My Questionable Reality

Sometimes I think that my reality is different from the rest of the world.  Like I’m mentally disabled but everyone in my life pretends that I’m not. I’m not paranoid. I just think my friends and family compensate for my deficiencies. 

For example, my work husband; he answers all my stupid questions with far more accuracy than I can.  “George, what is the name of that vendor who always sends invoices without Purchase Orders.” There are so many vendors in the world, I can’t begin to know how he just figures out which one I’m talking about, but he does. Or at least I think he does. Maybe he just makes up answers and I don’t know any better, so I just believe he’s right. I’d believe him if I asked, “George, how much does a box of cereal cost?” And he’d answer, “$4.53”.  He couldn’t possibly know the answer, because not only does he not know which brand of cereal I’m asking about, I don’t even know. But if I were to buy any random box of cereal, it’d probably cost $4.53. Now, is he just a freak of nature because he doesn’t even need more input than I’ve given him, can others read my barely conscious thoughts, or is he special? 

My husband cooks for me, which is good since I hate to, and he does laundry, which I don’t necessarily mind doing, I just don’t think about it before I need clean clothes.  If either of those daily duties performed by any average adult were left up to me, I’d eat cereal, which I’m sure would cost $4.53, for every meal, and I’d do it in the cleanest shirt I could find on the floor; the one I wore yesterday that has dried crusty milk dribbled down the front of it. 

And my poor kids, I could’ve never have been a single mother. Without my husband, as you can probably imagine, they’d have only worn dirty clothes and, due to nutritional deficiency would be even shorter and skinnier than they are. But they’ve survived me. I feel like I can take some credit for that anyway. I did choose a good father for them and I did feed them breakfast, when they reminded me. 

So far, you might assume it is only my work husband and the one that is legally bound to me, who have enabled my personal successes, i.e. maintaining a source of income and staying clothed in clean shirts. But it started before that. My family explained that my unpleasant, crabby, moody behavior was just normal teenage hormones. I’d be fine. I guess they thought this explanation would hold me till far into my thirties when they’d no longer be responsible for the necessary long term care I require. But after I was released into the wild, an unfortunate event occurred that sparked my initial suspicion of the cover-up that, I believe, defines my life. It was accidentally disclosed to me when my boyfriend (who at the time was in the process of becoming my ex) informed me (in a very loud, angry voice) that I most definitely needed “professional help” to deal with particularly faulty personality traits. He, of course, was right. When I finally found did find “professional help”, (which by the way, good luck if you ever need one. I think they are on the endangered species list) it was revealed that I suffer from anxiety and depression. I suspect he may add delusional paranoia to that list if he reads this.

So if you do actually know me, feel free to explain to me all the ways I’ve been shielded. Like, is it really true that nobody remembers the names and ages of their friend’s children? Am I really as hilarious as my sister says I am? Does everyone have to check the calendar to know that trash gets picked up on Monday and recycling on Friday. Am I correct in assuming that no one knows the difference between Facebook, twitter and Instagram; unless, of course they have children. Do most people remember the names of the books they are currently reading? Is it possible to spell “receive” and “their” without Spell Check? Would everyone know that if someone was born in 1942 they’d be … does anyone know how old my mom is?