For as long as I can remember my conscious mind, I’ve had the feeling that I was special, and that I was born to do something amazing. That feeling has gotten me through some rough spots, but it has also left me with a sense of exceptionalism. I have gone through life thinking that the rules don’t entirely apply to me. The image in my mind is of two parallel universes or paths: one where people have problems and things don’t work out quite right and there are loose ends, and the other. Mine. I’ve always held myself a bit aloof, always been able to see very clearly — and articulate — why I’m different.
That sense of exceptionalism is fading, and it feels sad to me. The sadness is, at this moment, mainly tied in with the realization that my perfect, sweet, angelic children (humor me) will join the human race at any moment. They will watch Spider-Man, they will eat Now ‘N Laters, they will have problems, they will make foolish choices. (Please G-d, they will be foolish choices whose consequences will not be life-altering. Please G-d, they will learn their lessons easily.)
Somehow I had thought all this time that my being different, my being me would protect me from any true heartbreak.
Now I sit waiting for the heartbreak to come.
I feel so vulnerable.