Freakshow

Many persons cannot comprehend living their life hiding from social events or gatherings. I hide from shopping, bank lines, bill lines, church services and any sort of social or professional meetings. Why?

The stares, the snickering, the hurtful comments, the name calling, are all everyday insulting and embarrassing situations that I have to deal with on a daily basis . Once you are anywhere in the community socializing you are ostracized and must contend with these things. They stare at me as though I am some oddity.
“I’m human; I only shake because I have a disease and it is not the plague.”
This is what I yearn to shout out to stop the madness. Unfortunately, shouting this from a mountaintop will not stop the ridicule.
All my life I can remember myself shaking uncontrollably. At the age of about six I was asked to get some water for one of the older boys. As I approached the group with the water the cup was violently shaking. They all noticed it and had a good, long laugh.
“By the time he gives him the cup all of the water would have shaken out of it,” one comedian said.
I was so embarrassed.
There was another occasion while I was at the College of The Bahamas. I was borrowing a book and had placed my hand on the desk. The young librarian suddenly said,
“Hey, your finger is moving.”
Sure enough my finger was twitching uncontrollably. I was very embarrassed because I was among friends. I endured, but lost my friends because they thought I was a crackhead. This was coupled with the fact that my eyes were red due to childhood injuries and meant that I was fighting a losing battle; I was a coke addict and the evidence was there to prove it.

One of my worst experiences was while I had to stand on a bank line on a Friday a few years ago. Here is the story 'blow by blow'.
I stand on the bank line and I do my thing, I shake. The stares and nasty comments make me shake more. I want to just walk out of the bank and go home, or just let a sinkhole swallow me up, but it is a Friday and my family is depending on this money to eat. I have to endure it all, the taunts, embarrassment and shame. Some people can definitely be cruel and so insensitive. Don’t they know that I have a disease, why can’t they feel some compassion for me. This torture is too much for me to handle but it is something I have to battle and overcome. Unfortunately, as expected, no one in the group will stand up for me. They soak up the ridicule gleefully and greedily. Now it makes me angry; I have hatred in my heart for them all. I tell myself,
“ If I had a gun I would .…”
“Wait, what? Stop your nonsense boy,” a sane voice inside me counters.
I am an educated, mature, family man so why should such crazy thoughts like this enter my mind. These jokers will not drive me crazy. They do not care about me; I am an oddity and they only see me as an object of their ridicule. But the gun thought gives me some comfort. I nervously fidget and try to think of something that can calm me down. If only I can think of a song that I can hum silently to take my mind off these idiots. My God, some of these jokers are in coat suits, yet they snicker and use my unfortunate plight as a juicy topic to entertain their neighbors. A wise aunt always said that being educated does not mean you have common sense; this was so true.
Their insensitive remarks, stares and looks murder me. This situation was one of my own making and so I know I just have to take what they dish out. I look at the roof, I look at the floor and nervously hope that the line moves fast. I count the persons ahead of me again, ten. This is surely the slowest bank in the world.
“Next.”
The voice of a teller jolts me back to reality. The line moves an inch. I count the persons ahead of me again, nine. The improvised guard rail now becomes my savior as I grip it firmly hoping to quell my tremors. It does little to stop my nervous twitching so I try to think about some of my pleasant diving experiences, but alas, I can only see a huge shark coming at me. This propels me back to real life and the fact that there are still nine persons on the line in front of me. It appears that for the next half hour I must endure the scrutiny of these freaks who stare at me as if they are waiting to see if I will implode. Under my breath I curse them and a song of hate rises up in my head.
“Yeah I hate them all and I wish they were dead.”
There, I said it and they caused me to say it. I am tired of them not understanding me. I am tired of them laughing at me. I am tired of them calling me names. Revenge will be mines, they will all pay.
“Next.”
Again a teller's loud voice jolts me back to reality and to sanity. The line crawls another inch. There are now eight persons ahead of me but this gives me little comfort. I count them again hoping for a miracle then suck my teeth when no one leaves. It was as if the whole world had their eyes glued on me. I could feel the weight pressing me down so I nervously shift about and try to think happy thoughts. Unfortunately, I can only remember the time that I went in the store and even the 'packing boys' were laughing at me. Another inch and I nervously count the persons ahead of me again. I can hear all the negative comments.
“This man must be a sissy to be nervous like that”, some creep says.
Boy I wish I had a gun to put up his nose and shoot his left brain out for such stupidity.
I hate the bank.
I hate these people.
I hate the world.
I wish they were all dead.
“Next.”
“Next person in line please.”
I was so caught up in my drama and so tuned out that I did not notice that it was my turn.
“Yes!”
I happily walk off the line away from the putrid mass of inhumanity. Their eyes follow me as if I am some freak of nature. But maybe I am. If I were to put myself in their position then I would understand that I am not normal, I do not belong here, I am the odd person out.
After completing my transactions I eagerly walk out of the bank towards my car and to the freedom of no one watching me. My wife makes some comment and I snap at her ready to tear her head off.
“What’s wrong with you?” was her rhetorical question.
Then I lash out at her with a barrage of curse words and innuendos. Wisely she ignores me and harnesses impending disaster. My eight year old daughter is in the car quietly brooding. I can explain my actions but my pride impedes me; I am a man. I take out all of my frustration on my poor unsuspecting wife and expose my sweet, loving daughter to the gutter of my inhumanity; I must vent. When will it stop? When will I be normal? I must somehow put an end to this nonsense; I will never be normal.