I have always been the intense one of the family, sometimes quietly intense, other times not so quiet. I’d always been seen as a little strange, a lot sensitive, overexcitable, highly curious, always questioning, always searching.
My family never understood where I was coming from. I was always an outsider, and my questioning ways were met with scorn. I was ostracized by my own family – labeled as weird, a spaz, too sensitive, hyper, moody. Anything but what I really was – creative, intelligent, thoughtful, compassionate, interesting, enjoyable.
No one in my family enjoyed my company, no one really wanted to talk to me growing up, except my paternal grandfather. That helped a little. My grandfather let me watch Benny Hill with him. He talked me me about topics I was interested in. Always encouraged my educational and career goals. He let me read the books on his bookshelf and pore over the National Geographic magazines. He sang songs to me, like “You can’t buy beer on a Sunday”, and “I’ve been working on the railroad”. He was the only one in my family who actually laughed and joked around WITH me, not at my expense.
My grandfather has been gone for about five years. I miss him a lot. He was the only one I felt really comfortable around.
Everyone else shunned my attempts to fit in to my own family. My mother was too busy fighting with my step-father (who was busy drinking and fighting with her) and trying to chase my boyfriends away. My siblings would always try to stay out of their way, and my oldest sister would hit me a lot, and chase me around the house – one time with a kitchen knife. Yeah, but I was labeled the crazy one.
I’m a grown up now, with children of my own. That family of origin stuff still stinks. I am not close to any of my sisters or my brother, too afraid to get close because they’ve been awful to me in the past. I have had a few close friends that have come and gone. I see only two or three very infrequently, but not nearly enough.
I realize there’s been scant few people that really know me. They know the basics…that I used to work in a laboratory, that I am married to a friend of mine from college, that I have three kids. They know the tip of the iceberg. The superficial details about my life.
Most of them don’t know the depths of which I think and communicate. Most of them don’t know I take pretty decent nature photographs…and that I write. How I was the only one of five children that turned out to be a prolific writer, I’ll never know.
I write prolifically – almost addictively – if not on this blog, then in my other ones, or in my journal, or in emails (though not as much as before). Maybe I do so I don’t have room to let sadness creep back in.
There’s a name for compulsively writing. Hypergraphia.
I might be hypergraphic. I don’t know. All I know is that I’m a stay at home mom and when the kids are in school I get very bored unless I’m writing. I didn’t write this much when I was working in the genetics field. Then again, I also had plenty of friends to talk to, so I didn’t need to write so much.
Sometimes I feel really bad for writing so much. My husband said today I was going to end up sucked into the computer, like in the movie Tron, because I’m writing on it so much. Well, yes, today I was. Still am. I’m sick, unable to talk, not feeling well, and writing seems to help.
But I don’t always write. Sometimes I read too, and today I’m reading from Anais Nin’s biography by Deirdre Bair. Anais Nin wrote compulsively too. She said her diaries were like her best friend.
So why do I always feel so guilty for writing? She did it, so did Mark Twain, and Vincent Van Gogh (who was a prolific letter writer as well as an artist), Fyodor Doestoyevsky and Lewis Carroll too. I’m in great company.
Sometimes, when I try to talk to my husband…I hear myself and feel like I am just making no sense sometimes. When I write it out, I feel a lot more confident in what I’m saying. I am also better able to stay on track and not digress too much.
You know, oddly enough, I feel more self-conscious about writing than I do about sex. I feel that writing is a bit of a time waster, but not sex, and I kind of think my husband thinks the same thing (that sex is not a time waster, but writing is). How strange is that?
Anyway, I am getting tired and I’m having so much trouble thinking of an ending, so…well…I guess I’ll wrap this up with a