I keep trying to convince myself that I’m not crazy. I’m frequently depressed, often manic, and I talk to myself. I try stuff just to see if I can, even if it’s sometimes stupid. I’m reckless with my affections. I’m claustrophobic. I’m insecure. I’m impulsive. I’m paper-thin vulnerable. I’m closed-off. I’m fiercely affectionate. I’m confused when good doesn’t prevail. I don’t understand injustice. I’m intelligent, and yet frequently very, very stupid. I embarrass easily, but mostly I do it to myself. I’m allergic to bananas. I’m shy. I’m a loudmouth.
I have no middle ground. I see-saw between pollyanna optimism and the gaping black maw of despair. I’m always hopeful, but frequently just fucking hopeless.
I have fiercely close friends, who see the weird bits of me and aren’t scared. Sometimes I crawl away, and poke them off with sticks, but the good ones stay, or come back after years of neglect. I offer support to my friends, and my family, but I’m too proud to ask for it myself. The good ones know, even when I haven’t seen them for years. I claim to hate deceit, but I lie to myself all the time. Oddly enough, I don’t lie to other people, just to me. I hope; I fantasize; I live and sometimes I can’t tell the difference between it all.
I’ve never had a “normal” life. I wasn’t raised “normal”, I’ve never looked normal, and never felt normal. My dryer has a setting that says “normal”, and that’s probably as close as I’m going to get.
When I left work tonight, I said to my boss, “goodnight, I have to go home and be weird for a while”. She laughed, but it’s true. It’s like I’m some kind of backward superhero, Normal Civil Servant by day, Tortured Weirdo Freak by night. Sometimes it even leaks out around the edges a bit at work. The name of the blog is “she just ain’t right”, you know, which is how I feel I’m categorized at work. Beloved old hand, yes. Respected, yes. A good source of information and compassion, for sure. But…about a half a bubble off plumb.
People say “oh, you’ll like him, he’s weird/funny/odd”. And maybe he is, but usually he’s more garrotte-you-in-your-sleep weird, than delightfully whimsical. I don’t need someone else who’s weird. I need someone who’s stable and calm, or we’ll explode. Or implode. Or something.
But I don’t need a Robot Man, either. I need someone with some depth and imagination, some adventure.
Damn, I’ve done this twice now. I’ve fucking tried to make shit work, long-term, first with a weird guy, then with a straight-john dude. Neither worked. So, I’ve come to the conclusion that it actually is just me.