What Is It Like To Be Like Other People?

I want to be them, not me.

I talk a lot about the Depression Monster that forever lies deep in me. On my best days, I’ve pushed that mofo down enough to silence him. But it’s never permanent.

It’s a lifelong struggle. At my best, there’s still an underlying sadness and loneliness.

I’m trying so hard to push through this. It’s been a tough summer. Getting over a breakup that came out of the blue. Struggling financially in a house needing constant repairs. Watching my ex-husband live his best life as his girlfriend encroaches on my kids. Watching the aforementioned ex-husband turn our former awesome house into a hoarder’s trash yard. Watching my son grow to be as tall as me. Hating the job I took for the money while seeing my former company’s product everywhere I look.

I look for the silver linings and practice gratitude when I have my wits about me.

Someone hit my car a few months ago. Silver lining: my car wasn’t severely damaged and their insurance paid me almost two grand.

I owe a small fortune on my taxes because of (insert long boring QDRO divorce thing that I won’t bore you with). Silver lining: I’ll owe $6k instead of the original $7k that the accountant estimated.

My kids are challenging between an autistic son and a hyper-emotional daughter with ADHD. Silver lining: things are easier now that they’re older and years of therapies paid off.

I only see my kids half the time and my heart aches for them. Silver lining: they’re healthy and alive (grasping here, I know).

I’m aging and my eating-disordered self hates the effects on my body. Silver lining: I’m not disfigured, horribly disabled, and I’m moderately attractive (really grasping here, I know).

I took the kids on a trip that cost more than I anticipated. Silver lining: I changed my 401k deductions for a paycheck to get more cash so I’m not going homeless.

My heart is still mending over Jeremy and how I finally gave in to vulnerability. Silver lining: I’m dating a wonderful guy who adores me and treats me like a princess (despite my trepidation, which is a tale for another time).

In the heat of California summer, my air conditioner broke. Silver lining: it only needed a repair, not a total replacement.

In the end, I still have the loneliness of not having a full-time family anymore. The Depression Monster is the only company I have sometimes. I hate him, I despise him, but he’s the one constant I have. That’s why it’s so easy to spiral; the comfort and familiarity are an easy pull back to the abyss of darkness.

The underlying sadness makes me yearn to go back in time and hug my younger self. I think of photos where I’m smiling and pretending that I’m like my friends when deep down I knew I was different.

I didn’t know about my autism. But growing up with super cultural parents pushing a strict religion is plenty to separate me from my all-Canadian friends. An absentee and sometimes violent father combined with an emotionally and physically abusive mom meant that my brain felt like a cage of secrets.

It still feels like it’s full of secrets.

When dating Jeremy, I always felt like it was too good to be true. It’s like high school and he was the hot, popular jock to my nerdy, library-bound self. Guys like him don’t go for girls like me.

They go for the generic, cookie-cutter women. The ones who talk of their kids’ soccer practices and ballet recitals. Former sorority girls who traveled to Europe in their twenties and have great relationships with their parents. The ones who love the beach, pilates, and dogs.

I’m Team Feline all the way.

The guys who fall for me view me as a unique, quirky unicorn. I get it. I like sex, I’m petite, I don’t need their money, and I have my own social life (albeit dwindling, given how little I reach out to my friends anymore). I have a witty, sassy personality and can make them feel like they’re a king among peasants. While I hide my dark side, hints of it slip out to give me enough of an edge that seems mysterious.

I’m their adult Manic Pixie Dream Girl.

I’m trying so, so hard to be kinder to myself. When I feel bad for being different from the generic woman I long to be, I remind myself that even boyfriends from two decades ago have reached out to tell me I was “the one”. I’m memorable. Being unique is a good thing.

Or so I tell myself.

It’s hard to break decades of self-doubt. Rooted in my mother’s criticisms, the Depression Monster whispers my insecurities like obnoxious ASMR recordings. These days it’s that I’m not thin enough, my cellulite makes me unfuckable, I’m boring, I’m going to lose my job, and I’m not a real mom because I’m a part-time parent.

I don’t want to be this way anymore. And so I fight harder. I mentally scream about the silver linings to all things wrong in my life. I tell myself that I’m hashtag blessed because I’m sitting here crying while sitting on a couch in my own house in Southern California.

When I think of even one year ago, I feel like a completely different person. A fresh, hopeful relationship with Jeremy. A cushy job that barely paid me anything but gave me zero stress. The strong conviction that interest rates would drop and buying a home closer to my kids’ dad is attainable. That version of me felt hope. That’s how I imagine I felt but I probably should read my posts from that era.

I want to warn her that she’ll briefly feel like she fits in and deserves all the fun, happy things in her life. But it’ll go away like everything else. I want to give her the armor she needs for the rollercoaster she’s blindly in line to ride.

But what about the version of me now? A few years from now I’ll think of this moment and how isolated I felt. I’ll wish that I cut myself slack and enjoyed the remaining four years of my forties.

Pause to get on my phone to lower the air conditioning. See, I should feel grateful that I’ve got an Ecobee, functioning air conditioning, and a job that pays for overpriced electricity. Feel gratitude, bitch.

Readers are screaming at their screens that I need therapy. I’m trying. I can’t afford in-person therapy and my schedule is too erratic to match with the limited hours provided by therapists. I signed up for BetterHelp but the first therapist took days to reply to every message and the second one told me he only does phone calls. I flipped on BetterHelp and they gave me an extra week to compensate for their lame therapists.

Finding a good therapy fit is more difficult than finding a relationship.

I used to go through life feeling like everyone else was running fast in a marathon and I was running on sand or wet cement. As an adult, it felt more like I was an NPC (Non-Playable Character, the background people in video games) and everyone else was the main player.

I’m working on reframing my mind. I’m the action hero. Everyone else is the NPCs. I’m not sitting at home alone while everyone else is living their best lives. The camera is focused on me and it’s my success that matters.

My parents are coming in a month to visit. We’ll see how well I can white-knuckle my mom’s incessant complaining. I have enough negativity swirling in my brain and my bandwidth goes towards my kids’ self-worth. I must remind myself that it’s all karma and if I want a good relationship with my kids, they need to see me trying with my parents.

I wish I was like the other girls, the ones who have parents that aren’t full of their own emotional baggage or strict cultural views. I wish I could introduce them to someone I’m dating or not hide things in my house that incite scolding. Before anyone rants at me, it’s a hell of a lot easier to pack and hide wine glasses than to spend years or decades of nonstop lectures. I pick my battles for my mental health. I can’t imagine what it’s like to feel normal.

I feel bizarre for fantasizing about a boring, ordinary life.