I don’t belong in this world. I realized that when I was in my teens, but I have felt it since–well since I was sentient, I suppose.
I tried to fit in–god knows I tried. However, I could never imitate that which I didn’t quite understand. I did my best. I had feathered bangs in high school, and I wore the requisite baby blue cable-knit sweater for my school picture senior year. No matter what I did, though, I was always slightly off.
You see, it’s hard to imitate human feelings. I am somewhat emotionally autistic in that I am not certain how to respond at times.
Let me backtrack a second. I have a couple weird-ass, um, talents, I guess you could call them. One is that I can predict things at the oddest times. It usually happens when I am watching a game. Right before something happens, I get a premonition, and I know what’s going to happen.
I have to break this down even further. Sometimes, I have hunches. Sometimes, I make educated guesses. Those are hit and miss, mostly miss. However, when I *know* something is going to happen, it does. For example, the first time the BoSox won the World Series (in my lifetime), I *knew* Ortiz was going to hit the gamewinning homerun in the fourteenth inning (or whenever it was. I’m too lazy to look it up) against the Yankees. The next night, I *knew* he was going to win the game again.
People who’ve seem me do this think that I influence the action. One time, I was watching a tennis match with my mom, and I *knew* the server was going to double-fault, and I said so. He did, and my mom said I made it happen. No. I didn’t make it happen; I only knew it was going to happen. This is a fun parlor trick, but it’s of no real consequence.
The second thing I can do is tell when someone is pregnant and what gender the baby will be. I told my best friend she was pregnant, and she wouldn’t believe me. She was. I knew she would have a girl, and she did. I worked in my mom’s office once (as a temp), and I asked her if a coworker was pregnant. My mom said, “No.” I said, “She is. She’s having a boy.” She was pregnant, and yes, she did have a boy. I had a bit of difficulty with my sis-in-law, and I only got the first two kids right as far as gender.
Again, this is a nice little parlor trick, but it’s really not that useful. In addition, it doesn’t really impact my life in any way. The one extrasensory gift that DOES affect me is my ability to absorb negative emotions. When I walk through a crowd, I can tell who is unhappy, depressed, angry, afraid, grieving, etc. Sometimes, I can tell who is being abused, and in rare cases, I know by whom. If I read a story about someone being hurt, I can feel it happening to me. True stories, I mean–not fiction. I can still feel that, but I know it’s not real so it’s not as bothersome.
This is one big reason I don’t like crowds. I’m like Bruce Willis in Unbreakable except I’m not invincible. In addition, I am not a conduit for the pleasant emotions in the same way. I don’t get the happiness, the joy, the elation–just the darker emotions. It’s excruciating for me. The only city in which I didn’t feel this way was New York, and I have no idea why.
Ok. Back to me being almost emotionally autistic. Despite my ability to feel other people’s negative emotions, I have difficulty with my own emotional reactions. If someone tells me a bit of good news, I have to take a second and search my mind for the appropriate response. Likewise if someone has bad news. It’s not that I don’t feel happy or sad for the person–I’m just at a lost as to how I actually feel these feelings.
I am tired. I am tired of trying to be human. I can simulate the approximate behaviors, but I can’t fully inhabit the form. I am weary. My soul is heavy, and my body is numb, but not comfortably so (sorry, I’m listening to Pink Floyd’s The Wall right now). I scramble to find a reason to try to be human; I cannot find one. I feel like a walking husk. There is no there, there. I can’t shut my brain off for one fucking minute. Even when I am asleep, my brain continues to work overtime. It sends me images I rather not see. At times, I believe my brain is the enemy of me. It won’t shut the fuck up and let me be at peace. It has to parse and dice and mince and splice. I don’t cook, but apparently, my brain does prep work, anyway.
There is so much I want to do, but I can’t get past the wall. I can’t break out of the fear that cocoons me, shielding me from the world at large. It’s a vicious cycle, my fear feeding into my inertia which then plugs right back into my dysfunctions which in turn leads to more fear.
I was fearless as a child–or so I’ve been told. Sometimes, I wonder where that boldness went. I must have lost it at an early age because I can remember thinking at age seven that I couldn’t be President of the United States or a world-famous actress.
Thirty-one years later, I know so much more about what I cannot do in my lifetime. I know that I will not be president. I know that I would have a tough time making a go of politics because I’m such a freak. What I really want to do is act, but I am too fat and too old for that.
The darkness of the night cannot hide the darkness in my heart. In sorrow, the many tears I have shed remain a burden on my soul. I grieve over the life I have so carelessly thrown away. I grieve over the woman I could have been if I weren’t so damn broken. I grieve because I am still damaged goods. I grieve because it is so fucking hard to get out of bed each morning/afternoon, and even fucking harder to climb back into it at night.
Just when I think I have beaten this thing called depression, it finds a way to smack me in the face again. How many times do I have to battle it before it leaves for good?