A Personal Revelation

There’s Nothing Wrong With Me

One day about five years ago, I woke up with an epiphany that changed everything.

At 45 years old, I had spent a lifetime trying to answer the question: “Why can’t I be like everyone else?”

My friends all went to college, got married, popped out some rug rats, worked a reliable job. They followed the instruction manual.

But not me.

When I was fourteen I wanted to be a rockstar, I thought I could “make it”. There was limited support for this idea but I never let it go. I hated the idea of reporting to some menial time-wasting job everyday and I hated every job I had.

Turns out, I don’t play well with others.

I wanted to be different, an outlier, someone unlike the others.

But there were times, lots of times, when my friends would be talking about their health insurance, PTO, benefits package, 401K, tax refund, and family vacations where I seriously questioned my life choices.

They were safe and comfortable under the big tree and I was Desperado – out riding fences in the rain.

Why?

Upon closer examination, I could readily see that my friend’s jobs caused them a great deal of misery. They may have had some consolation prizes but they had sold their souls to get them. Still though, they had money and groceries and some semblance of security.

Relationships are another issue altogether.

My college boyfriend once told me that I had a cheating fetish. I didn’t agree when he said it and, in a way, I still don’t. But I definitely have something. I’ve had multiple ongoing, long term relationships for as long as I can remember. It started in high school and never stopped.

I say it’s not a cheating fetish because, to me, cheating means cheap, meaningless interactions. I’m not about that at all. I only spend time on people who genuinely interest me and are likely to become characters in my stories. These are long-term, emotionally complex relationships. Some of them have lasted over twenty years.

Maybe it’s a symptom of my proclivity for clutter. I’m bad at choosing so I just keep all of them.

After decades of observing myself, I see a pattern. Being a barely functional adult, I pair myself with someone who is caretaker. They think I’m wonderful and also make sure I sleep indoors. They fix things and organize the unopened mail. They recognize my limited genius and appreciate what I bring to the table. The stability created by a caretaker allows me to function in the world, run my business, make money, etc.

But inevitably, I meet someone else and feel an intense connection to them but, of course, neither of us is exactly available in the traditional sense. No worries, it becomes a long term affair and these relationships are incredibly strong and durable. We get the best of each other while not having to deal with the realities of the daily grind. When these relationships end, it’s always because of problems within that relationship and not because of any outside factors.

When I met Xavier, my life was in such a shambles that I fired everyone else and stopped my duplicitous behavior – for awhile. For several years, actually. The problem is that I had also lost my way. I let myself go; stopped working out, started drinking, gained weight. Had no career. I felt unattractive and unimportant, I served no purpose. All of which was devastating to my self esteem.

Eventually I found the courage to get up and try again. It was gradual but as I reconnected with myself, the secret part of my life started to come back too. And that made me question if I was incapable of “learning my lesson” or maybe I was just incurable.

Looking at the marriages of my friends caused instant repulsion. What, on the surface, appeared to be the ideal life of comfort and stability was actually a stifling prison. I would look at the spouses of my friends, instantly feel a smothering panic and start devising an exit strategy.

How in the world can you stand to be married to this stupid motherfucker? I would wonder.

There was usually one defining answer: children.

Obligation is the freedom killer.

Children are the prison walls that keep us trapped in every kind of soul sucking hell. By “us” I mean “them”.

My friends are staying in shitty marriages and working shitty jobs to take care of some shitty kids that they probable didn’t actually want in the first place. All because the instruction book said so.

And the worst part is that they would act like crushing their soul in the name of parenthood was some kind of noble endeavor. Largely, it was used as an excuse to not pursue their own dreams. No one points out your personal failures when they’re hidden behind parenthood.

My marriage isn’t like that. It really isn’t. Obviously there are some things, that mostly have to do with my clandestine behaviors, but our home is peaceful and supportive. As long as the agreed upon dynamic remains in tact, everything is A-ok.

I don’t have children and the thought of it has always sounded like a death sentence to me. I have recurring nightmares about discovering that I’m pregnant. Once I dreamed that I gave birth and left the baby at the hospital, telling the nursing staff “You’re going to have to figure something out, but I’m not taking it with me.” I don’t even like other people’s kids. Don’t invite me to your baby shower.

I’ve taken a lot of shit and dealt with a lot of judgement over my choice to remain childless. Most of it, driven by jealously and resentment over the fact that I made a choice that others could not. I defied the rules and would not bend. The Earth is grossly overpopulated. There is no reason to intentionally bring an unwanted child into the world.

People see children as some kind of band aid. A solution that will solve a problem. That theory is 100% wrong. Adding children to a dysfunctional marriage does not make it better. In fact, adding children to any marriage does not make it better.

So there I was, 45 years old, laying in bed one morning and feeling the weight of all the choices I’ve made. Being told repeatedly, from all angles, that I’m not doing it right.

Suddenly the noise of all this judgement went silent and was replaced by only one thought: There’s nothing wrong with me.

That’s right, there is nothing whatsoever wrong with me. In my own way, I’ve achieved my goal of being a rockstar, an outlier, someone who was different than everyone else. Everything comes with a price. Following the rules has a price as does not following the rules. We all have to name our price.

There’s nothing wrong with me and I will make no effort to fit in or to change myself to conform to some made up rules. I am just fine.

The only thing I’m going to work on is getting better at being myself.