The Silky Way

Maybe I am the crazy one here.

I’m sitting here in a tie dye tee, camouflage bandanna and polka-dot panties and week-long unshaven legs in this bio-hazard of a bedroom of mine, having just stripped off the black and white, two-sizes-too-big suit after returning home from the old Roman Catholic church I used to attend (religiously) every week during high school wherein a limited selection of my family and their cohorts conducted a memorial service for my deceased Grandmother. I’m listening to the D.E.B.S. “Enhanced” Soundtrack whilst Danielle whips up a few vegan B.L.T.s in the kitchen. I couldn’t wait to get home and away from them. Someone actually said to me, while exiting the church, “Please don’t cause your mother any more grief. Be a good boy.” The words “black sheep” came to mind once or twice.

Listening to the eulogy and tributes by my parents, Aunt Barbara and my cousin Tina touched me, naturally. But, truth be told, I’ve done my grieving. I loved my grandmother very much and I’ll miss her eternally until the day I see her again. But I’ve since come to the realisation that I’m happy she’s somewhere better and no longer accursed with the horrid pains of her Alzheimer’s disease. I’m sure she’s looking down on us right now, watching over us and continuing to be her charming, whimsical, loving self. And that makes me happy. But what really brought tears to my eyes today involves something else entirely.

As I was saying, listening to the eulogy and tributes saddened me, of course but more so because of a certain realisation that came to mind during the service. My family consists of a myriad close-knit and loving and warm and quirky and creative and fun-loving individuals. And I love them. I adore them. And I adore their connectivity towards one another. The friendly smiles, the Caymanian small talk, the mutual respect; it’s so touching and, from what I’ve experienced, so rare to find in so many modern families. But what saddened me was the fact that I seemed to have little to no part of that whatsoever.

I’ve always felt like an outcast, probably because I undoubtedly always was one. This extends far beyond my family. I was an outcast at school. I was an outcast at work (for the most part). I’ve just never really been able to mesh with the rest of the crowd. Not until Phoenix anyway. There, I was happy. There, I knew who I was and I loved who I was and people loved me for who I was. And I’ve rarely been able to find that same sort of atmosphere anywhere else. I’ve had the odd friend here and there who’s accepted and/or accepts me for what I was and who I am but at the end of the day, I’m still just another misfit toy.

What I wouldn’t give to be able to get along with my parents the way I’ve always wanted to. Fuck, what I wouldn’t give to be able to at least get along with them the way I once did. My mother used to, if nothing else, make some small attempt to understand me or what was troubling me. Nowadays, it’s as though she doesn’t even want to acknowledge the fact that I’m hurting. She wants to hear nothing of it. Apparently, she’s content with the idea of pretending as though everything is alright. As a matter of fact, everyone is. What is with the fucking facades?

I hate pretending when it comes to reality. Why do people feel the need to turn a blind eye to that which they don’t understand or that which they fear or, more accurately, that which irks them? It’s obvious things about me (or anybody else for that matter) disgust my friends and family, yet, seemingly for the sake of preservation of their own integrity, they refuse to acknowledge it. Maybe because it’s too complicated, too difficult or simply not worth the effort, I suppose. Better to sugar-coat the subject or, preferably, avoid it entirely. Still, people gossip, spread rumours, scoff and mock behind each others’ backs and as long as nobody catches wind, that’s all perfectly well and good.

Sorry. Off on another wild tangent, I guess.

Still, despite the obvious double standards and prejudices that run rampant in every society , I can’t help but feel just a little envious of their shallow, high-ranking dispositions. How great it would be to be able to constantly feel as though I am above so many; those who are so obviously lacking or disparate from the rest of us. If only I could adopt the lifestyle of an attractive, sophisticated, urban socialite and fashionista, don my thousand-dollar outfit and prance through downtown on the coattails of my associates without a care in the world, adourn myself with jewels and parade in haute couture among the razzle dazzle jet-setters of high society. Then I’d never have to feel so discriminated or so left out.

Ah, dream a little dream. Honestly, though, I couldn’t help but feel a little sick to my stomach after reading over that. It was hard enough to type. Everyone longs to be the material girl at some point in their life. (I hope that’s not so incredibly innacurate.) But, as Popeye once so famously proclaimed, “I yam what I yam and that’s all that I yam.” I’m not perfect. But I was happy with myself once. I was happy because I knew who I was and I accepted it and I loved it. What bothers me now is that just about everyone I know (aside from Danielle) seems to think I’m demented because of it.