I’ve always believed that people are fundamentally separate. I envision us as tiny pilots in our own skulls, desperately slamming buttons and pulling levers to make our bodies walk and talk and touch. I try to tell people about the fact that I live in my head. Before I can say “and I think you do, too,” they start giving advice on how to “get out” and “live.” I don’t know how to talk about it without someone hearing “please help me” instead. I don’t know why it sounds like an insult to be in your head. I love my head. It’s where my brain is.
“No one understands.”
I hate that sentence. It calls up the last three brain cells I have left from high school, when I said those words constantly. When I hear it, I remember how much time I spent hating others for ignoring me just because I wasn’t talking to them. That’s the problem. If no one understands, you’re not being very clear. You’re probably not even being a little clear. You might even get off on being cryptic, because you think it’s the same thing as “deep,” whatever you think that means. I only say these things because I’ve been these things.