Sometimes, I do strange things

People tell me how “normal” I come across to them, that I’m even “more normal” than the average normal person. I don’t know what to make of that. Why do I find it difficult to accept such comments? Because of my trepidation and fears. For instance, I am an ambulance armchair chaser. I hear sirens go off in the distance and I immediately check Twitter. If nothing comes up, I turn on the local news station. Failing that, I might call my folks.

I think this illness did me a disservice. I interact like a 18 year-old going on 5. In one conversation, a fellow made an opening gambit about my friend’s dog being beautiful despite its age. I immediately responded with a, “Do you like cats or dogs better?” Being from an affluent part of town, the poor guy had a visceral reaction to my faux pas, recognized I was not sane, and proceeded to mumble something incoherently, and subsequently ignored me for the time he was in the room. I also recognized my awkwardness and yet didn’t have the verbal/mental acuity to recover. So I let it go, resigning to a reclusive I-don’t-really-see-you kind of status, and vowing I’d never come back. I didn’t have to. The dog later bit me, I went to the hospital, and the dog was segregated (ie. I wasn’t allowed to go back), and I never encountered the fella again.

Sometimes, I do strange things.

It’s not so wrong to be spontaneous. But it is indigenous to our West Coast Canadian culture to avoid the “crazymakers”, or people who through words derail a perfectly decent chance at good conversation. It’s as if normals were afraid “crazy” was contagious through verbal and non-verbal contact. I always thought people would figure me out eventually, so I mainly kept to myself. My relative used to tell me how disappointed he was in me for being at a perfectly grown age and not schmoozing. I never bothered trying to defend myself. Why defend the very thing that makes me protect myself? The thing that all rational people avoid like the plague because it makes them crazy too in trying to comprehend it? Is it not Emily Dickinson who says,

To comprehend the nectar

Requirest sorest need

I always knew Dickinson was a kindred spirit.

But that doesn’t help me in the non-imaginary world. With all the evil going on in our city – brazen robberies, shootings, murders, rapes, and kidnappings – it pays off to stay indoors if you can. And to avoid conversations. For most of us schizos, conversations only lead to the same places: rejection, or solicitations for sex and money. Since, being what I am, with neither the status of sanity nor of equality, the decent individual would bolt to the nearest washroom, and the not-so-decent would take advantage of my nascence and, well, try to fuck me or fuck me over. Only what they don’t know is that I am not as dumb as I appear, just as any disabled person isn’t as dumb as their awkwardness makes them appear. In the end, I leave the situation with the last laugh, because they get nothing. And I’ve got more on them than they bargained for, now that I know their capacity. Normals are normal, but not always smart. Just quicker on the uptake, perhaps, but always a decade less experienced than those who have suffered through abuse for two-thirds of their lifetime. I think in the next conversations I have with normals, I’ll start recording them. Makes for good fodder in later writing projects, and in my declaring this now, I will not be held responsible for “clandestine” tapings. I WILL RECORD YOU! So fair warning…

I know that means scaring people off, but it’s not like it’s something to which I’m not already accustomed. Talk to me at your own risk. Meh. Not like you had much to offer me anyway.

©2016-2018 Veekwriter All Rights Reserved

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