The Abnormality of Me
It's better to be alone than to wear a mask.
I am running late, driving faster than I should, typing messages with my thumbs and answering the phone every few minutes to say, "I'm almost there!" I'm on a two lane road from I-19 to the Tucson suburb where, at this very moment, there are birthday celebrations underway. It's Saturday or maybe Sunday, there shouldn't be this much traffic, and though I have both impetus and horse power to make a five car pass against oncoming traffic, I hesitate because I've already seen three patrol units and don't need the added frustrations of having to sit on the side of the road while some overzealous boyscout writes me another ticket or gives me another lecture about "the lives you endanger with your choices…that's why I'm giving you this ticket…maybe it will make you think next time…it's better to get there safe than not at all…" blah-blah-blah.
The phone rings again. I consider pressing ignore and letting it go to voicemail, but that would serve no other purpose than to piss her off on the first birthday celebrations of her favorite niece. So I mute the music and answer.
"Yeees, madam, how may I be of assistance," I slur in my best impression of a British butler.
"You're not as cute as you think you are," Nicole says. "Why aren't you here? You promised—" but the call drops.
I again swerve into the oncoming traffic lane to gauge my odds against sudden death from a head-on-collision, but now instead of five cars to pass, I count six. The phone beeps to tell me there's a pleasant voicemail eagerly waiting for my retrieval. I instead type a hurried message with my thumbs—"call dropped"..."almost there." But as I hit send my phone is vibrating in my hand, it's her.
"I just sent you a message."
"To tell me what," she says, "that you can't make it? I've heard all this before."
"No, just to say that the call dropped, I'm almost there, there's traffic—which obviously I can't control—"
"The problem isn't the traffic," she says.
I take a deep breath because I know exactly where this is going, because we've had this conversation any number of times. If it's business or something I otherwise care about I'm never late, I'm early; but, when it's something important to her I treat it like an impending root canal without the glory of anesthesia.
"I'm almost there."
"At this point, what does it matter? You're already an hour late," she says, now whispering.
I can see her in the guest bathroom or maybe her sister's bedroom, embarrassed because all the rest of her family has undoubtedly asked for her "husband" and I'm not there to take my cues from side stage as to how a husband is supposed to behave. I don't say anything because there is really nothing to say; at least, nothing that she would accept as reasonable.
"I just don't understand how you can know for weeks how important this party is to me, promise me over and over that you will be here, then not show up. What is wrong with you? You'll travel around the world to help a friend with some insignificant thing, you'll work—and work—and work for any and everything that you want, but when it comes to what I want and need from you, there's nothing."
"I can't control traffic, or life, or any of the things—"
"Don't give me that! You and I both know the reason you aren't here right now."
She's right. I know it. She knows it. Every member of her family who has ever met me knows it. But despite knowing it, none of us are expending our best efforts to acknowledge and act on what is otherwise so clear. Meaning, her and I can't seem to come together and acknowledge what everyone else in that house already knows: our marriage is doomed and the best thing we can do for each other and ourselves is to find a peaceable way to go separate ways with our lives. I have tried on several occasions to bring this obvious truth to her attention in a way that doesn't place blame or guilt at any one person's feet, but she has placed her soul into this self-defeating attempt at "happily ever after" and neither my words or actions seem to get through to her. I could be more direct, cold hearted, or maybe think of some cruel way to show her what I've been trying to get her to understand from day one: I'm not meant or built for this kind of life. But every time I consider some ruthless action that would otherwise obliviate any possibility for reconciliation or forgiveness, I hesitate, because at the end of the day, she's a good person and I don't want hurt her—even though that's exactly what I'm doing when I'm not where she needs me to be, or I'm otherwise not where I should be (in the biblical sense).
"You'll say it's because I don't care," I say.
"You don't."
I don't contradict her like she expects me to, like I've always done before. The call again drops and I know she won't call back, because we're getting too close for comfort to the truth of the matter. I swerve into the passing lane, see a window of opportunity, downshift and put German-engineering and fate to the test as I pass a line of cars irrespective of the blind spots caused by the rolling hills of Tucson. Five minutes later I pull up outside the sister's house in suburbia-hell, where every house looks relatively similar to the next, and, I'm actually not sure if I'll even go inside. Because a root canal, after all, is just that—a fucking root canal! This child who is unknowingly cerebrating her first birthday isn't going to know or care if I'm here. I've held her on maybe two occasions, and both times she was peacefully oblivious to my existence. Then there's the issue that I don't generally celebrate birthdays.
