I don’t exactly know what writers mean when they say ‘different’. But from what I’ve experienced, they’re mostly talking about misfits. I know. I know because I’ve been called different more times than normal. I like to believe people say it as a compliment. They usually pause when I say something or do something or act in a way conceived as ‘different’, and then smile, a tiny smirk perhaps, and say ”I don’t think I’ve met anyone like you”. Just like every other tragedy we’ve romanticized in love poems and motivational quotes, it’s quite the same story with being a misfit. After a lot of comprehension (read : overthinking), I’ve come to the indefensible conclusion that there are no perks of being a wallflower.
I’m new at this (so bear with me). I’m new to pouring my feelings out. Apart from the fact that I’ve maintained a diary from the delicate age of 9. Obviously you’d wonder what I wrote when I was 9. It was mostly about the good days I had at school or what presents I received on my birthday or a list of friends that gave me friendship bands. If you keep flipping the pages, after a good 20-30 flips, it gets kinda….dark(?) I’ve never had many friends. And when people say that, it’s automatically assumed that they had a solid few. I’ve never really been myself with anyone. Not my parents, not friends, not…. Um, brings me to the question; what is being myself? How would I be if I’d be myself?
When I think about my life, which I do quite often these days, I’m constantly reminded of the fact that I’ve never really known how to describe myself. I cannot tell you what I was like as a teen. I am not sure if I know what I’d say if someone asked me to describe myself in a few words. I’ve been so many people. I am so many in number. I wish to someday find the strength, the patience and the privilege to get to know me. From the start. Like, you know, when you meet a new person, you want to know everything about them. Their favourite colour or favourite food, what makes them happy, what broke them and what made them stand up and try again, whether or not they can dance, or sing, or paint… Things that matter. To them. And so, to you.
If you ask someone to describe me in a word, I’m sure they’d settle with ‘different’.