At the risk of playing a very tiny violin, I’d like to state that living with a mental disorder is a relentless pain in the ass. The mind-over-matter battle that everyone grapples with is heightened for my pill-popping peers and I, but it’s important to judge one’s plight with a sense of relativity.
Whenever I’m toiling in a neurotic and depressive funk and I’m asked the question, “Hey Nick, how’s it going?” I have devised a foolproof reply to fall back on. The phrase is truthful and it also spares me the stigma of a wet blanket. I tell my “How’s it going?” inquisitor: “I’m just glad I wasn’t born with a Siamese twin."
In comparison to Siamese twins, we’ve all got it relatively easy. My heart goes out to all the physical oddities of the world. As a mental oddity, folks are oblivious abnormalities until they engage me in a conversation about a bizarre topic such as Siamese twins. Siamese twins are externally strange, and they can’t simply shell out $40 a bottle to make things very slightly better, the pitiful saps. On one level I empathize, but on another level, I indulge in a fair amount of comparative gratitude. The next time I find myself checking and rechecking my CD wallets to make sure that all bands are arranged in alphabetical order, I’ll take consolation in the fact that I am not conjoined to another human being. Conversely, I doubt a Siamese twin would think to himself, “Oh, sure, since birth I’ve been unable to walk through a doorway without shuffling sideways in accordance with that chatterbox Lefty, but at least I’m not fussy about alphabetizing my CD catalog. Phew! That’s a load off.” In the poker game of genetics, Siamese twins were dealt a seven-deuce off-suit.
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I'm only providing the beginning of this essay because I want you to buy a copy of my book, which costs money.
www.xlibris.com/NickOlig
