real reason why everyone was crying and yelling. I was just a really good outlet, because I was constantly misstepping. 

The life of a misfit moves you around a lot. I’ve lived in many places and have met many people and the theme of my travels, has always been: You don’t belong here. 

Now that I’m an adult, I can’t help but think, maybe that’s my job in this life. I’m not supposed to fit in or run the rat race with everyone. Cause fuck, I’ve tried. You wouldn’t believe how hard I’ve tried to “fit” and be a part of society. I just don’t think that’s who I am. 

I’ve gone the “normal” rout. Normal education, Normal house, normal job, and normally... people who go nuts get pills. Did that too. I’ve done everything that one would deem “normal.” And you know what? 

I’m fucking exhausted.

I don’t want to have normal plans and perspectives. I don’t want to have normal conversations. It’s unnatural for me. Every time I have one, I feel like a shitty espionage agent, who’s proooooobably about to blow her cover. 

I don’t give a fuck about the weather or what you do for a living, or why your mother in law’s a cunt. I don’t care about your dry cleaner, or your online shopping credit or the women at work who always brings a smelly lunch.

I want to know what you'd do if you were hanging off a cliff with an ice cream. Would you finish the ice cream first, before trying to save your own life? I want to know, in depth, why your wrist watch has an engraving that reads “there can only be one.” I want to know what old movie you’d star in, if Hollywood called you to be in the remake! Could you out smart Kevin Mccallister, if he was home alone again on Christmas and you were robbing him?

But that’s me

I’m weird and random and I ask a lot of questions.
Maybe I am the one who’s broken. 
Or maybe it’s just time to accept who we are. 
As is. 
Mistakes, misfortunes and misunderstandings.

All of it.

I was approached at a club once by a blast from the past, and his ice breaker was:
“Hey remember that time you pissed your pants?” 

All of it.

Fuck normal!

None of you look like your having any fun with it anyways.  And to be quite honest, I didn’t go through everything I went through, just to jump on a band wagon, or get back in a box. 

And in case you were wondering, I’d finish the ice cream, star in Rocky and proooooobably send Kevin Mccallister to an early grave.

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