They tell me that I have always been creative. My family recognized the symptoms from the start. I often heard them wail, “She’s creative!” when they didn’t understand why on earth I made the choices I did. They would cry out, hands on-head in despair, “What will become of her?”
At school, I’d entertain the other kids with song and dance routines during class. “She’s creative,” the teachers would whisper to one another conspiratorially.
After spending a large part of my adult life with the same therapist, I finally asked him what exactly was wrong with me? He shrugged, “You’re creative.”
It didn’t sound like a nice thing to be. I wanted to be something else, someone else. For many years my creativity just scared me. Being creative made me see the world in different colors than other people see it. And when others recognized that difference in me, I felt wrong, ashamed.
It took me a long time, but now I paint the world in my own strange colors. And I feel right in feeling wrong.
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