Having Trouble

Having trouble these last few days.
I dug up some old art workbooks and ran through them, eager and interested and tickled with the past.

They are representative quite literally of the most innate reactions, subconscious doodles, and heart churning words and thoughts --- that this feat was not just a glance at an old photo album.

As I was flipping through the pages, I realized how obvious it was throughout my childhood that I had violent synesthesia. It was written all over the pages. In all it's glory, it's beauty, it's aesthetic perfectioin --- it breaks my heart into fifty million pieces and draws up the nastiest brown/yellow/purple/gray hue which to me is just the same as a small child hiding under a staircase being ignored while his parents scream at eachother in the kitchen.

I was the weirdo. The thinker who's thinking didn't make sense. I was the one scoffed at, alone in the corner of the art room throwing colors and media together, completely entertained by the colors in her head that nobody else could see. That's fine with me. All of that? That's fine with me. What's not fine is that in four years, fourteen doctors and dozens of tests and brain scans, nobody thought I might be synesthesic? I suddenly feel like less of a person. All this time, I had been so eager to share my imagination with someone, and the idea that it is physically and mentally impossible is the loneliest thing.

I remember so distinctly faces cringing at my ideas and thoughts and descriptions which don't make sense to the normal brain. I feel three feet tall. I wish you could see what I see.

White light. White white light.