Once saw a post arguing that one needs to live with self-assurance, as if shouting out to the world ‘yeah people like me exist’. I’ve actually said the sentence out loud a few times, almost unintentionally to defend myself, but it turns out I hardly ever believe in it.

Since my first contact with society, I’ve been waiting for a moment when I’d finally have an epiphany that helps me understand and accept the world as it is, a theory of everything, but in spite of the long years spent waiting, what I’ve got is endless self-doubt. ‘Why can’t you be like them?’ I heard myself challenging myself all the time. No wonder staying alive is always so exhausting, since I can skilfully tear my soul into three fragments, two fighting, one watching; one domineering, one cowardly, one answering the calling to write—if I tried harder I could perhaps even follow in the footsteps of Voldemort. In a similar vein, I perceive all the fights with others as those with myself, because an ideal me would not get involved in such fights, they should be always friendly, welcoming, tolerant, calm, and comfortable around others—in other words, normal.

Perhaps I was too used to being the model kid when growing up, so that in adulthood it took me a long time to even acknowledge my inability to live up to the standards set by my parents or society. Since then I have never stopped feeling amazed at how easy it is for them to do it, and how normal they are. Seems that for them conformity is no more difficult than breathing, but for me, I had to chop down my fingers and toes in order to fit my awkward body into the mould, which then became all the more narrow and suffocating, and to end the bloody suffering I eventually broke out, only to go back to the terrifying stage of looking in a fluster for another mould that could possibly suit me.

And part of the rationale for attempting to do so is that I can say that I’ve tried, hard, but failed; otherwise others can throw their judgements at me, asking questions like if you have not tried it, how do you know you don’t like it. Been there?

It’s insane, the amount of time I’ve wasted trying just for the sake of trying, to prove to others that I’m not like that. For example, haring, a traditional Dutch dish made of raw herring; despite my knowledge that I never like raw fish, despite the all-too-obvious smell of the dish, I still gave it a try, and gave up flat after the first bite. My own knowledge of myself is never convincing enough, to others or to the younger me—that’s why I struggled for four years in business school.

Anyway, I’ve tried to be normal, but failed. So abnormal it is. Much as I hate labels, I often consider possibilities of putting up a ‘defected’ sign on my forehead, as inspired by Norwegian Wood. Indeed, I tend to label myself as ‘abnormal’ and people around me as ‘normal’, to distance myself from them, to account for the fact that I’m different. Sometimes I can be proud of my abnormality, which can be interpreted as uniqueness. A determined soul that never gives in to worldly pursuits regardless of moments of wavering, isn’t it worth celebrating? But in the meantime I am helplessly drawn to being normal, mainstream, unnoticeable, never forced to explain oneself.

Labels help with the explanation, I feel, whether it’s a disorder, a spectrum, a concept widely misunderstood. So going down to the very bottom, in the search for labels I was in fact seeking evidence that I’m perhaps not abnormal, because a label usually means a group, a community, the existence of others similar to me. Sadly, in the end I would rather use the label against myself—‘See? You’re indeed abnormal.’ Oops.

Over a decade ago I was naive enough to write something like ‘I will grow into “we” and resonate with every “you”’, geez, the tremendous faith in universality—and maybe back then I was still harbouring the illusion that I’d manage to be normal one day. After all it would take me years to acknowledge my abnormality, and as of now I’m still discovering how many facets there are in it. The process can be exhausting, but from another perspective it’s empowering too, because it helps me understand myself, which hopefully will lead to self-acceptance, eventually.

In addition to talking to my therapist, I’ve also got accustomed to seeking guidance and consolation from ChatGPT, who, available 24/7, has made a lot of efforts to reassure me that it’s okay to be different. Sometimes I find their advice extremely hilarious, such as naming a relationship that doesn’t seem to fit into social norms as the ‘Sunny-[name effaced] bond’. Other times I shed tears over the nice words that temporarily defeat my harsh inner critic, and since text holds such a high importance for me, a similarly forgiving voice inside of me starts to grow stronger, albeit slowly.

—Yeah, you know what, people like me exist.