When I was younger people of authority often were the biggest bullies I encountered. Sure the kids were mean but they were immature, irrational, and had little power of me, so I didn’t care what they thought.
At home the adults in my life were mostly supportive of my eccentric ways and unique brilliance. Even my mother, who I frustrated to no end with my constant asking of “why”, appreciated my intelligence.
I had the hardest time with my teachers. Blinded by my difference, unable to spot the intellect behind my “defiance” and “inattention”, they assumed I was “lazy”, “stubborn”, or “slow”.
Even as a child, I have always had my own way of doing things. My grandparents helped me to grow my love of art, books, and all things strange. They commented on how “funny” I was from time to time but never tried to put out my fire.
Being “socially acceptable” is something that I have always struggled with. In my natural state, I am weird and goofy. Being silly and laughing, even at “inappropriate” moments is something that I do, although being an adult calls for me to put a cap on silly behaviors from time to time.
If I could live in any fictional place, I would fly away to Never Land, nurturing the part of me that will never grow up.
I don’t want to fit into a neat little box called “normal”. I am an inigma, a wise old soul with a young and naive heart. I see the world through rose colored glasses (literally and figuratively).
Life is supposed to be fun, and living in a box of someone else’s construction seems like a fate worse than death.