Born Suicidal

I'm not much of a human being
My existence usually brings trouble
People are born different ways
I was born suicidal

Since I can remember, I couldn't relate to other people. Not even the ones like me. My own brother and sister rarely spoke to me. My parents, simple and non-sociable as they were, were somehow able to find friends--always adult couples without children--who would allow me to spend endless days and nights at their homes.

I wasn't a troublemaker. Far from it, and that was the trouble. People expect children to play with toys, rides bikes, rollerskate, go to the pool with their friends, et cetera. Kids are supposed to do fun things and sometimes get into a little mischief. Push it to the limits.

I don't push any limits. I obey. Abide. Conform. Assimilate. That's how it has to be for unattractive, withdrawn, nervous, detached, chubby girls.

Today, I am on my way to the therapist, again. It's hard going there. The receptionist smirks as she checks me in. Clients sitting around in the lobby stop talking as I go over to coffee station, stare either at me or something in my direction. I'm pretty sure it's me.

The therapist, a young female, greets another patient/client with a friendly smile. About an hour later, the therapist returns, calls my name with a straight face, looks me in the eyes with sort of a distaste. I've become familiar with that look. It's sort of a "you're really hard-on-the-eyes" "I can't really help you but I'm getting paid for this so, oh well..." glare.

When we get back to her office, first thing she does is turn to her desk and starts typing into an electronic form on her laptop. Log this session. Get paid. Very important.

My hand shakes when I lift the small Styrofoam cup of coffee to my lips. It’s not that I’m actually nervous but have dealt for most of my life with what is known as Essential Tremor. I shake much more when I do get nervous, and that happens plenty.

“So,” The therapist turns from her desk to speak to me. “How’s things going today?”

I don’t really know how “things” are and don’t really have any good answer to that. I would rather be asked, “What’s on your mind today?” or “How has your week been?” I expect the “How’s things going…” question to come from some old acquaintance that I haven’t seen in around five years.

Already feeling exhausted from having to take a trip across town on the bus where more people have stared, laughed, and aimed their dirty looks in my direction, I can barely manage to shrug.

“Okay, I guess,” is my answer.

The therapist nods in straight-faced seriousness. Everything goes quiet. She’s just sitting there waiting for me to say something else.

“I’m here,” I say with another shrug.

She gives a weak smile. “So, how’s your family?”

She’s asking about my family. They have nothing to do with me and she knows this, but hearing about them is how she would rather spend the majority of this session, same as usual. She, like most people, would rather not have to listen to things that interest me, and they would rather doubt anything I have to say as truth.

I really don’t know anything else to say when someone asks me where I’m from other than “Born in D.C., raised partly in Lompoc, Ca. and Wichita, Kansas.” The normal response received has been either a wide-eyed look of bewilderment or an outright “Well then what are you doing here?” Seriously, (and I’m often too serious), this therapist asked just that on my first visit. When people doubt my answers to where I’m from and where I’ve been, I usually figure that they expect me to have grown up in the projects in whatever town I happen to be at the time. I know maybe just a handful of people might think that, but it sure seems to come from just about everyone I’ve ever had the conversation with. Again, this all goes back to who I am on the outside and feel on the inside—homely, reserved, a bundle of nerves, aloof, triangle/rectangle shaped and stocky.

The therapist, a young lady, thin and a few inches taller than I am, looks to be in her late 20s-early 30s, shifts a bit in her chair and crosses her legs.

“The last time you were in here you mentioned feeling ready to move. Have you started looking?”

I’ve never done well at talking about plans and have already started to become combative, and yet the words come out lazily, “I’ve looked… One place didn’t have anything…” and I have to dig back in the brain to recall what had happened in the past few days. “Everything’s too expensive. I just don’t have the money to put down another deposit and rent a truck to move all my stuff and hire people to move me. Life is just an endless cycle of things I can’t afford,” I finish flippantly.

Yes, that’s how my brain works.

I communicate in choppy, rambling, utter nonsense and fail miserably at introducing any sort of interesting verbiage that move conversations along with vigor.