I was asked to do the impossible this morning. OK, I’m pretty used to wasp-charming, finding lost objects and other witchy stuff but this was downright IMPOSSIBLE.
I was asked just to be “more normal”.
Whose version of “normal”? What the bloody hell is normal anyway? I don’t know. I have absolutely no idea of what “normal” means. I’m me. What I do is completely normal to me. I’m a certified (and certificated) nut case but I’d be really weird if I went around doing “not normal for me”.
What was gut-wrenchingly sad is that the person who asked me has been to the hospital with me, chatted with the psychiatrists, given his side of the story. Yes, I know it is very hard living with someone with mental health problems but…even the doctors said “normal” didn’t come into it.
Yes, I’d love not to have to take pills so I don’t want to kill myself. I’d love to be stable and not go shooting off like a rocket either in a good or bad way. Given the option, I’d trade all my whacky boots, witchiness and general tomfoolery for some peace of mind…but that isn’t an option.
I should have got mad, I should have shouted that if normal was HIS kind of normal, I want nothing to do with it but I didn’t. I just got sad. My little basket of “funny” was chucked on the floor and trampled on because it didn’t have silk flowers in it. So be it – I can pretend silk flowers if I have to.