I hear you

My psychiatrist always says, "I hear you."

It is as if that phrase conveys all the empathy one human can display to another.

I have been told that I catastrophise my problems, that I make them larger than life. Everyone is different, that I know. But the more different you are, the more differently you feel about situations, the more strongly you feel your emotions, the more strongly you entrap yourself in a prison that you build from the bars forged by the hands of others.

I am by no means discounting the personal struggles of my compatriots.

Everywhere around the world, people bleed in wars, children starve and orphans are born everyday. We are privileged to live out our meagre years in a first world nation, but make no mistake--our world is no less toxic than any lesser developed one. Granted, we have no wars or famines, we eat well, dress well and get first class education. But with that, there are a whole host of problems unbeknownst to said third world countries.

Everyone struggles in life--for the only certainty at one's birth is the finality of life in death.

I don't preach, and I am not proud when I say this, but I do have a mental illness, which turns everyday into a frightful struggle.

The slightest remark, born of youthful innocence, could well be interpreted as a jibe or a jest or a callous attack on my being.

I've lived my life in fear, and with that fear, I have fashioned myself an enamelled carapace, glorious and ugly all the same. For while it shielded my tender innards from the world, it's made me live my life as a hermit, eschewing social functions for I simply dread the contact of fellow humans.

Am I a misanthrope? I often wonder. Perhaps that is why my idea of love is so uni-dimensional, so troublingly one-sided and devoid of normal interactions.

At times, I pride myself on being awkward, fumbling and bumbling about the girls, and squawking foul vulgarities in piteous futility--that they might find me suitable as a match and mate.

I've asked my psychiatrist if I am normal, and without fail, I have my query reflected back, "What's normal to you?"

I ask it so often because I've never received a straightforward reply.

I seek validation from my friends, from my superiors, and from the demigods--my psychiatrists.

I seem the most capricious to those who know me best; I flit from darkness to light, from good to evil with alarming alacrity. Perhaps I do because I can never make up my mind, but also perhaps I am so easily swayed by the opinions of others.

I've wished that I was "normal" but I might have been better off wishing that I was dead, for death comes far swifter than universal normality.

Reviews

[Veil]

Another good reason to be a recluse is to be away from the behavior patterns of the not so different - I describe this in my poem "The Chasers". Which is why being mentally ill / highly sensitive/ not fitting in is also a blessing.

[Veil]

My sentiments exactly. You defined it so well and accurately, it is made beautiful.