I guess you could say that I take Seinfeld's view: "All you've done is not die for twelve months, is this such an accomplishment?" Maybe in a country ravished by warfare, a year would be an achievement worthy of a standing ovation, but in a Tucson suburb with every comfort and privilege available I don't see the need for celebration. Of course, I'm ignoring that the celebration is really an excuse for family and friends to come together and share their limited time of life in the presence of those they most care about. I don't want to be here, not because I have anything against anyone in particular, but because I've never felt comfortable in situations where people come together and talk, gossip, or otherwise share their differing points of view on the occurrences of their lives. I understand what they're doing, and I'm not against being with people you genuinely care about—but I'm just not generally built like other people and it's exhausting having to apologize for not being like everyone else. I've been doing it since childhood, adolescence, college, and here I am still unadapted and ill-equipped to feel or be something that I'm not. This is absolutely a root canal, but not from the perspective of being the oblivious patient under anesthesia. I'm the one with the drill and hammer, in hand, expected to remove someone's wisdom teeth and I don't have the slightest idea of what I'm doing. And the worst part is that I don't even know why I don't know what I don't know.
Life would be so much simpler if I actually wanted to attend birthday celebrations, graduations, and weddings. Even as a child, all I wanted to do was get back to whatever it was that I was doing before I was pulled away and told we were going to celebrate—something—whatever it was. Obviously, I didn't have a choice when I was a kid, but when I got older I was always inventing excuses because I felt shamed by the truth. The truth being, I didn't in any way feel connected to the people I was supposed to be connected to. "They're family," my mother would say, a response that I accepted without ever answering my own question: why does that matter? And at some point even my mom stopped pushing celebrations on me, and probably invented excuses for why her son wasn't present and accounted for. Thankfully in college I had the excuse of being far away from home, and travel was expensive and my "studies needed to come first." But still, I wasn't answering or addressing the underlying issue.
I step out of the car, walk up the driveway, let myself in through the front door, walk through the formal sitting area by a table covered with gifts for the birthday girl and into an informal sitting area to my left with the kitchen to my right. The place is packed with people and faces that I don't know. A few familiar faces turn to greet me, and I do the same. People are preparing food, talking, there's music emanating from somewhere, and the perceived energy and consensus of the room is that everyone is generally happy to be here.
I notice Nicole in the kitchen with her arms elbow deep in some dish that she's ecstatic to be preparing. "Hi, Honey, you made it," she says as though we didn't just speak a few moments ago.
I force a smile on my face, trying to take my cues from off stage, simultaneously suffocating everything about myself that is screaming misery within. I walk through the back door into the smell of freshly cut grass and barbeque on the grill. The yard is similar to every other yard in the land of suburbia—quaint, well-groomed, grass, rocks, encased by cinder block walls. To my right is the grill prototypically surrounded by men, and to my left are tables filled with the older members of the family drinking their refreshments. There's a stack of unoccupied chairs in front of me and I'm actually indecisive as to where I should go—where I will suffer less.
This is hard for most people to understand. After all, what could be so painful or suffocating about sitting in an otherwise happy environment enjoying a good meal prepared with lots of love? It's hard to explain. The best I can come up with is what it must be like for a lion, tiger, or even a bald eagle to exist in their cages in a zoo; or, on the more extreme side, the lived nightmare of being buried alive. Animals have food, a stable enclosure where nobody attacks them for sport or rivalry, and yet, for anyone who has seen any of these unfortunate creatures, it's heartbreaking—at least, it is to me, because I have always empathized with their horrific plight because I know it so well. The hunt, the foraging for food, shelter and survival is something genetically programmed into them—and some of us.
For a brief moment I am completely motionless as I consider my options. Then, I proceed to do something quite unexpected, even for me: I grab a beer from an open ice cooler, a chair, and walk into the very middle of the freshly cut, green, postage stamp-like yard, place my chair on the grass, facing the house and all its occupants, and sit, open my beer, take a sip, and exhale contentedly. And, as I do this, everyone holds their breath as though they're waiting for my head to start spinning; all conversations cease; and every eye is uncomfortably placed on me.
