The title of this piece implies that being different is completely okay. This is a concept that I am still learning well into my 30’s. You would think someone who has experienced as much life as I have would have known this to be true long ago. However, as you read, you probably will learn much more about me than you would expect and why it has taken me so long to be “okay” with being different.
I have always said that what happens to us makes us who we are. I have become a walking, talking example of this statement. Read on:

Not many will know this about me but they could probably guess, as I do not generally allow people to get to know me, I was not a very popular kid in school. Having moved a total of 17 times in 12 years made it virtually impossible for me to make friends, let alone keep them. I am envious when I hear someone talk about life-long friends or the fact that they lived in the same home throughout their childhood. I was always the new, fat kid. I was never invited to sit at the popular kids’ table. I was never, ever the popular kid. I was barely even spoken to, at school or at home.

I had a father that belittled and berated me constantly, who told me that no one loved me and no one ever would. He told me on an almost daily basis how fat and ugly I am. This man was supposed to be my protector, my rock, someone I should have been able to look up to and ask for advice from. Due to an extremely unstable childhood, my life was nothing like the life I had dreamed of having when I was still young enough to believe that a happy life was possible. Unfortunately, my dreams of that kind of life were ripped out of me pretty early.
I developed severe social anxiety. I had an extreme fear of being judged, of people staring at me, of even simply speaking with people. And forget about me speaking in front of a group of people? Even the thought of it induces panic: profuse sweating, chills, shaking. This generally leads to tears stinging my eyes, and in many instances results in me physically running away.

My childhood was an absolute mess, and it was the kick starter for an anxiety-ridden and stress-filled decade known as my 20’s. During my 20’s, I was not always happy: I did not know love, I did not have a family unit, money was always tight, life was a constant daily struggle. There are a handful of memories that I can genuinely smile about during that season of my life, but I categorized myself as unhappy during that time. I was usually angry on top of all of that unhappiness. Angry at other people or at complete strangers because their life was ‘perfect’. I have learned in maturing that it is only the view that a stranger allows us to see that seems perfect. Everyone has their own struggles, and nobody’s life is altogether perfect.

I have these anxieties to this day. I cannot answer a question out loud in class for fear of being wrong and then being laughed at because I am wrong. Even if I know for certain that I am correct in my answer, I simply can’t bring myself to take the chance. I have been laughed at all of my life, I am used to it and I expect it from everyone that I come into contact with.  For example, when someone who considers themselves my friend laughs at something I say or do, in my mind, it is a laugh of maliciousness. They are not laughing with me; they are laughing at me. I consider this an involuntary reaction by a mind that has endured so much abuse. This is what I expect each and every time.

So, aside from my anger at pretty much the entire world, and the fact that I was not always happy, I did consider myself mostly healthy… until my 30^th year rolled around. A mere 3 months after my birthday in 2010, I got sick. I do not mean the cough, sneeze, sore throat kind of sick. I am talking about the life-altering, existence-changing kind of sick. The kind of sick that no one ever wants or thinks that they will ever have to deal with. Fast-forward 2 years and I am facing the hardest decision I have been confronted with up to that point in my life. The doctors were saying “It’s your limb or your life.” I had to choose between having my right leg cut off below the knee or dying. Most people would say that this decision should be an extremely easy one, right?

Wrong. I asked for a few days to think about it. I simply could not imagine my life without a leg. Coupled with the anxiety I had lived with for my entire life, I was now faced with looking even more like the monster my father had convinced me long ago that I was. It was not an easy decision for me at all. Did I want to live a life where everyone would point and stare at me? Did I want to be in a world where people would forever be asking me questions and talking to me about what had happened. Both of these scenarios are two of my biggest anxieties.

I made the right choice; I’m still here.

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