batshit, chapter one.

If there is one thing I have learned in my life, it’s that I shouldn’t talk so much about myself. People don’t want to hear it.  I’m a terrible storyteller. I stumble over words. I get distracted. I talk in circles. People don’t hear me.

Even when I keep my self-centered speeches in check, people don’t hear me. Sometimes I wonder if I’m really speaking at all. I check sometimes.

I’ll ask, “Hello? Am I talking right now?” And not in a sarcastic way.

Usually a few seconds pass and then someone will look at me and nod or give me some other small gesture to show that they can hear me. People hear me, but they don’t listen.

The ones who answer when I ask are usually actually listening. I talk to them too much. Around them I don’t shut up. I’m sure they hate it.

I don’t talk about myself to just anyone though. No, only a select few get to hear me stutter and ramble and backtrack and repeat myself. Those people are the ones that I think are like me. The crazy ones. 

We’re all crazy. Some people are more crazy than others. Some people are hardly crazy at all. Some people are crazy in a bizarre way. Others are crazy in the normal sense.

I don’t envy those people.

Their brains must be so quiet. They have to be lonely with so much constant silence. Except they don’t even realize they’re lonely. That is terribly sad. I feel sorry for them.

People like me are never lonely like that. Our brains are always loud and keep us company. This can be good and bad. Having bad thoughts keep you company late at night might be worse than being alone.

We are frequently lonely in the more conventional sense, of course. Some might even say we are more lonely because none of us really crazy people think exactly alike so no one will ever be able to relate to another person perfectly. 

When you find someone who thinks similarly, it’s wonderful. It’s like finding a near-match for your favorite earring whose partner disappeared long ago. It’s not exact, but you can wear it again. It’s even bigger than that though.

When your near-match leaves, however, it is as distressing as it was wonderful. The world stops spinning. You think you’ll never be happy again. What are the odds of another near-match coming into your life?

However, sometimes a new one comes along. It may not be as good as the first and that’s always disappointing, but it is better than nothing. Or, it might be an even closer match. When this happens, it is thrilling. The feelings you felt for the old match seem silly. Trivial.

Sometimes people get stuck on lost matches though. That’s what I do. I get so stuck thinking about what I lost that it’s tough to find a new, possibly better near-match for my brain. It’s like my feet are trapped in cement. No matter how hard I’m pulled, I don’t budge. And my ankles end up hurting. That hurt just reminds me of the hurt I felt when my near-match left.

Sometimes the near-match you lost was never really acquired in the first place, but a glimpse was caught. That is sometimes worse than actually getting it. Because when you never had it, you can’t tell for sure that it wasn’t as close to perfect as you would ever get.

That has happened to me. The cement was poured shortly after. And then a lesser-match came along and I didn’t want it. I thought it might be better than nothing, but settling for such a poor match seemed sadder than not having any match at all.

This is what I talk about too much. My matches. Or rather, my near-matches. Or possible near-matches. And the not-so-near-matches. I talk about them too.

I often wish I didn’t want to talk about myself or matches so much, but then that would mean that I wasn’t thinking about them. And if i wasn’t thinking about them what would I be thinking about? I don’t want to think about nothing. It would be easier, of course, but too boring. It would change who I was. Although, I guess the new me might be the kind of person who didn't mind that kind of stuff. 

I’d need a whole new set of matches, though.

I suppose I need a new set often anyway. My brain won’t sit still. It’s like a constantly changing Jell-o mold that won’t set. I know each mold would probably end up looking nice, and I would be happy with most of them, but they keep switching anyway.

I don’t like Jell-o.

I like to think that the other not-normal crazies think at least a little bit like this. When, I’m wrong about someone I thought was weird-crazy and talk to them about crazy things, it’s very embarrassing. Then they know I’m not quite right in the head and I know they must be lonely and not even know it. 

I am rarely wrong about that though. I can’t even remember the last time I was. I remember the feeling though. I don’t usually remember things. I forget most of them. I remember feelings though.

Because I don’t remember things, I am bad at telling stories. Maybe I tell my bad stories so that I will remember. Sometimes during my backtracking and circle-talking I remember new things.

I like to remember things. My brain seems to automatically delete things after a short period of time. Whether I want it to or not. It’s quite unfortunate, actually.

Most of my childhood is gone. There are a few vague memories it couldn’t get rid of completely. I treasure those.

Most of last year is gone, too. And last month. And even last week is on its way out.

I often wonder why my brain does this.

Is it some sort of defense mechanism like they teach in psychology? Do traumatic things keep happening to me? I don’t really think they do, but I often wonder. 

I like to think of my brain as a giant computer whose hard drive gets full and to compensate everything viewed as non-essential is deleted. However, sometimes, if I dig enough in the trash, I can retrieve a deleted file.