The tension and silence are both rising like a misfit crescendo reaching for its peak. I understand what's happening, it's not as though I'm unaware of social nuances and expectations for "normal" human behavior. The script for my performance was, after all, handed to me when I walked through the house and Nicole said, "Hi, Honey!" on my way to the apparent stage where I am now seated. But, I just couldn't do it—even one more performance would have suffocated the life right of me like a pillow held over my face.
The uncomfortable silence ensues for about the time it takes for Nicole to clean her hands off and walk out to me. I'm basking in the sun, enjoying my beer to the best of my ability, and as I see her on approach I know how disappointed she is that I didn't follow her cue of normalcy and the everything is just fine mask that I'm expected to wear in public, like the collar and leash on a dog when he's out for a walk. I get it, I fucked up.
"What's wrong with you?" she asks once she's close enough for others not to hear. "Everyone is staring at you."
"I noticed."
"So do something."
"Like what?" I ask with an accompanying smile that says, "I'm really not sure you or this audience is ready for me to do or say anything else off script."
"You're sitting in the middle of this yard like some kind of zoo exhibit. It's over a hundred degrees out here—"
"And here I am enjoying this cold beer with the sun on my face," I interrupt to finish her accusation. "What a horrific scene. How will anyone manage to survive this … otherwise unfortunate, abnormal circumstance?"
"This is your way of getting me back for asking you to be here with me." Her hands are now on her hips and just how displeased she is is crystal clear.
"You didn't ask," I remind.
She sometimes bites her lip when she's nervous, angry, or sad. She's biting her lip now. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for making you be somewhere you don't want to be.I'm sorry for—"
"I'm already here," I say. "Why are we arguing? Why is it such a big deal if I choose to sit in the sun, alone, just for a few minutes to enjoy the solitude of this beer with my thoughts."
But she doesn't answer my questions, nor does she care to debate the legitimacy or reasonableness of my actions. She just wants this unfortunate scene to be over, and from her expression I can see how painful this is for her. I feel and understand her. I am her, because what she's feeling I have likewise felt throughout my entire life in almost every social circumstance since childhood: the blaring siren in my head and soul telling me that I'm different.
"Please just leave," she says.
"You had me drive hours to get here, berate and harass me for not being here on time, and now that I'm here, because I enjoy the sunlight and solitude to the shade and company of people I don't know, now you want me to leave."
She's biting her lip again. "Yes, please leave. I'll tell them something. I just don't want you to be where you don't want to be. And right now I don't want to be where you are."
She turns and heads back into the house. Her people are watching me, a little less interested than before, but still, I'm the anomaly that has mysteriously walked into their lives. I proceed to finish my beer, stand, return the chair, and walk back through the house—living areas, kitchen, mountain of gifts for little Hannah. I stop a few feet from the front door, and there's a sadness that washes over me like a wave crashing against the shore. I can't explain it. The mask had been removed, and the me beneath is not what anyone wants to see. I remember the last time I allowed the mask of social normality to fall, it was at a marriage counseling session, and that didn't go well either.
At the onset of our marriage the problem of my differentness was apparent. She tried to ignore it and I tried to hide it, but in the shadows it lingered like alcoholism for some, addiction for others, or homosexuality for still others. She insisted that we attend counseling, and reluctantly I agreed.
She made us an appointment and we drove together, mostly in silence. When we arrived the therapist spoke to us from behind her desk like two delinquent children in the principal's office. Then she asked to speak to us individually, first her, then me. When it was my turn, I immediately felt her condescending cold hostility.
"We're here because your wife feels that she doesn't understand you, that you don't communicate, care about her feelings, or otherwise appreciate how much effort she's placed into your marriage. Does what I'm saying register with you as an accurate depiction of your relationship?"
"No."
"So, you are caring, and genuinely aware of your wife's feelings, her emotions, and maybe her perspective on your marriage?"
I don't know what I said exactly, but I do remember her followup question: "Do you think it's appropriate for one person to hurt another? Do you think it's wrong?"
"I don't know what is wrong or right from a standpoint of universality," I said. "It all depends on the circumstances, and since we can't possibly know or understand the reasoning behind someone else's actions I prefer to not place judgement on it, or them."
"Even for killing?" she asked. "When someone takes the life of another?"
"They must have had a reason," I said.
"And you think that reason is acceptable for taking someone's life."
