This is not an actual story. The society I grew up in had prescriptions and definitions of what was normal and acceptable. But they couldn't shave my edges off enough to get me to fit the dress they wanted me to wear. They didn't don't know what to do with me. So they studied me, diagnosed me, labels pastel on my forehead and back, medicated me, strapped me down, isolated me, attendents in white coats stalked me and put my name in the system's computers. Decided they knew me now. Joke is on them. No one knew me. I let them dream on because it was the path of least resistance. The norm was compliance and the ideals were Barbie and Ken Black and white. I forced to try to fit even by getting my body to disappear, turn it inside out til my organs were exposed and they tried to get my heart to stop beating. Thinking I would fit at last. But I am as Dostoyevsky's Idiot and unknowable. The symbols I speak in not decipherable. Even now. However there are more like me than you realize. Where do we belong? Asylum? Jail? Left to perish on a mountain? Maybe the solution is to give us our own ghetto. Put us somewhere no one has to look at us. No matter to me. I will never comply or speak your language. Or stop seeking the truth with Van Gogh's oil paints.