Great! I like to be authentic, although that also forces me to be strange.
My imagination has a life of its own, it forces me into a life of monologues. What does this mean? I will confess it without taboos: I speak alone, imagining being some character in my stories, believing I am in the world that only exists in my mind. It's weird isn't it? For me it is not, and maybe it is because I am a shy, quiet and too reserved boy. That peculiarity has led me to close myself off from other people, although I am not a heartless antisocial either. I live a balance, both inside and outside my mind, which has caused serious problems for everyone who discovers that unknown part of me.
Are you here to know that I'm strange? So welcome to my world; the little corner that looks like that unfortunate Disney park where children cry too much for a popsicle. I and the rest of my personalities live here, those that I revive in search of an alternative dimension where I can be a madman without borders.
And no, not all crazy people are really crazy; sometimes we are more sane than ever ;-)
When I was a child I used to watch a lot of soap operas; I liked them a lot, and after they finished broadcasting I would go to my room to create my own. I pretended that I was one of those gorgeous men, and that the girls, represented by my pillows, were crowding in to kiss me. That's where it all started; There I began to live my own reality. One day I was a television heartthrob and the next I was a magician who murdered his friends... I really loved giving a surreal sense to everything I saw. You could say that this is normal in children… But what about in an adolescent? And in an adult? HA
Even after 24 years, I'm still that 7-year-old who loved to think of his pillow as a mighty villain. I just start to rekindle my stories when I'm alone: the settings come to life in front of my eyes and I bring my imagination to life. I am what comes to my mind, from a frustrated intergalactic soldier to the woman who loves him but refuses to be with him. And no, ladies and gentlemen, I'm not schizophrenic lol. I'm just a guy who loves imagination <3.
Once my mom discovered that strange part of me while she pretended that dad's car was being chased by the clans of a powerful mafia. She was 14 years old, and of course, she probably thought i was another crazy piece of shit. She didn't interrupt me, however, I suspected my mother knew this by hinting at the importance of psychologists for developing adolescents. She certainly took me to see Mr. Marcos three days later. Nothing was going well when we visited Mr. Marcos, nicknamed "he crazy healert" I gave it that name.
He hated the old man, and partly also my mom… did he really think I was crazy? Maybe it was my mother's instinct; that feeling that led her to take care of the health of her son. Anyway. I talked to old Marcos that morning. I told him everything I did, from simulating non-existent worlds to personifying the characters in my stories. The old man then began to ask:
“Do you like to talk to people?” “Someone hurt you?” "Do you sleep well?" "You drink a lot of coffee?" "You like women?" Do you like women and men or only women? and so he questioned me until his questionnaire sheet was empty. Then, credited with a clumsy smile, he said to me in a tone of voice in which I perceived all his sincerity:
"If you're happy like this, keep being like this"
My mother began to be calm, obviously, because of the healthy diagnosis that Marcos gave to my neurons. Of course, to avoid more worries in my family, I decided to take more care of my theatrical imaginations. Over time I came to understand that fantasy is much better than reality, because yes, reality is sometimes a real disaster.
Even so, I believe that Marcos saved me from the ordeal of pills and antidepressant therapies. Perhaps he realized that he was just a lonely young man, oblivious to the world, who suffered from school bullying that harassed him because of the thinness of his body. Little by little, these extra realistic realities have helped me to love myself, to accept each piece of my bones and of course: not to be sad.
I'm just another weird guy, but a weird guy who's very happy. What I can do? I like what I do, even if it seems crazy to many. Well-being is in us, not in what others say. Long live weird! Because the weird is fun, unusual, surprising... And it makes us happy, very very happy.