Runaway's Liberation

Chapter 13

I want to be normal.

Once, I wrote this in my essay back in 9th grade. Our teacher told us to write what we wanted to be four or five years from then. So, I wrote it.

My classmates laughed at me.

Honestly, I wanted to laugh too. I mean, I wasn’t abnormal! I didn’t have any physical disability. My arms and legs were intact, my eyesight was fine, and surely, I didn’t have Down syndrome. But still, everyone in class laughed. Even our teacher was grinning.

But that was all I wanted to be.

I wanted to be normal. And I still do. Nothing’s really changed. I still think there’s something wrong with me. That being like this will always be a part of me—of who I am.

But what does being normal really mean?

Is it being just like everyone else? Or is it something you build by forcing yourself into shapes that don’t quite fit you?

Am I only normal when I’m okay? How can I be normal without being okay?

What does it even mean to be okay?

Can I only be normal when I’m doing fine? What does being fine even mean?

Do I really have to match everyone else just to be considered normal? Is there even a real standard for it, or is it just something people agree on so no one questions it?

Sometimes I wonder if I was just the one who didn’t fit anywhere.

And if that’s the case, then where do I even place myself?

If I am not what I think normal is, then what am I?

The thing is, I don’t know who I’m supposed to turn to.

Am I supposed to become like my father? Who had a family and a house by the suburbs just so he could fully take control of us? Or should I turn like the Good Samaritan? Or anyone who puts himself first so at least I could save me, for once, in my life?

I just wanna be someone who doesn’t care too much. Someone who doesn’t think too much. Sleep a lot. Hide a lot. Ponder a lot.

I want to be like other people. At my worst, I even want to be other people. Preferably, people I don’t know. I wanna be that minimum-wage office worker in a button-down shirt and black slacks I saw outside my Pa’s firm. I wanna be that store owner who didn’t care about the homeless people outside his shop. Or that corrupt politician who buys his daughter branded clothes using the people’s taxes without thinking twice. Or that random guy who kneels in front of his girlfriend to tie her shoelace.

I want to live normally. And people who live normally are often those who don’t care about what’s happening around them. Those who live only for themselves. Those who have goals, who know what they want, and actually get what they want—even if it means hurting others. Those people who wake up in the morning without hating the sunrise.

Or maybe I just want to be a bad person. I wanna be someone who doesn’t care. I wanna be ignorant. I wanna be stupid. I wanna be insufferable.

But things like that don’t just happen. They’re learned. Or unlearned. Or unlearned the wrong way.

Maybe that’s why I started thinking this way in the first place.

I just want to know what’s wrong with me. So I could fix me. I want to be one of the normal people.

Why can’t I be normal?

Why do I have to be someone who yearns for something I should already be in the first place?