Does it help anyone, knowing how I feel? It doesn’t help to talk about it. If anything this echo chamber makes me feel worse. A reminder that no matter how loudly I scream, no one can hear me. I’m alone in this pain and destined to wander looking for reprieve. Convinced I’m defective, I’ve stopped talking to people in the real world about my feelings. Any inkling of my suicidal tendencies is greeted with talk of triggers and platitudes. As if I’m sharing these feelings for their benefit. All I want is someone that doesn’t find me abhorrent.

I don’t honestly think I’m that bad but the behavior of strangers is compelling evidence. No second dates. The last person people sit next to on the bus. Ignored by the young and disdained by the sane, my personality isn’t enough to justify my brand of crazy. Somewhere between a bag lady and feminazi, nothing I have to offer is unique. The only thing I have working in my favor is honesty. I haven’t compromised, even now. I won’t back down on the things that really matter. Surrounded by a matrix of influences from foreign agendas, I am effectively cut off from the main sources of modern media. This voluntary ignorance preserves a broader perspective on human behavior. Through this, I maintain my sanity.

Watching the news as a teenager I quickly learned that headlines are meant for nothing more than ratings. In lieu of actual information, news channels in the 90s fluffed up their broadcasts with insipid reporting about children, pets and the elderly doing somewhat interesting things. Remember when the NBC morning show announced humans celebrating 96+ birthdays (sponsored by Smuckers)? That’s the epitome of non-news. If someone aged 101 also completes a half marathon – that’s news. Otherwise getting old is inevitable and sad, no matter how big their smile is in the picture. I feel better knowing the truth. Am I the only one?

My family never cared much for my perspective. Raising typical children to live typical lives was my parents’ goal. I was the typical black sheep. Rebelling without even knowing why, the nineties is a graveyard of misguided repression and moments of punk glory. My first inklings of independence led to anarchist coffee shops, lesbianic tendencies and zines. A friend’s misguided confession to her therapist derailed everything, perhaps for the better. I freely admit to the safety factor of my circumstances. A different timeline might have me dying of a heroin overdose or bearing children in my teens. I’m not immune to the dangers of the world. That’s the one thing I didn’t know back then.

With today’s hindsight I should have fought harder for my self expression. I essentially believe the same things I did in high school. Honesty is paramount and you should Be Nice Or Leave. An easy philosophy to follow, yet I can’t communicate with humans effectively. I don’t think anyone is wrong for what they choose to believe. My perspective tends to tolerate anything except slavery or genocide. You can have whatever opinions you want, being nice has nothing to do with that. Nice just means keep it to yourself unless someone asks. If solicited, all not-nice opinions should be given outside my establishment.

Good communication keeps the majority happy and if you have them on your side the people being dicks quickly disperse. As a rule, I personally prefer hanging out with dogs. They know how to share space in a civilized way. Without human involvement, canines mastered communication amidst themselves. Years of domestication incorporated parts of human language into dog culture but the best trainers usually speak to dogs on their terms. It’s a more concise way of communicating and the primary reason we feel unconditional love from our pets. They know how to get the message across.