The prompt:“Write a poem that includes a line that you’re afraid to write. This might be because it expresses something very personal that makes you uncomfortable – either because of its content (“I always hated grandma”), or because it seems too emotional or ugly or strange.”
The more I see the more I question what is “normal”. The human condition is so varied, the intellect so mysterious that trying to classify existence as normal or not seems so fraught with problems that it is impossible. Yet we rush to label people at an earlier and earlier age as being “abnormal” and often go straight to drugs as the first “management” option. I do wonder how much of the “abnormality” manifests as a reaction to the intolerance for those who might not be easy to know, who make you have to think or try a little harder or need more than your advice to “go and see someone” when they are going through the inevitable difficulties of life.
We all need help sometimes and professional advice is certainly of great benefit when the brain grows too fixated or the spirit exhausted, but I don’t want to strive to be “normal”. I want to strive to be content with who I am…an individual filled with odd quirks, flaws, joys and sadnesses and the occassional flash of brilliance (or at least a little glimmer now and then). The range of human experience has been as varied as ever, so you could say that it is perfectly normal to be “abnormal” if you take a look at the statistics.
I am not talking about the far end where destructive fanaticism or perverse behaviour show a human psyche out of control, but if you, like me, have felt different in a world which more than ever wants you to confirm and ask yourself if there is “something wrong with me”, perhaps you can take comfort in the knowledge that I suspect “normalcy” is in fact the only thing that is abnormal about being human.