Hoist The Freak Flag!

This thing that I'm about to tell you may sound extremely odd. OK, here goes. Lately, I have been worried about my freak flag. Let me explain what that means. A freak flag is a symbol for a person's level of weirdness. Everyone is a bit weird and, usually, a person's freakishness is visible to others by their flag. Brave people let them fly high up in the air. Like colorful birds, they tell the world that they are flamboyant, unique beings. The higher it goes, the farther you will see it. Hah, space even!

OK, so, in regards to my own freak flag: I think it has been in hiding ever since I had my first kid. Especially having a special needs child, I felt it was time to tuck it in. The thing is, I was afraid that people would link my boy's condition to me, and somehow look for an easy answer to why he is the way he is. I'd rather let them judge and diagnose him by an objective standard. Don't get me wrong, I think it's quite normal trying to figure out why a person is tuned a certain way, and looking at the parents for clues is one of the first things we do. Personalities vary though. My boy is odd. He's very unique. I am too. But while I'm quite shy and introverted, he's the opposite of that. Unlike him, never in a million years would you see me throwing a tantrum in public.

He's suspected of being on the verge of the autism spectrum, but, as things are progressing right now, it could still be a delay in his general development. There currently is no diagnosis that exactly fits his condition. Since most of his problems are centered around speech and social abilities, that area is where his oddity is most visible to others.

So in trying not to be at the center of blame, I made an effort to be less suspicious. I even got accustomed to talking to people. Yes, people. This may not sound like a big deal to the major part of the population, but it is to me. I'm not much of a conversationalist. Small talk makes my palms sweaty. Remembering names and faces and details to me is like playing Sudoku. Once I get it, and I know someone, I'm OK, but it's hard getting used to it. So, when my first kid was born, like all parents, I knew I had to let the world in a little. Talking to other parents, moms, professionals, doctors. And while I got a little bit of practice in doing so on a regular basis, I still feel uncomfortable at times. I think in trying to hide the freak flag, it has become even more elbowing. Because nothing is more odd to people than talking to someone who tries to hide a freak flag. It's like trying to hide a speech impairment by not talking. It's super freaking weird. And that's what I think has happened.

I should have known that overcompensating for my inner freak would not create "normal" behavior. Sometimes over-compensation works that way, with minor flaws it certainly does, but not with a whole personality. So in my quest to appear normal and together to the outside world, I forgot about my own well-being. I got a lot of stomach trouble. Now I want to go back to the old me, at least meet her halfway between crazy town and where I live now. That old me was a super creative, sensitive person who would look at her world through matted glass. I want to be her again. I am her. Freak flag, get out from under there. You're all sad and crinkled. Get up there. Fly.

To be continued!

Time Traveling (To The Present)

It's an oddity, this growing-old thing. When I was younger, the possibility of some day being old rarely ever crossed my mind. Old and dead were interchangeable expressions. Then, as I was steering towards half-old (or middle-aged), having outgrown the cub stage, I felt somewhat lucky to be able to look down upon the children running around me. I had hated the time, not long ago, being one of them myself. I couldn't wait to be middle-aged. Hah. And now, as I have been in the oven for a little longer than "al dente", I wonder where the off button is. I'm not as much growing older, as I'm rotting away. Brain cells lose their sizzle, memories begin to blur. Things that used to tickle my insides only touch me so-so. No energy for discourse, no time to be well-informed about pretty much anything that goes on in the world around me. And us oldies supposedly are the ones in charge, the generation laying the ground work for the next one to come. Shouldn't we better abdicate and relinquish the throne to childless people? I mean, apparently we have no time to be in charge of anything but ourselves. And it's a beautiful sentiment, and a magical time in my life: the time when my brain is on vacation. The time to be content, and mild and happy is clearly not the time to start an intellectual career!


Sad to say, "no time for other things but diapers" simply means we just can't care. It's a thing parents use to say while they're looking down their nose upon the striplings dancing around them with their underwear wrapped around their heads. What they mean to say is they simply have no brain parts to spare at the moment. Imagine two glass jars, one of them is on the floor, broken, with the content spilled all over the floor, while the other one is standing dangerously close to the edge of the table. The one standing at the edge represents politics, external interest, the outside world. The kid is a spilled jar. And if we don't do something immediately, the spill gets worse. It's mere damage control. There is nothing we can do about these priorities, except accept the task for the time being. Is my kid's health more important than equality, religion or whatever topic the world mulls over these days? Probably not. But it's the one that keeps me up at night. And tires me all day. So it's the one closest to my own life and in need of all of my attention.



Until some night, you know, someone in a strange uniform knocks at my door, informing me that there's a change in leadership, law, state religion or whatever. Then I'm really gonna look like an idiot. Because besides clean diapers and something to eat, what our kids really need is a place to live and thrive, a friendly environment. And that is what we all need above anything else.

Account Me Out

There are some things in my life, that I wish would come easy to me, but they are incredibly hard. Keeping my desk clean can be a nightmare, especially when I'm working at it. I have to force it upon me to remedy little piles of chaos all the time. Clearing up the desk is equivalent to keeping my mind clean which is the basic requirement for any other kind of activity. It has to be done.

One of the other sad little things I toil away on is book keeping for the family business. There are piles upon piles of papers, I never find what I'm looking for, and as I'm looking I forget what I was looking for - finding other stuff instead - subsequently I have to start the frantic search again and again, and a vicious cycle of failure unfolds. I don't have a system, I refuse a system, I'd rather get angry for not having a system, than invest the time to make me a system.

Pretty paaapers, where aaare youuu?

I knew that, I knew back when I started, that this would not be a joyride. I swore to high heaven that no matter how difficult it would be, and how much I would despise it, I would get better at keeping the books. I did that once before. In school I used to be horrible at math, underdeveloped, I was even kept back a year because of it, up until university and the day I consciously decided to make statistics my specialty. I became good at it because I was fed up sucking at it.

This accounting matter would be no different, I told myself. I would be ambitious to become better, be the apprentice, and eventually the wizard of book keeping. Unfortunately not a bit of it has happened. I'm still as reluctant and nauseated as I was in the beginning, inept at picking up new things, if picking up things at all.

There are all kinds of problems to be dealt with in the new year, social security statements, tax filings, and a whole new chance to be neat and tidy.

I tried being tender to those ring binders, I tried giving pet names to the documents, but they bore no kindness in return. I told myself that it shouldn't make a difference, that usually, I like all things paper, written things, stories and such. Unfortunately it worked just as little as calling them honeybun. They have no soul.

And it is not the things written on them, it's the paper itself that is the problem, bone-dry and dusty, like a haggard old lady with grey hair and a bun, mirth-repellent, stapled, lecturing me to get my act together. Be more serious it tells me. Surrender to being more responsible. And it's true. I do, however, feel that shredding them should also do the trick.