The Pursuit of Normality

The Pursuit of Normality


I was eleven when my life stopped being the perfect picture. I guess the perfect picture is a myth, but my life then, was pretty close to it. It was a dramatic kind of stopping, the type that even eleven year olds can notice as a major life change. I wasn’t ready. I was literally having the school break of all school breaks. We had discovered and invented new games that kept us going from morning all the way until we had to bath and watch TV. The games were so cool that even television had lost its appeal. I was happy and the only thing I could think about was the looming end of school break. It was a perfect time though, a time during the school break, when all the ads are still about Christmas. A time when school seems far far away…..

And then smack in the middle of that high, it ended! Who is ever ready, I guess.

But since then, I have carried this uneasy feeling. The feeling that anything could change overnight, so I better be cautious not to get attached to anything or anyone. After my premature life-change, I grew very weary of humans. My mother was pretty much my only solace. But we all grow older and at some point, leaving the nest is inevitable. And so I went to varsity, scared as hell, wondering whether I’d make it on my own. My brother was always there, but the poor guy also has a life, and it doesn’t always include making sure that little sis is not crying again or coping with adulthood.

And so I made friends, and sort of unconsciously became part of a tight click. I had invested some emotion into other people with whom I do not share a bloodline. Cool, dandy, I am after all, normal. But these were still females, of my age, with similar types of backgrounds, likes and dislikes. It wasn’t too hard.

Of course I was nowhere near thinking about having a boyfriend. Good Lord, I thought, that would mess me up for real. I was happy observing my now close friends’ ups and downs and on and offs with relationships. Such drama! Even though my very limited experience with such did not make me the best advisor or comforter, I was okay with it.

And then, as all things go, I fell for a friend. It was beautiful. Amazing…we had so much in common. I fell hard. I did all those things I swore I’d never ever do in my life but I loved every bit of it. But somewhere between a magical romance and the most hectic break up in history (my limited history, of course), something happened. I guess I became attached. That was never the plan. I did the one thing I feared the most and it had come back to bite me, or so I figured in my head. Mister was all too happy to find magic elsewhere, and me being me, went berserk! I will not withhold the fact that I, too, made many mistakes. It was a crazy feeling. A feeling I always knew would come if I let go, even just for a second. I had…and I didn’t like the results, especially because I had predicted it.

I got a better job and moved cities. REMIX: I found a better job in order to move cities. Distance would sort me out. I’d forget. I closed my doors and never let anyone in again. I moved alright and so did he, soon after. The time between the moves was long enough for me to grow detached and apparently hotter than I was when we were together. And so I tortured him with all I had. Flirted, seduced, lured him in and dropped him as I pleased. If moving cities was not going to cut it, revenge surely would. But even after all of that, I still wasn’t healed. I became even more cautious of getting attached. No matter how much I tried, I’d never let anyone in, except on a physical level of course (way too many times)

Time passed and as all things go, I eventually grew attached again. There was nothing but warmth. I liked it there. It was a nice place to be. So nice that I developed some form of tunnel vision. All I saw was this awesome warm place and nothing else. All I saw was this place that apparently only existed in my crazy mind, I later discovered.

This, as you can imagine, brought out the crazy in me, again. I didn’t like it. This time around, it was messier. It made me feel like I didn’t want to be here anymore. I couldn’t leave. There was nowhere to go. And because this thing apparently only existed in my mind, I was the town madman. All my emotions were laid bare as everybody looked from a distance, in empathy. Shame, she really isn’t coping. Perhaps she’ll get over it. Perhaps it’s a chemical imbalance. And all around me, life went on, except for mine.

And so I did all the embarrassing things I thought I’d never do again. And all those things came with their own hangovers making the whole thing a huge mess. But the will to get over it fast in order to get on with the business of life, dawned on me. I had to let it go and reinvent another security measure. I’m still trying to figure out what it is, but I’m pretty sure it won’t be letting people in on a physical level. I’m glad that I at least grew out of that one, thank God.

But I’m obviously wounded and have no sense of relationships. I’ve just never known how to do them with caution or restraint. I truly think my DNA is faulty. When the almighty was handing out the ‘normal’ gene, I totally got skipped. I must have been out partying or perhaps I overslept that day. It scares me to no end. It scares me that I have a fear of intimacy and that I view giving into it as a sign of weakness or failure.

I cannot imagine who in the world I’ll click with. I cannot imagine that they won’t see me as a psychopath. I cannot imagine wanting to ever entertain the idea of it. I cannot fathom, no matter how much I try, being in a normal relationship. I’ve heard, over and over again, that one needs to be okay with oneself before they can be with another. Perhaps I am okay with myself, when it’s just myself and myself alone.

So on that note, I pose these questions: What if I am not wired to be okay with myself in order to be with another? What if it is in my genes to never be comfortable with my own insecurities enough to show them to somebody else? What if, there is no one in this entire world, who’ll be able to accept me for the psychopath I have proven to be?

Some would suggest psychiatric inspection while some would try to comfort me with clichés like “there is someone for everyone”. But I know I have issues. I guess the problem is that I’m not okay with the idea of normality. Perhaps my resistance to be normal will eventually lead me to eternal spinsterhood. Me and spinsterhood wouldn’t work out, either. I’d be companionless for the sole reason that I’m just not a pet kind of person.

I mean, is the very act of posting such a personal blog, not psychopathic in itself?

PS: I foresee that this hecticness too shall pass and I will be writing about arb things like birds and traffic, sooner than I thought!