I’m not a weirdo

I had an unsettling experience yesterday. I went to my “oh-my-gawd-help-me-through-my-divorce” therapist and hesitantly confessed to spending my entire life feeling like a weirdo.

She was marking something called my “schema” at the time – a booklet I’d filled out to identify my patterns of thought and behaviour, so she can pinpoint my emotional triggers.

I was babbling on about how I don’t notice changes to people’s appearance unless they are dramatic, how I’ve had to train myself to perform social niceties such as hugs and kisses, how I never remember to call people to ask how things went or if they’re feeling better …

She looked up and told me there wasn’t anything weird or flawed about my behaviour at all. She asked if I expected people to do the same for me and whether I felt upset if they didn’t. And I was like … well … no. I’m always slightly startled that they do (in a nice way). Not because I don’t think I deserve compliments or attention but because I don’t seek them out.

And she nodded and explained that everyone is wired differently. Just because I’m wired one way doesn’t mean it’s wrong and that the way another person is wired is right.

She added that after spending three angst-ridden hours with me she was certain there was nothing pathologically wrong with me. In fact all my scores for screwed-up schema stuff were really, really low.

I was a bit … oh …

I mean, I’ve spent my whole life internally labelling myself as an oddbod and it turns out I’m completely normal?

Well, not totally. There are a few kinks that need ironing out. But  it seems I’m waaaaaaay closer to well-balanced than I ever gave myself credit for.

I feel a bit ordinary now. But also relieved. And released.

 

Song of the day, “Creep” by Radiohead