For those who don't understand, I'm glad for you. And if the day comes when you do understand, I offer my regrets to you. And the ones who do understand, maybe there's room in my bubble for you, maybe we're from the same place. But I was forcefully exiled from my homeland, and all that was left behind was burned to the ground, there's nothing to go back to. I can see that I'm inside a larger bubble, it contains most of the people on earth. But they don't understand me, that what is important to them holds no value for me. And what was important to me, they can't understand my longing. "It's been 3 years, isn't it time to join the rest of us?" No, it's not, because everywhere I see a world I can't belong to. A table full of family, a huge turkey, a ham, pumpkin pies, dinner rolls, casseroles. Then, I'll see a husband, choosing some jewelry for his wife, toys for the children, under a tree, ice skating. grand Christmas trees, jolly hot cocoa ? I don't celebrate Thanksgiving or Christmas here. Every card I receive with only my name on it brings pain. Or Hanakah, or Kwanza. Or Valentines, Independence Day. Only Memorial Day, And a birthday, and a wedding anniversary day. And if something strikes me in the grocery store, there will be tears. And people outside don't understand that in my new country, those tears have been fully paid for, and I don't conform that they believe they are something to be hidden.Anyone to offer a tissue will be told to "Fuck off", in a gentle way of course, for respect of thier holiday. Maybe I scare them, that I don't conform to their conformity.Life to be savored? Sorry, no. Fear? Not really, I don't like living here. Should somone put a bullet in the back of my head, my only regret would be no chance to thank them. Beat me within an inch of my life? Sorry, the world has already done that, too. Entice me to a certain toothpaste or shampoo or car? Doesn't translate for me. And the fear? Not there. I could gladly tell the pope to "Fuck off", or a policeman, or any other authority figure I'm expected to respect. My therapist, my psych doc? Only to the extent that they have the power to have me confined. My mind? Gone, short term and long term, I used to have excellent spelling and grammar. Now spellcheck has to save me. I used to be able to balance pluses and minuses in my head, balance the checkbook - now I either use Windows calculator, or drive up to the ATM. Math is beyond me now. My record collection, my library - no longer any joy. And I'm sure there's plenty more, but enough for now.