Are You Normal? Me neither.

by P. Braithwaite

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Photo credit: A Widow’s Voice

Lately, I’ve taken to saying that I’m going through a spiritual adolescence. It’s like a seven year soul puberty that just can’t stop. I’m like the girl with the concave chest waiting for her boobs to sprout. I’m doing all the exercises in the back of Cosmo Girl, but nothing…the boobs just won’t come up.

When I was a kid (going through physical adolescence), my father used to remark that I was “all over the place.” I’d have a new interest and then drop it. I’d have a passion and then leave it behind. When I felt like I discovered something, I’d toss it to the side. I’ve spent most of my life wishing I were a more grounded person. I’ve always secretly admired those who can tough it out, think logistics and ignore emotions.

I’m not that person. At all. If the wind blows me left, I’m riding with it.

Lately, I feel scattered and uncertain. My sense of self is changing. Have you ever felt this way? An image comes to mind: the old version of myself is giving birth to a newer me, but in a very violent and aggressive way. This new ME has pushed herself out of my stomach, and I feel like she’s trying to kill me.

Normal people, I think, call this an existential crisis. I wouldn’t really know. I’m f*cking weird…

Here’s what I know for sure: As abnormal as I come off, I’m even less normal than that. In my private space – absolutely private space between ex-boos and new ideas – I’m a gypsy. I talk to spirits; I spin tall tales and soft souls out of pine needles and thread. I wish to cover myself with mud and live inside a tree trunk. I learn to speak the language of energy and dreams.

I’m not normal, ya’ll. And that’s okay.

We define so much of ourselves in opposition. We say: I’m not like my father; I’m different from my best friend. I’ll never be the person I was that one time when I was in love with him [or her].

Those statements, though potent, don’t scratch the surface of who you are. We cannot exist forever by who we aren’t. That’s not progress; that’s baggage. The truth of who we are begins where the opposition stops. The truth of who we are lives in the silence.

I’m still figuring it out, but here’s something else I know: asking the right questions is the route to transformation.

Are you normal? Me neither. I salute you

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