The excruciating life of the Different

They say that giving birth is one of the worst pains a human being can experience. I will never know, factually, for I’m physiologically incapable of performing such feat. Luckily. Though, existentially, I have. Every time I left a country to jump onto the next adventure, every time I walked out of a loving relationship, every time I entered an operating room, every time I quit studies or the security of a job; each of those times I gave birth to the unknown and a new chapter of my own existence, at a huge psychological, physical, emotional and/or monetary cost. And I did it, over and over again, regardless.
I have always wanted to be normal, but normality suffocates me. I run. Far, fast. I run away from it. Until I find the next resting spot and take a break. And then back to running. Looking back, intermittently, at what I have lost in this newest sprint. Looking forward to the next pitch stop. And so forth.
If there’s a God out there, He/She/Them must have a very twisted sense of humor. If Denmark was my place, why being born all the way down in Chile? If being a “latinlover” was my fate, why wasting all my twenties only with one woman? If being rich was my destiny, why being born and raised poor? And if writing is my innate craft, why am I so mediocre at it?
Against my better judgement, I cannot shake the feeling of absolute mediocrity from my core. Despite of my objectively undeniable achievements. There’s an invisible distance between me and them, the same distance I feel from the rest of the world. Have never felt I belong; not with a lover, not within a group, nor among colleagues, friends or fellow Chileans. I’m not man enough in my own country, and I’m not woke enough to call myself a feminist or being accepted by the crowd I feel closer to. I’m always in between, transitioning, but my destination never stops moving further. And hitting a moving target is nearly impossible; just as impossible as it seems to attain an existential equilibrium in the process.
I wish I could quiet my mind. That resting my head on a lover’s chest would also rest my soul. But the brain is never at ease and the questions keep popping up. “Am I good, or barely good enough? Am I worthy of love? Am I living my truth or hiding behind lies? What is real? Am I real, or just a glorified facade I have got to believe myself to be; the ‘me’ that the world would accept?”
Life is a wild chase to collect the atoms of a universe that, neatly put together, could ever bring peace to oneself.
Sometimes, pain feels like a reward; the most effective fuel for words. And, sometimes, I would give away each and every single word I have and could have ever written in exchange for an uneventful life of quiet acceptance and sincere, unapologetic content. No longer the life of the Different, but the beautiful life as an Equal.
(TL;DR being different fucking sucks.)

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