What's Wrong With You!

“What’s wrong with you” should inspire and delight you now. It should make you say, in a haughty tone back to its owner, nothing—I’m just perfect.

Mother often asked me “what’s wrong with me,” as if my decision to be myself and not participate in societal pretenses disturbed others to the point they needed to ask such a question. The answer, of course, is simple: nothing. There is nothing wrong with me. I’m clinically well. In fact, I’m better than I’ve been in a while. My depression is at bay, my brain has seemed to settle, and I feel happy for the most part, despite the world crumbling around me.

“What’s wrong with you” is a question often accompanied by concern or skepticism, brought on by an unwillingness to accept an individual. It is something parents say to their children when they misbehave or do not act as they want them to. It should not be a phrase reserved for adults who don’t color in the lines of life. I had heard this my whole life. As a child, my lack of making friends under the false pretenses of being like everyone else made my mother and teachers worry about me. I would have rather spent those years eating my lunch in the bathroom than have to hear the judgment of other kids as they exclaimed, “Why do you talk that way?” or “Why do you wear your clothes and hair like that?” I was tired, even as an adolescent, of conforming. Of trying to fit in. It’s an exhausting task that I no longer could stomach.

“What’s wrong with you” is the question that is asked when you tell them you’ve never been married or had a child by your 30s. It’s the same question I get asked on dates when I show up cool, fun, and full of life. Why would someone who looks like you and seems so great be single? I pondered this and have wondered if I had sabotaged a lot of my relationships out of the need not to compromise myself. But no—nothing was wrong with me except that I was born into a world where you had to fit in a box to be in it.

This box was too small, too confining, restrictive, and no matter the years that passed, it never seemed to fit properly on me. I had shrunk myself and changed myself to try to fit into it, but it still spat me out, almost as if saying, you are not allowed. The box was society. It was my parents, my family, the expectations to behave as a woman should, or as your culture says you should. It was never-ending, and fortunately, in my exhaustion, I decided to quit. I decided to say no more. I will be myself, and if that is not accepted, then so be it. I would rather die than continue with this. And how was I supposed to behave? A woman who lost her mom at the wrong time, fatherless, and above all else a triplet. It was destined for me to be a bit off and rough around the edges. I was like a baby bird, daily trying to use its legs and hoping I wouldn’t fall—claiming my identity, fighting for something I didn’t yet know.

I was a good human and that is no small feat. I had been through the depths of darkness. Had my dark night of the soul, only to come back changed somehow. It was a reminder that light and darkness must exist together. Maybe there was something wrong with me—but one should not judge so easily or condemn me for such a fate. This was not a declaration to be a rebel, for a rebel I am not. I enjoy following the rules and going with the flow. But when the flow requires great bending on one’s part, one must say enough is enough. One must say, I’ll do what I like and damn the rules.

Even though I say this with the utmost certainty, it is not wise. For once you are outside the box and they start to ask you what’s wrong with you, know you will have to work hard not to lose your mind. You will have to work hard not to become depressed when the realization sets in that being in the box means safety and acceptance. You will have to endure the loneliness that comes with being different, for it will happen. You will be told you are too much, or different, and those differences will ostracize you. You will be told that you cannot sit with them at lunch or party on the weekends because you are not understood.

Do not fear that loneliness, for once you accept it, it will become your biggest weapon and guide you to yourself.

“What’s wrong with you” should inspire and delight you now. It should make you say, in a haughty tone back to its owner, nothing—I’m just perfect.

They will make a face, and you are allowed to leave then. Thank God for this, and pray you never fit in the box ever again.