"That's not what I said," I clarified. "I'm simply pointing out the obvious, in that, I don't pretend to know someone else's reasons or reasoning for what they do. Is it unfortunate that a person's reasoning can lead to someone's death? Yes, if you're losing someone dear to you, absolutely! But I also don't pretend to know what's on the other side of that death, and because I don't know I'm not in a position to label something as good or bad."
"So you don't know if killing someone is good or bad?"
"How could I?" I asked.
"Everyone knows that killing someone is bad," she said. "And if you don't know that, then—"
"Something must be wrong with me," I said. "I've been hearing that something is wrong with me my whole life, Doctor. But I don't quite see how being rational is a bad thing."
"Killing isn't rational," she insisted.
"I don't know why we're talking about killing or murder at a therapy session for marriage counseling," I said. "But since we are, why would killing be any less rational than, say, saving someone's life if it's within your ability to do so, given, of course, that the reasoning is sound?"
"Because murder is never justified, and the fact that you don't know that suggests that—"
"You're going to say that I'm a sociopath," I said. "But, all I'm saying is that I won't judge a reasoning that I don't understand or know. 'Good' and 'bad' are just labels that we use to condemn or celebrate actions that are, in all actuality, sometimes the opposite of what we label them. Everything depends on your point of view: warfare, charity, genocide, or even medical intervention."
"You think genocide can be good."
"I don't think that," I said. "But I also don't presume to be in the shoes of someone who thinks that it is a good or justified idea. From my very limited point of view, I don't agree with it."
"But you think it's possible that you could agree with murder or genocide, given the right circumstances."
"I don't know," I said. "How could I possibly know from this very limited vantage point of where I'm sitting today what my opinion might be in a situation that doesn't exist because I'm not in it? That's not possible."
"Well, would you stop a genocide or single murder if you could?"
"That's not a realistic question," I said. "I'm not in that position, for one. Two, even assuming I was in that position, I would have to consider the consequences of either choice, and hypotheticals like this one, don't present the surrounding circumstances or a true representation of the situation."
"So it's possible that, even having the power to prevent a single murder or a mass genocide, you wouldn't, correct?"
I smiled ironically at the impossibility of her question. "I think we're done here."
As I stood to leave she asked to speak with Nicole, a conversation that only lasted two minutes. Nicole rushed out of her office, and when we were in the car she said, "she thinks you're a sociopath and says that I should divorce you as soon as possible."
I wasn't surprised. "I was just being honest," I said.
"That's the problem," Nicole said. "You say and think things that are just too far out there. How can you possibly think that genocide is acceptable? Do you forget that I'm Jewish?"
"That's not what I said—"
"It doesn't matter what logical or intelligent reason you're thinking," she interrupted, "it's NOT ACCEPTABLE! Millions of Jews were murdered and there was no justifiable reason!"
"I never said I agreed with Hitler," I said. "I’m just saying—"
"That there might be a good reason … are you really saying that? Hitler was sick and demented!"
I took deep breath. "All I'm saying is that I don't have enough information to place judgement on why someone does what they do."
"He killed millions of people! And you think that's OK?"
"That's not what I said."
"Oh, I'm sorry, you think it's 'possible' that it's OK." She had her fingers in the air for air quotes.
I didn't say anything else. I was definitely thinking it, but I wasn't about to say it. Just like now, as I stand in her sister's formal sitting room, there's lots that probably should be said, but again, I won't say it. I see the world and life a little differently than most. People have certainly labeled me a sociopath before now, but they don't know what I feel or think, or even what I dream about when I sleep. They don't know what kinds of things make me cry, or laugh, because they don't know me. I have feelings and I have remorse. And I have dreams, and here recently Nicole has repeatedly visited my dreams; which makes me think that I have lots of unresolved emotions related to all that happened between us.
If I would have known myself, then, as well as I do now, I would never have involved myself in a relationship with her, or, most likely, with anyone else. My differentness causes pain to others and since it can be avoided, I prefer to do so, especially when, by doing so, I avoid unnecessary pain for others and myself. Because it's better to be alone than to wear a mask. It has taken years, living in a cage, to finally come to understand myself. And I can finally see that I'm neither a sociopath or an insensitive monster, I'm just me.
I walk myself to the door, and when I step onto the front porch I'm greeted by the warm sun on my face. Everything is going to be okay, the Sun seems to say, and even now, I tend to agree.
Image Courtesy of Dreamstime.com