I am different

Tell me reader, is it selfish of me, a single being on a planet with billions of other individuals, to consider myself to be different from the rest? Am I blinded by a need for self importance, or desperately grabbing for attention? 

Or am I right?

Normalcy is a farce and originality is a hoax, forged by desperate seekers of self importance, everyone knows this.

There are too many people experiencing too many different things for there to be a standard of being, everyone knows this.

But something whispers to me.

This something is a tall, limbering being that stands behind me, craning its neck down to curl a claw under my chin, forcing my head up to face its horrid glory. This monster is always here with me, following behind every step I make, watching with a leering smile as I stumble through my day to day. It wants me to acknowledge it, something I have spent my entire life refusing to do.I had spent the earlier parts of my childhood desperately praying this creature away from me with a vehemence that bordered on obsession. Whether it be in a church, in the dozens of scribbles in old school notebooks, or even in the solidarity of my own room, no amount of effort could dissuade this thing from following me. It would sit beside me as I prayed, toying with the shackled weight of my hair and laughing at me.

It seemed to find it incredibly humorous, ironic even. Every cry for help, every plea for its departure was met with that same, cruel laughter. 

No one could see it, so no one believed me.

Time continued, and after grieving the truth that it won’t leave me with just wishful thinking and a holy prayer, I’ve come to tolerate it in my own way. There was no banishing this stubborn entity, so what better way to handle it, then ignore it.

I have spent 12 years of my life ignoring it, and the results vary from day to day. Some days it’s easy to ignore it, to put up a face and pretend like there is nothing right behind me. There are other days where I am so overwhelmed, so distressed about an apparition only I am cursed to see, that I am forced to acknowledge it. I beg for it to give me peace, to find another human to torture and humiliate. 

This monster had no intentions that I understood at first, but now I have come to believe that all it wants is my unwavering acceptance of its words.

It speaks to me every time there’s an awkward conversation that falls flat. Every exasperated look, every roll of eyes that always make me feel like I did something wrong. Every angry protest, asking me why I’m not acting the same way they are.

“You’re different.” It breathes while I struggle to ignore its venomous words,”They know it, and they hate you for it, stop trying to pretend.”

The words stir an odd feeling in my chest.

 A sense of dread settles deep in my gut as soon as it speaks, like a weed curling around my insides. I deny it with a shake of my head and a harsh blink to bring me to my reality. There is no true normal, I know this. Maybe everyone has a monster standing beside them, leeching off their existence like a parasite, begging for their words to also be acknowledged.

But there’s that other feeling, my reader. That other feeling that has that thing inside of me laughing at me, finding my attempts of dismissal entertaining.

The feeling is a lot like relief.

There were a lot of things in life that went awry, but this was one thing that it told me that was consistent, that was safety. That dreadful feeling of being set apart that has become a comfort to me. 

I hate feeling so different.

I hate feeling like I am missing a piece of a puzzle everyone else has, but it feels easier to accept that I’m different, then accept that this is all normal. 

To put a life’s worth of feelings into a simple phrase, I have never truly felt like a person, not with this monster behind me.

I feel more like a concept of one, the constant attempt of trying to be one.

The truth of me is something ugly and twisted, hiding under flesh and viscera. The truth of me stands behind me, mocking every failed attempt of social adequacy. I could spend hours looking in the mirror, following the eyes that shift in my reflection, hoping to understand what I’m really looking at. 

Big brown eyes, flared out ribcage, sharp nose, thick brows and an elongated torso. The pudge to my stomach, the bones that jut out of my hands, the crackling of my joints when I twist and walk. 

Apparently I am attractive, though I struggle to understand what about me seems to be appealing.

It doesn’t feel like who I really am. All of these mark something that I want the people around me to see.

It’s not what I am, I am something far more convoluted.

 I know this, and so does the entity.

I am tall and limbering, disgusting and beastly. Always looking from above my human form, not through these round eyes. It grabs me by the chin, turning my head to observe me, its chest rattling a shaky breath. It drags its hands down each rib, and its once trembling breaths rise to a growl. It’s nothing soft or tender, it’s calculated; details stored away to recall when need be. It curses out every observation with a barely concealed disgust, before dropping its hands away with a scoff, wiping its hands off its sides as if I, as humorous as it is, am something disgusting. 

I try not to give it the satisfaction that I feel quite similarly towards my fleshy body, but I know that it is all in vain. It seems to know the words I want to say before I even want to say it.

It doesn’t feel real, I don’t feel real. I feel like I’m just pretending to be something to keep people close to me. 

It’s misery, to feel this way. A sort of dysmorphia that goes beyond image, but true and raw self. 

I tried to explain it to people,”I just don’t feel like a person sometimes.” I would attempt to say,”I’m watching myself from the outside, I feel so different.”

To which I get a tilted glance, that same expression that could only mean that I’ve said something I shouldn’t have, and a dismissal. 

“You seem normal.”

“Everyone feels like that.”

“Are you sure you feel that way?”

Its insanity, pure and utter insanity. A vicious cycle of trying to explain myself the best I can, regretting it as soon as I get a negative reaction, and I’m back to ignoring it. 

Something has to be wrong with me. This can’t possibly be a mutually agreed upon feeling, can it? Why am I not hearing more about it if that is true? 

I am terrified that the thing that I spent my whole life brushing aside is what I really am. I have spent my entire life denying this thing, considering my abnormal companion to be something to distrust, but its words, its being, comforts me. 

In my truest state, my words fall flat when I speak to others, my tone is off, I take things literally and I have a tendency to react the wrong way. I prefer solitude, and I struggle to maintain eye contact when I am talking about something emotional.

I would feel a little better if people around me acted these ways, but they don’t. I’m convinced that they are not acting like I am, they’re just being themselves. They can converse fluently, handle large crowds without itching for a quiet space to cry, they can drop fascinations as soon as they come, without it taking an egregious amount of headspace. They can sound emotional when they should be, they can look at you, even if they’re overwhelmed and they want to be alone to articulate themselves. 

I put on the act as best as I can, parade myself out to be the way I’m expected to be, but it rarely comes to proper fruition. 

I either just fall short in my performance, or as if it was a deep instinctual warning, people tend to shy away from me before I have the chance to even try. 

I am at a loss on what to do. 

That might be what hurts the most for me, when I realized that these people aren’t pretending like they are that way, they just are. They find home in their tiny, human skin, while here I am squirming to fit in mine.They sense my struggle, and cautiously back away from me.

I hate that I am the way that I am. It’s selfish to say that I’m special, that I’m different and I know it, but it’s not anything that I’m proud of. 

I am not raising my arms in the air, cheering to the world that yes, I’m so special, look at me, love me! I’m so much better than you!

I am ashamed of it, I loathe it. 

I am digging my nails into my chest, scrambling to tear myself open, hoping I bleed just like you do. I am screaming at the top of my lungs, begging for some sort of understanding. It’s so painful, so exhausting to try and prove to myself that yes, I am normal. 

But there’s a monster behind me, and it won’t stop laughing at me.

I bleed like you, I look like you, why don’t I feel like you? Why can’t I just connect the same way you seem to? Why won’t this feeling of inhumanity ever leave me?

I feel inadequate in this game of life. I feel as though no matter how much I dress myself to be, I will never meet expectations of humanity. 

There will always be what I really am standing behind me, mocking me, desperate for my acceptance.

I think I am different from you.

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I got tired of this thing sitting, so I decided to just post it as is. Hope you guys enjoyed it, there is plenty more to come!

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