I always knew I
wasn’t quite right. Off balance, some would say. I have never been able to
really fit in or get along with people very well. Oh, I get along just fine
with them until they break the Golden Rule, “do unto others as you’d have
others do unto you.” And when they do to me what I would not do to them, that’s
when they cross my moral border. And when they enter my country illegally I
view them as an invader and I do what any sovereign would do, I protect my
territory. My normal, or rather, abnormal weapon of defense has always been
fits of rage. My anger explodes. I’ve never been able to contain myself when
the napalm bombs start blasting. It’s like lighting an entire package of
firecrackers: I spew out a rapid-fire blast of obscenities until the last one
finally explodes and then I retreat in silence and shame. Those uncontrollable bouts
of anger plague me more than anything in life; they’ve been the biggest
hindrance to my success. Because to be successful one must network and
socialize, but my shame has driven me to retreat from others; I’ve become an
isolationist out of necessity and fear that I might have to strike out against
an illegal alien.
I’ll always wonder
if I’d have been different, more able to handle stress and pressure, if I
hadn’t been ran over by a car when I was two years old. I hate to admit to that
because it can easily be used as an excuse for every time I blow my top and
cuss somebody out. So I don’t admit it. I have never gone back and told anyone
after I chewed them a new asshole that I might’ve done it because my head was busted
open like a cantaloupe when I was just a kid. But maybe I should have. Maybe I
shouldn’t have always tried to act normal. I might’ve been better off if I’d
been in the class with the “special needs” children. Back in 1962 when I started
to school, some of special needs children rode my bus. When we got to school,
they’d sit politely while us “normal” kids got off. Someone would then lead
them to a smaller bus, which now carries the stigma known as the “short bus.” I
used to watch them board that bus and drive away. I remember asking classmates
where they went, but nobody knew. They just disappeared. They weren’t there at
the end of the day when we got back on the bus to go home. I assumed they got
out of class earlier than us “normal” kids, which made me kind a want to ride
their bus.
But as mentioned,
I have never felt like I should’ve been with the “normal” kids. It’s a shame
that there wasn’t a bus for the “limbo” kids, the ones like me who weren’t
quite right but knew how to fake it. I might’ve grown up to be president of
Limbo Land. In a way, I suppose I am. I live in sort of a continuous limbo land
that borders on the last person I alienated and next person yet to piss me off.
I’m now seeing a
therapist because my explosive temper has driven off many friends and family
members in the last couple of years. My counselor is a woman in her early 40s,
I assume. She’s very laid-back and uses the word “fuck” often, which puts her
in my “cool category.” If this were the Sixties, I’m sure she’d be a hippie.
It’s odd that a man who is just a few days away from turning 61 would be
seeking guidance from someone twenty years younger, but it is what it is. She
never really gives me assignments. She doesn’t tell me to look in the mirror
like Stuart Smalley and say, “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone
it, people like me.” She’s knows that I’m too much of a matter-of-fact,
no-nonsense kind of guy to do that sort of shit, and that those type of
assignments would make me roll my eyes, so she just talks to me.
In our last
session she pointed out that maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing that some my
relatives and a former friends will no longer have nothing to do with me.
Maybe, she said, they were unhealthy relationships I subconsciously sabotaged. Maybe
I cussed them out when they crossed my moral border because I never really
liked them anyway.
A moment of
silence followed her analysis.
I had not
considered that I might’ve done what I did on purpose because I have felt so
guilt ridden for doing so. I wallowed in the muddy mire of guilt and shame for
cussing them out even though my therapist says that in her opinion, they had it
coming. She’s from up north, a Yankee. And everybody knows that Yankee’s don’t
take any shit. I also spent a great deal of time in the north when I was a
child. My mother used to travel to Indianapolis and Louisville every few weeks.
I had to fight with cousins who lived in the slums of those cities. They were
rough and they didn’t take any shit, either. And they taught me not to. But
that’s not acceptable in the south. Southerners are supposed say, “Why bless
your heart,” when someone pisses them off. But I can’t do that. And that’s why
I live in Limbo Land.
My therapist also
pointed that people’s tolerance for bullshit decreases as they age. And as I
said, I’m almost 61. So maybe, just maybe, she’s right. Maybe I fucking saw fit
to sever ties with those who crossed my moral border. But that doesn’t really
explain why I’ve always had such an explosive temper. Maybe I should’ve been on
that short bus. That would’ve saved everyone a lot of heartache and grief. People
would’ve known that I’ve got special needs and not to infringe upon my fragile
soil. And I would’ve had relationships with people who understood me. Or maybe
I’m like a bad George Bailey who was just born older. Maybe having my skull
fractured front and back, both legs and one arm broke when I was just two years
old took years off of my life. I suppose it taught me I had to fight to live.
And as any old battle-hardened soldier, I’ve grown weary of war. So I guess my
therapist is right, my tolerance for bullshit decreases daily. But you know
what? I’m a hell of a lot more content now that I’ve driven the invaders from
my land. I might not be “quite right” and a “bit off balance,” but by-god I’m
the King of Limbo Land.
