Confession
I have a confession to make. I’m not a nice person.
Don’t get me wrong, I fake it incredibly well. I have had people all of my life telling me what a nice person I am. They say I am a good listener, great to talk to, nice person… sorry. It’s all a fake.
It isn’t something I can help or even change. Heck, I wouldn’t want to change. All that worry and care for others seems positively exhausting.
Throughout my life I have been taught to be polite, well-mannered even. If an elderly person gets on the bus and the seats are full, you give up yours. If someone asks directions you respond politely, you hold doors for people, say “ahhh” when they tell you their pet/partner/loved one just died. It’s all learned behaviour.
In my life, I have so far had three people fall down in front of me. An older gent tripped at a crossing point and I continued talking to my companion until she rushed over to help. A young woman fell over and I glanced at her before continuing and at one point a middle-aged woman tripped over a step and literally fell at my feet. I had stepped over her and was a dozen feet away before it even registered.
Like I said, I’m not a nice person. I felt no guilt for not helping those people, I feel no guilt or upset at the plight of the refugees that seems to be all the media wish to speak about. I don’t care if they live or die unless it affects me and I have been told that I am a bad person for that. Hell, I’ve been called all manner of names and chastised as though I had a choice in the matter.
As a child, I knew I was different. One particular day stands out for me. I was walking along the road with my brother and I was perhaps pre-teen or just about teen at the time. For whatever reason my younger sibling looked back and saw that an elderly woman had fallen over. He pointed it out and I shrugged and continued along my way for a few steps before I realised that I was walking alone.
My younger brother had set off running. In a few short moment’s he was at the side of the elderly lady. He picked her up, gathered together her shopping and led her away. I can recall standing there wondering where he was going for a few minutes before forgetting about him and going on my way.
Later, he admitted to me that he had taken her home, put away her shopping and made her a cup of tea. He stayed with her until he was sure she was okay before leaving her. I actually admired him for that because it was something that would never occur to me to do.
When I encounter someone who has fallen over, I will perhaps crane my neck to see and wonder what happened out of mild curiosity but it won’t even occur to me to offer them assistance.
I am aware of this. I know that it makes me different from other people. I delight in death and despair. Where some people see a tragedy, I see something mildly amusing. The very idea of being upset for others is alien to me. I cannot comprehend why the death of another person will cause a stranger to cry. A character in my books recounts a story of his childhood to emphasize how different he is and that story is mine.
These issues I have are not hidden from me. I am very much aware of them and how the separate me from others. I am aware of those differences and on occasion I may even wonder what it would be like to be the same as everyone else. I know I can’t though.
No matter what I may on occasion wonder, I am alone. I’m okay with that, I have no real need to socialize with others all the time, to empathise with them, to care about them…
My children are not like me. They care about others, they feel for them in a way that I never could and I can only find some genuine pleasure at that. They won’t be isolated like I am. They won’t miss out on those things in life that I have because they can make those connections.
I am different to the norm, I am by many of societies measures, a failure. A throwback to an earlier time when my traits were useful but no longer needed. I can grasp why that is so, but I don’t feel it and apparently that is wrong.
