Why do you stand out here getting yourself soaked?” This wasn’t the first time I’d been asked about my peculiar behavior.
My parents and I had gone up to the mountains to see the fall leaves for the weekend and it had inevitably started raining… then snowing. While my parents were huddled in the car, warming their hands on the heater, I stood on a path watching the snow cascade down the mountain feeling it brush my cheeks, my lips, my nose and listening to it whisper their secrets.
I slowly turned to the woman who had posed the question, sad to tear my eyes from the beautiful sight, even for a second. She stood with here friend under an umbrella looking inquisitively at me.
“The snow feels good; it even tastes good,” I said licking the cold, clear snow-water off my lips.
“Oh,” was all the answer I got and they soon left.
So I’m strange. I love dreaming about far off places, I think mindless chitchat is a waste of time and breathe when there is the entire realm of philosophy to discuss, I carry a thesaurus or dictionary with me everywhere I go, and I talk to God everyday. And I love every minute of it. Why? Because doing those things is just being me, funky, corky, weird me and I believe in being myself.
I used to not act like myself, trying to be like everyone else to fit in. Some days it felt like I was pouring bleach into my head and then stirring the contents with a knife. Everything I did—the chipper small talk, the popular I-don’t-care teenage attitude—was a lie. Yet I continued to do it for months because I knew the world would reject and hate what I really was—different. I still remember the hours I spent contemplating the pros and cons and I finally decided to at least try and then see what society thought of me. Some thought I was insane and shied away from me, some thought it was endearing and became my friends, but most importantly I’m happy. I’m glad when I get up in the morning and can be 100% me 100% of the time. I’m content with just being me.
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