I hate the word normal. I love the word interesting, but that’s another story. But I hate normal because it always seems to be this ineffable, abstract thing. And I know that ineffable and abstract basically mean the same thing, but I like saying both of those words. And ineffable in particular because it sounds vaguely dirty, even though its not. And why things sound dirty that aren’t is yet another of the many ineffable things in this world.
Where was I? Oh, right normal. I hate it. I hate in part because I don’t think it actually exists, but yet I feel like I am always trying to measure myself against it. My mental illness isolates me, and makes me feel like everyone else is normal except me. Well me and Weird Al, but he doesn’t count since he puts weird right in his name.
Even this post has deviated from normal by going off on tangents, a sign that I am just too damn tired to contain the random thoughts ping ponging around my brain as my anxiety tries to convince me that I am fucking everything up.
And you know what, maybe I am.
Maybe I am fucking everything up, but I still have a roof over my head and food in front of me. So if I am fucking things up, at least I’m not cold or hungry along the way. Maybe I am fucking things up, but it works for me.
I’m fucking up in my fucked up attempt to be normal. I’ve lost track of what normal is. Was it your normal I was chasing or mine? Maybe if I could answer that, or better yet maybe if I could stop giving a damn I would be rid of this anxiety, rid of this depression, these darknesses that haunt my head and hurt my heart. But I can’t. Not yet anyway.
In the meantime, I may not be normal, but I am me. Fucked up. Broken. Most times I manage to hold the pieces together, other times I curl up in bed, too fucked up to move in any direction but down. But even then I am me.
I am me. Living with mental illness. Struggling more than I care to admit, rambling through this post because I am too tired to edit it, too tired to care if it is normal or fucked up or whatever. Because it is honest.
Mental illness is rarely pretty, but those who struggle are. They are beautiful in their brokenness, in their uniqueness, in their strength as they keep fighting. They are strong. I am strong in my own way and so are you.
So what if we might not be normal. We who struggle in the darkness. Normal is overrated. And like I said at the beginning, I kinda hate it. So maybe it is a good thing I’m not normal.
Now if I could only convince my anxiety of that.