Instead of writing I’m watching Mr Robot. It got me thinking about something that has popped into my head before. We all have shit that we think makes us weird, makes us different, and we try to hide it to fit in.
The number of people I know now who have had terrible childhoods due to alcoholic, mentally ill or absent parents, and think that this is weird. I hear it so often I think that it’s probably a lot more normal than we’re taught to believe.
My own family is loving and supportive, and still together despite every obstacle and hardship they’ve faced. I admire them greatly, partly because it seems so rare. At least among the people I know. Despite the fact that a Mum and Dad working together to raise and support their children is supposed to be normal. In reality it seems to be odd, unusual, weird.
I like being weird. I used to worry that I had no right to be weird because I didn’t have a messed up childhood. So I tried to be normal. Go to college, fall in love, get married, get a career, a house, a car, have kids, make friends with other couples and climb the corporate ladder.
It was all wrong though, fake, dishonest. If we’d had children though I would have kept it up indefinitely. Worked jobs I hated just to make sure they had a roof over their heads, food in their bellies and a loving mother and father to look out for them.
I can’t have children though. I’m infertile. To be fair so was she. After we found that out it got harder to understand what it was all for. Humans are supposed to reproduce. Even though I reasoned that at least we weren’t condemning a new life to our particular combination of genetics, I still felt like I’d failed as a husband and a human being.
It still took a few years for the marriage to crumble into dust. During which I still tried to hold up the structure of a perfect life, with one pillar missing. The remaining pillars, and the two of us, cracking under the strain.
She found someone else shortly after we broke up. I have no idea if they’re still together, nor do I want to know. I’m not that person I was trying to be. I’ve embraced my weirdness. No more pretending. Though I admit I’ve toned it down a little for work.
I have no idea how my new coworkers would react to my black nails and eyeliner. The fact I like to eat raw bacon as a snack doesn’t need to come up. I loathe sports, but I love fantasy and sci-fi games.
I worry that I have little in common with people. I want to be able to relate to the customers and coworkers. I’m repelled by the thought of having to pretend I’m someone I’m not, but I like this job. I don’t want to lose it because I have no idea which football teams are playing, or because someone thinks I’m too weird.
I know I’m being over anxious. I got a food order wrong today, something I found out on day one I could get in big trouble for. The problem was resolved before it became an issue, but I can’t afford to make any mistakes.
Firing a perfect employee because he’s weird is prejudice. Firing the weird employee because he makes expensive mistakes is justified. If I was in their shoes, I’d be waiting for me to make another mistake. It’s not like I’d be hard to replace. Two more people handed in job applications today. Who knows how many more applied via email.
I feel a little better for expressing this. It’s overdramatic, but emotions often are. I don’t really expect to lose my job anytime soon, no more than I do in any job. There’s always a chance that the people you’re relying on will betray you, but that’s life.
Have a great day