I’ve been called many things in my life. I’ve been diagnosed with various disorders during my time in therapy, ranging from Antisocial to Bipolar to Psychopathic. So what? The truth is, all of these things are just futile attempts to label and pathologize my flavor of crazy.
Neurotypicals, neurotics, and everyone in between wish to assign words to my personality in order to wrap themselves in the warm cloak of association, falsely believing my brand of malevolent benevolence can be extended to others.
By attempting to place boundaries around me, people don’t realize that they are merely expanding the zone in which I thrive: the absurd, the illogical, and the ultraviolent. I don’t need others to label me, and I certainly don’t need to label myself. I own my strangeness and welcome its expansion into areas uncategorized.
Those who attempt to force my chameleon facets on themselves are interesting. They romanticize my condition—as if it’s even possible to call the sum of my parts anything adequate in honoring my grandeur—and they want to become the strangeness that I exude. They are those who wish to transnormalize themselves into something which they cannot be. It’s pathetic, misguided, and slightly entertaining to watch from afar, in its own sadistic kind of way.
Labels are the things they live for, not as a means of categorizing what to avoid, but rather what to become. They are the proverbial sheep who have sheared their own wool and ground their teeth to points, hoping to become something they simply are not, and indeed can never be. I’m fine letting them bring booze to the party, but they simply cannot be there in the morning. They do not belong.
So what of us who are left? Those not seeking to avoid or become a label, but those who merely are? They, we, are the chosen slice of this multiverse.
We do not move to preconceived notions of order and melody. We are cacophonous as we stumble from victim to victim, spinning thread into gold and turning water into wine as we enhance the world with the celestial absurdity that we ebb and flow to.
However, some of us are misguided and want labels to explain their behavior. They think this will help them control it. Well, I hope they learn what I learned, which is the simple fact that labels are an electric fence. We can go to their boundaries, but no further should we embrace them. Own your strangeness and break through it, far beyond the reach of the electric eye governing the collar wrapped around your neck.
Own thyself. Own thy actions. Sing songs of wanton mayhem and transdimensional chaos. Do not romanticize the cattle who live inside fences. Do not seek words to explain what you do; simply do. Do unto others in a way that will imprint your mark on them so permanently that it echoes of your essence. Visit them in the middle of the night. Normality is boring and hides under the covers when greeted with the faint sounds of iconoclastic wonder. Those that box themselves in smile at the flickers and shadows cast on the walls of their cage by the unbound, but they will never create anything worth viewing themselves.
You become more than this mundanity by killing what you romanticize and transcending beyond language, boundaries, and all understanding. Be. I no longer refer to myself by any labels. I simply am, and those around me are forever voidtouched by the everything and nothing I produce. I own my strangeness. Do you?
Jessica Kelly is an all-around iconoclast and psychopathic author of the blog Psychogendered. You can check out her writing here.