A reason to hide yourself

I was at work today, and there was an encounter with a co worker. This person was teasing me like she does a lot of people, and I seemed to take it more personally than she expected. I explained it didn’t matter, as none of it meant anything to me. I went on to explain that I watch, and observe, not participate. Now, I know, you might all disagree with me. “you have this blog” you might argue. I rarely write here. “You have a podcast” other will debate. I consider it talking to myself, not others, and am often surprised when I realize there are still people listening. In fact, I did the recent National Podcast Post Month, and I am pretty sure I am the only participant who saw a drop in their audience. Mine was halved in the span of a month.

There are times I am happy when I realize that there is no one in this world who knows me. Who knows about all the types of writing I do? No one. Who know how passionate I can be? The number are fewer than the fingers on this hand. In fact, the best way for me to shock any person who has met me, is to be myself. It seems most people don’t know me, who I am, what I am capable of. When I was… 16 or 17, I was at a church thing down in North Dakota. It was my 3rd or 4th year, and so I was pretty well known. I was the short fat kid, who dressed like a slob, and was ignored, shunned, and only included at the sufferance of the cool kids or by force.

So this year, I decided to flip them the biggest bird I could. I brought my nicest, sharpest clothes, and kept them hidden away. No one knew I had them. The last night, the big Sunday service finale, after all the people dressed in their nicest had gone up to where the service was held, I went, and got dressed in my nicest. Dress pants, silk shirt and tie, suit coat, the works. I walked in, ignored all those trying to compliment me who had ridiculed me all those years, and sat in church. I was myself in that outfit. I felt like I was worth something. What they thought or said no longer mattered.

The world is a judgmental place. I found that out when I was released from a former employer for using downtime at work to express my creativity, not by shouting it from the rooftops, but putting my thoughts to pixels and keeping it to myself. Would my coworkers understand my creative stories? Or would they just think me twisted and sick? I suspect the reaction would be the same as if I have my camera. Fat old guy with a camera taking pictures of people? Must be a perverted old guy, maybe even a sexual predator! Must flee the person with a camera, even if he is just trying to take pictures of beautiful places, people, and things. This is my life. Flee, for he may not be normal.