A Narrow Escape

Pretty much every attribute, physical behavior, and aspect of my identity has been commented on by those around me, at this point in my life. I’m serious here—people have been commenting for years, on little abnormalities they notice. My smile, my laugh, my eyes, my walk, my run (this was not to my face, and I did not find out for months afterward—but still), my manner of speech and the things I talked about, my tone of voice, my thought patterns, whenever they showed, my habit of walking at night, my taste in food, my hair, my clothing, my whistle, the way I hold my head—literally, everything. And, for a long time, I tried to fix that. I tried to hide whatever seemed abnormal, I tried to fit the standard, I tried, really hard, to fit in. I changed my laugh, I smiled as naturally as I thought I could, I only talked about what I thought other people would care about, I didn’t share my thoughts most of the time, for fear I’d scare people away, I seared my tongue with heated metal to keep myself from whistling. I tried to retrofit my personality, my identity, into a society that ultimately had refused me entry.

It didn’t work. To some extent, I gained a little more access to people, people talked to me more, but it didn’t last. In some ways, the harder I tried to be normal, the worse of a fit I was; in some ways, I simply couldn’t do it. This was also around the time of life that schizophrenia began to appear in my mind, so that didn’t help. But most of all, the effort it took to hide whatever wasn’t fitting in about myself was just too much—it hurt, in different ways, and I was lonelier behind my mask than I had been when people scorned my true face. I couldn’t do it. But I tried, for probably a year, maybe a year and a half, before that became apparent, and I gave up.

Now, this fringe life is hardly easy. I’m lonely, sometimes, when people avoid me or treat me as though I wasn’t really… the same. Which, I guess, I’m not. But honestly, I prefer this isolation, with a few close friends who accept me, to being widely accepted for trying to be someone I’m not. It gets lonely, yes, but like I said, the loneliness from forcing myself into a mold I did not fit was far, far worse.

Thus, this is what I chose. I chose to allow myself to grow into this person, this fidgety, manically grinning kid who wanders around at night, who carries a fist-sized rock in one pocket, whose smile creeps out so many. I get lonely sometimes; sometimes I really wish I had someone who understood this, someone who would talk to me, someone who would love me despite—or, more accurately, because of— the crazy, stupid, twisted parts of me—even the parts that I still hide. But the thing is, I have a few friends who understand, who accept and love me for who I am, and idealistic or not, there’s still a part of me that holds out hope that someday, someone else will do the same.

Anyway, it’s still better—perhaps because nothing could possibly be worse—than trying to go through life with my identity tucked safely behind a mask of normalcy, slowly atrophying, leaving me no more than the empty shell that I once pretended to be.