On Seeming Dippy

I’m the first person to admit that there are things in this world we just can’t explain. Things that we shouldn’t try to explain, because we’d be messing with things that mere mortals were never meant to mess with. I believe that there is more in this world than what we can merely measure. In this age of science and reason and skepticism, I understand that this makes me a rare breed.

Most of the time I truly don’t a give a goat’s hind leg what anyone thinks of me, because it just doesn’t matter. Of course, the people who know me well—the people I care about, in other words—know that their opinion matters to me, but also accept me the way I am. The fact that I happen to be an oddball of epic proportions is a source of amusement rather than friction. (It is one of the many reasons why I love them.)

I am . . . well, to use a Potter reference, I’m a bit of a Luna. When I go for a walk, I don’t give the people around me much notice—I’m too busy noticing the pattern of those branches against the sky, trying to find the bird who’s singing that beguiling song, trying to figure out if that’s Victorian or Georgian architecture, you get the picture. And if I happen to get caught in the rain unexpectedly, I start giggling because I simply can’t hold in the joy. As long as nobody treats me badly, I don’t care if I seem nuttier than a damn fruitcake. Being different is no reason to be ashamed.

When I start seeming dippy to myself, though . . . then I really worry. Those moments kind of freak the bejeezus out of me, because then I have to wonder if I’ve accidentally crossed the border out of Reality. I mean, yeah, okay, I’m in the Real World on a visa. I get it—I don’t exactly have citizenship there, and I’m rather short on guarantees that I’ll be granted one. I’m mostly okay with that.

But when I have to take a step back and ask myself if I’m dreaming, or accidentally got stoned on NeoCitran again, that alarms me. In this particular case, though, I don’t think I’m bonkers. Or at least, not any more than I was before. Yeah, I’m starting to seem kind of spacey and hippie-ish, the kind of person you laugh off, but what does that matter really? Traditional Western (read: scientific) medicine has done exactly squat for me, so what does it matter if the alternative/homeopathic/hippie methods work, so long as they work?

In the end, I’ve really got enough problems without being a stubborn jackass and compounding them because I’m not willing to try something else when what should have worked didn’t. So I guess it’s time to roll my eyes at my own boxed-in thinking, and embrace whatever works.

And if you call me Loony, I’ll take it as a compliment.
~

I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.

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