Taking the Hard Road

"To a nonconformist, the only thing worse than a conformist is another nonconformist who doesn't conform to the prevailing standards of nonconformity."
--author unknown

I can't remember where I picked up that little tidbit--it was at least fifteen years ago--but it resonated with me then and still does.
I am a nonconformist, not easily pinned down. Strangers don't know what to make of me. My in-laws, who have known me for eight years now, fare no better. Sometimes I wonder if anyone understands me. Sometimes I don't understand myself.
One of my defining characteristics is a rabid unorthodoxy: I do almost everything--from trivial daily duties up to shaping my life--at least slightly differently. I'm convinced everyone who knows me has felt the exasperation at some point, and many of you have let it boil over into words: "WHY DO YOU HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING THE HARD WAY?!?"
To which I have no easy answer. Oh, there are crutches aplenty: I'm as flexible as your average two-by-four, which means I'll kneel or lay down where others will simply bend over or squat. I'm not exactly the most, um, focussed individual, which means that given a task, I'll eventually find some way to do it, often missing at least three obvious ways. And my life is ruled by twin fears of rejection and the unknown--both of which explain, at least in part, why I am not a professional writer or musician.
My parents tried to deal with the physical inflexibility by enrolling me in karate classes. They spent what must have been a great deal of money on a "black belt membership", a one-time fee that entitled me to attend class and use the facilities until I had a black belt. Looking back, I can certainly appreciate the intention and expense, but even then I could have told them it was a waste of money. I never got my black belt. I never got any belt. The classes were torture several ways for me. First, of course, there was the physical torture of stretching. My Sensei could do the full splits, placing his head flat on the ground in front of him and then behind him. I could do that too, with help and specialized tools. Like a chainsaw. Hell, I haven't been able to touch my toes since kindergarten. Endless attempts to touch my toes every Saturday morning never got me any closer.
Second, there was the humiliation of having all my flaws bared in public. Nobody likes that, I'm sure, but even more than most, I exerted maximum effort to avoid it. It was bad enough that I was ostracized and bullied for the things I could do, academic and musical prowess not being high on the list of things schoolyard thugs aspired to. I certainly didn't need to hand out ammunition.
And then there was the massive hits to my self-esteem. It was frustrating for my Sensei; it was doubly, trebly frustrating for me. Karate is supposed to build self-confidence. It pretty much destroyed mine. Because I never seemed to get better. You could work with me one-on-one for half an hour and see little or no improvement. It got to the point where people thought I was deliberately not trying. But I was. I was. In other spheres, I didn't need to try to succeed. Here, trying as hard as I could, I still failed. I found that almost debilitating.
I don't know where my absent-mindedness came from. Neither does anyone else. Outer space, maybe. It certainly seems to be where I spend a lot of my time. If pressed for an explanation, I might suggest my poor eyesight bears some responsibility: my brain simply got used to ignoring the gibberish bombarding it from my optic nerve. But that doesn't explain why I can read a book once and never forget it.
I'm fully capable of applying fearful amounts of discipline to any undertaking, however dubious, that I really want to excel at. But my mind throws up objections like so much chaff when it comes to the big stuff, stuff like making my way in the world as a writer or musician. I'm afraid I'll be rejected. I'm afraid I'll be exposed as an amateur. That somewhere, somehow, everybody will be snickering at me behind my back. I can read that FEAR is False Evidence Appearing Real all I want, but it never seems to sink in.
This blog has been a lifeline of sorts for me. Heinlein wrote that "writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of--but do it in private and wash your hands afterwards." I've never been ashamed of writing. But blogging has taught me not to be ashamed of what I'm writing, and given me the confidence to believe I can write. A few more years of this and I might think I can make money from writing. As usual, I'm taking the hard road. But I'll get there.