The Retard You Signed Up For

Sometimes I don't know how we've survived. Without the continuing help of others, this little family would have blown apart years ago. I wish I could be a person who was wildly successful in the world. I've never been. It's amazing I've even got a wife and kids. It's amazing I'm not still stuck in some lonely reality, somewhere far, far from where I am.

I try to be generous of spirit, but sometimes I wonder who I am, or what I am doing. I spend my days taking care of retarded adults who have nothing. I get paid very little to do this. I am really, really good at it. My people love me. I am the leader of the freaks. It is the most unglamorous job a person could have, perhaps on the level of garbage man or janitor (although those jobs pay better).

I'm not complaining. I'm trying to tell you that I've arrived. This is the end of my long quest to make it in the world. This is it. I go to gatherings of other fathers who have real jobs with real responsibilities. They talk about things that sound respectable, things that sound important. Then they ask me what I do, and I tell them, and they stare at me blankly, not knowing what to say. What can they say? What do you say to someone who seems so intelligent and helpless? Certainly this weirdo is making poor choices. Certainly he is resisting some greater level of personal involvement in the world.

I guess when it comes right down to it, I'm more of a retarded person than a normal person. I have real deficiencies in my ability to relate to people. I used to hang out on the periphery of social events, afraid of participating. I used to regularly put my foot in my mouth, embarrassing myself or others. I never seemed to get it when someone liked me or wanted to be with me. I missed any number of opportunities for relationships with great women who simply couldn't get through to me. I preferred (and still do) the company of trees and rocks, and the internal monologue of my own restless mind. Does this make me an artist, or does this make me insane?

And nothing really changes, although my poor wife has tried for ten years to train me to become a reasonable person to be around. I'm still largely the same as I always was. Even when I'm relating to others, it's largely part of some creative process that starts and ends inside me.

The people who like me are able to put up with all the heaviness, the desire to go deep into disturbing conversations, the willingness to freak out and be crazy. Not just anyone can tolerate such bizarre behavior. Most people have better things to do, or they simply don't want relationships where real things get talked about, where the boundaries of safety are frequently crossed, where mistakes get made and laughed at, where every day is an attempt to simply rise above the desire to GET THE F*CK OUT OF HERE AND AWAY FROM YOU, anywhere but here, no offense, I'm just crazy.

Thank you for reading, and thank you for being my friend. I know it isn't easy.