Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance
Tolerance
“Fuck!”
Some kids laugh at my sudden firework of noise; others turn to me and gawp. Either way it puts all the attention onto me and my unruly lips, everyone thinking of nothing but my voice for a little longer than a lingering moment. I feel the eyes burning into my skin, their filthy gazes of animalistic yearning feasting on the bloodlike blush pouring from my cheeks; all those eyes, eyes that have seen horrible and dirty things that I don’t want anywhere near me, all just on me.
On silly little Frankie. The little boy with the loose lips that just won’t do what they’re told.
“Shit! Mother-motherfucking shit!”
I can’t help it. I can’t help it and they all know I can’t, but yet they still stare. Even the teacher at the front of the class with his dusty old tome of Romeo and Juliet is having trouble keeping his face straight.
It’s been a lot worse lately, my Tourette’s I mean. I’m having what my doctor calls a bad bout, meaning that my tics have been even more frequent and uncontrollable than they normally are. This in turn means that more people are noticing me and noticing how different I am; how easy to beat up I am. And, of course, how easy to stare at I am. Like an animal in a zoo or a clown at a circus, I’m something different to what they’re all used to and so I must be stared at.
I must be consumed and tasted and torn apart before I evolve from being a freak into being normal. I understand that, I really do, but do they have to keep on fucking staring?
“Right, class, back to Shakespeare’s use of rhythm in-“
“Bitch, fuck!” I desperately clamp my hands over my mouth, my eyes starting to water as I hear even more hyenas guffawing at their prey. “I-I, sorry, Sir.”
The teacher just nods, starts pacing around in front of the class and then gets back to babbling on about something or other. I honestly don’t care about school, about grades, about anything anymore. I just care about normal and about how not normal I so blatantly am. I wonder if they all know how lucky they are, how privileged they should feel just for being them. Of course they don’t know; they’re teenagers in the middle of a never-ending English lesson, to them their lives just can’t get any worse. But I know that that they can; they could be me. They could be someone so different that I question my own humanity sometimes, that I question whether I’m worth the same as all of them.
My mom says I am, tells me that I’m just as good as all of the ‘normal’ kids. Hell, she even says that I’m better than most of them because I understand how to be tolerant of other people’s differences. But that in itself is a difference. Tolerance, I mean. Not a lot of kids understand enough about the world to be tolerant, not many adults do either, but I guess that’s okay. Intolerance is normal. And I guess that’s why I should be glad that I’m different.
There’s only one person I know in the whole wide world who isn’t related to me that is as different as I am; my boyfriend. Sure, he seems pretty normal to most, but I know he’s different. He’s got the tolerance thing nailed for one, and then there’s his other difference; he suffers from a crippling depression. But we help each other and we talk and we listen and we talk some more.
That’s how me and Gerard Way work; we share our problems, our thoughts and our dreams and then the world seems to be at least a little bit more bearable, a little less scary. He’s so used to my tics now, from the throat-clearing to the yelped obscenities, that he doesn’t even blink when they rear their heads. And I’m so used to his mood swings that I now understand how to help him through the low points and how to help him make the most of the high points.
He told me that his high points have been a lot more prominent since I showed up in his life three months ago, when we met in the meeting room of our therapist. Apparently my ability to tolerate makes me a very good listener and my positioning in the world also makes me a very good giver of advice/comforter, all cumulating in the fact that I am one of the very few people who can make Gerard Way smile.
Something that makes all of my differentness well worth it; I’d trade almost anything to be normal, but I’ll keep absolutely everything to be able to make my boyfriend smile.
A/N: So once more I have been Ficwad-dead for far too long for my liking and for that I am profusely sorry. I'll spare you my long-winded excuse, but long story short; I did some stupid shit last week, have subsequently been put on anti-depressants and haven't really felt like doing anything. But now I am doing something and this writing is a result of that. Anyways, thanks for reading and please let me know what you think! :)
Also, I now have blue hair: http://coldkid.deviantart.com/#/d55y07s http://coldkid.deviantart.com/#/d55y9mf
“Fuck!”
