Running on Crazy

I was always different.  I've been teased and taunted and called by various names;  from nerd, to geek to freak in the younger years and then weirdo, bitch, butch, dyke in my latter years. My feelings at times, hurt and bruised. But since we came from a house where we were sometimes called worse, it didn't phase me much.

The kid has joined the freak club. At 12 she looks, on the surface, like your regular tween. But at this young age she bears a list of diagnosis: Aspergers, Severe Depression,  Anxiety and now Trichotillominia, which is a new one, brought on by her anxiety. This last one is the one where she plucks her eyelashes, eyebrows, hair, skin...etc.  Peels and plucks like crazy. Skin is scarring and nails are non existent.

These are the things you see when you scratch the surface. These are the things the other kids have started to see, along with her obsessions on Pokemon and My Little Pony.

So they have noticed. And they know how to get under her skin. She says they call her "Pokemon" or "My Little Pony" to taunt her. She says they throw paper balls at her. They fuck with her head and self esteem to the point where she broke down in therapy and cried and asked "Why do they do this to me? Why are they mean?"

kids are assholes.
but I couldn't say that.

I wish we knew the answers to those questions. I wish people would embrace the quirky, oddball, exceptional children we have. I wish I could magic wand all this shit away. I wish she were strong like me.

I wish, like me, that she wouldn't give a rats ass on what other people thought. But this is not the case.

She is fragile and sentimental and naive.  And that hurts, because I can't protect her forever.

I want her to embrace who she is, love her differences and wave that freak flag, like her momma and give a big middle finger to the normal cats that don't get her.

Fuck normality. Cause we run on crazy in this house.

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