Some aspects of life take a while to be seen as blessings.
Being called weird or odd or other names might sting a bit when you’re young, but eventually you know better.
For the longest time there was that little part of me that wanted to fit in and be like everyone else even though I knew deeply down inside that I couldn’t stomach the type of compromise it would take to do it.
Anyway, stretching my mind back over the years and viewing this objectively led me down an interesting path.
Were the name–callers straight-laced types?
Maybe they were jealous. Perhaps they would have liked nothing better than to loosen up a bit, but couldn’t. Perhaps it was due to a restrictive family life, or maybe they’d locked themselves into being a good girl or boy and were too scared to let their souls out.
Well, that’s where they were. They have their lessons. I have mine.
If they felt better labeling me, then in retrospect I believe that’s what they needed to do. Maybe I was doing them a service by being a target. It certainly makes me feel good to think so.
It was a blessing, really, to be called names. It didn’t stop me. I was quiet most of the time, but when I did say or do something it was exactly what was on my mind. I plain don’t know any better. If that made me odd, then so be it.
It’s freeing. I still do it and most people are used to me now. They expect it. The truth spills out before I have much time to edit myself.
It’s been years since someone called me weird without me sensing a certain amount of affection within his or her tone of voice.
That could be my imagination. If so, I think I’ll hang onto it.
It serves me well.