Rainey Daze and Crazy Nights

Poetry, Paintings, and Ponderings: Through My Eyes

Different June 22, 2013

I am different. Yes, I know, we all are. I guess I should say I am VERY different from others. By “others”, I mean people my age. I don’t have a problem with it, though. It is just a fact.

But then, I’ve always been different. As a very young child, I lived more in my imaginary world than I did in the real world. I didn’t have any friends who lived nearby, and I grew up in a time before play dates and “Mommy and Me” outings. My two best friends were my imagination and my dog. I had friends in school, but no one I even remember well.

Fast forward: teen years. I suffered typical teenage angst, along with the shameful taste of molestation. I was rebellious; hell, that’s putting it mildly. I was sexually promiscuous and without limits. If there was a way to get high, I did it. I “tried on” various groups; you know, the jocks, the nerds, etc. as I searched for a way to be accepted. Truthfully, the only group who came close to feeling right was a group of misfit druggies. They weren’t the ┬áhip stoners I thought were so cool in their total disregard for authority, but just a motley crew of kids from bad homes, or kids who struggled in school and turned to drugs to make it hurt less. They were a sad lot, but they accepted me. But even then, they knew, and I knew, I didn’t fit in. For one thing, I was too smart. I could easily make A’s without trying, so I failed on purpose. Another problem was I came from a good home. By this time, my dad worked his way up and brought our little family out of hovering above poverty to solid middle class. I had both parents and a nice house in a good neighborhood.

Fast forward: meeting my husband. When I met my husband, I left behind my old group of friends and hung out with his friends. The sad thing is, none of my old friends missed me and I didn’t miss them. My new friends liked me and accepted me into the group. Well, the men did. I was still reckless and a tomboy, willing to try new things. I played ball, went fishing, rode motorcycles, and would do almost anything on a dare. The girls of the group took a while to like me and accept me, but they did eventually. My husband loved the wild side of me, but he ignored anything he didn’t like. The molestation? ┬áThe gang rape? I told him about it and he pretended it didn’t happen. I mentioned it years later, and he seemed shocked. We all bury our heads in the sand, I suppose. Anyway, they accepted me, but I still felt different, like an outsider allowed to come inside for a bit.

So, you see, being different is no big deal to me. At this stage in my life, I am comfortable being me (most of the time). I no longer try to conform to what society or, even forbid, the neighbors. I have friends, but most of them are much younger than me. (Does that make me immature? Probably. Do I care if I am immature? Of course not…haven’t you been paying attention??) The only people I really spend time with are my two daughters and my husband.

It is at times like this, when I my heart is breaking, that I wish I had the type of friends who would come and get me to shake me out of my misery. When I suffer inside because of J’s bipolar/addictions, or when bad things happen in my life, I really have no one to turn to. Sometimes the price I pay for being different is steep.