In the beginning… I saw glimpses of what you might call normal in the living rooms and kitchen tables of schoolyard friends. Those friendships never lasted for me, and in time, they ceased to exist even in my memory…

My behavior? I guess it was odd. Angry and loud. Sullen and sad or boisterous and much too much. The invitations dried up and faded fast. “He is strange.” I often heard.

I was tolerated as a boy. Feared in larger shoes. I moved a lot. Shifting. Fading. Reappear like smoke in mist…

Spent some time in the shadows there, with  others going nowhere. Found out I didn’t fit there either.

“You are strange.” I was told.

“What is this strange you speak of? I have nothing to compare with, really. I do not know this comparative myth of normalcy.”

In time, I grew quiet and introspective and listened to wise counsel who told me the source of my strange. I was childish, emotionally sensitive, and idealistic… and oh, so angry.

I looked into this-faced my fears, and asked for spiritual help.

Things are so much better, and I am far from normal. Being a bastard has shaped me. I couldn’t be with normal friends. Normal girls wouldn’t date me. They all let me know by rejection that I wasn’t worthy. This is what not having a father creates…