Some kids laugh at my sudden firework of noise; others turn to me and gawp. Either way it puts all the attention onto me and my unruly lips, everyone thinking of nothing but my voice for a little longer than a lingering moment. I feel the eyes burning into my skin, their filthy gazes of animalistic yearning feasting on the bloodlike blush pouring from my cheeks; all those eyes, eyes that have seen horrible and dirty things that I don’t want anywhere near me, all just on me.
On silly little Frankie. The little boy with the loose lips that just won’t do what they’re told.
“Shit! Mother-motherfucking shit!”
I can’t help it. I can’t help it and they all know I can’t, but yet they still stare. Even the teacher at the front of the class with his dusty old tome of Romeo and Juliet is having trouble keeping his face straight.
It’s been a lot worse lately, my Tourette’s I mean. I’m having what my doctor calls a bad bout, meaning that my tics have been even more frequent and uncontrollable than they normally are. This in turn means that more people are noticing me and noticing how different I am; how easy to beat up I am. And, of course, how easy to stare at I am. Like an animal in a zoo or a clown at a circus, I’m something different to what they’re all used to and so I must be stared at.
I must be consumed and tasted and torn apart before I evolve from being a freak into being normal. I understand that, I really do, but do they have to keep on fucking staring?
“Right, class, back to Shakespeare’s use of rhythm in-“
“Bitch, fuck!” I desperately clamp my hands over my mouth, my eyes starting to water as I hear even more hyenas guffawing at their prey. “I-I, sorry, Sir.”
The teacher just nods, starts pacing around in front of the class and then gets back to babbling on about something or other. I honestly don’t care about school, about grades, about anything anymore. I just care about normal and about how not normal I so blatantly am. I wonder if they all know how lucky they are, how privileged they should feel just for being them. Of course they don’t know; they’re teenagers in the middle of a never-ending English lesson, to them their lives just can’t get any worse. But I know that that they can; they could be me. They could be someone so different that I question my own humanity sometimes, that I question whether I’m worth the same as all of them.
My mom says I am, tells me that I’m just as good as all of the ‘normal’ kids. Hell, she even says that I’m better than most of them because I understand how to be tolerant of other people’s differences. But that in itself is a difference. Tolerance, I mean. Not a lot of kids understand enough about the world to be tolerant, not many adults do either, but I guess that’s okay. Intolerance is normal. And I guess that’s why I should be glad that I’m different.
There’s only one person I know in the whole wide world who isn’t related to me that is as different as I am; my boyfriend. Sure, he seems pretty normal to most, but I know he’s different. He’s got the tolerance thing nailed for one, and then there’s his other difference; he suffers from a crippling depression. But we help each other and we talk and we listen and we talk some more.
That’s how me and Gerard Way work; we share our problems, our thoughts and our dreams and then the world seems to be at least a little bit more bearable, a little less scary. He’s so used to my tics now, from the throat-clearing to the yelped obscenities, that he doesn’t even blink when they rear their heads. And I’m so used to his mood swings that I now understand how to help him through the low points and how to help him make the most of the high points.
He told me that his high points have been a lot more prominent since I showed up in his life three months ago, when we met in the meeting room of our therapist. Apparently my ability to tolerate makes me a very good listener and my positioning in the world also makes me a very good giver of advice/comforter, all cumulating in the fact that I am one of the very few people who can make Gerard Way smile.
Something that makes all of my differentness well worth it; I’d trade almost anything to be normal, but I’ll keep absolutely everything to be able to make my boyfriend smile.
A/N: So once more I have been Ficwad-dead for far too long for my liking and for that I am profusely sorry. I'll spare you my long-winded excuse, but long story short; I did some stupid shit last week, have subsequently been put on anti-depressants and haven't really felt like doing anything. But now I am doing something and this writing is a result of that. Anyways, thanks for reading and please let me know what you think! :)
Also, I now have blue hair: http://coldkid.deviantart.com/#/d55y07s http://coldkid.deviantart.com/#/d55y9mf
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