Let’s start with a question, shall we? A simple, cutting question that could unravel the whole thread of who I am. Is this me?

I ponder this as I sit here tonight, sipping on a can of soda—the kind packed with enough caffeine to keep me awake, sharp, and dangerous. It’s not often that I turn the scalpel inward, dissecting my own mind like some kind of self-imposed autopsy. But there’s something gnawing at me, something I’ve been wrestling with for years without realizing it. What if the quirks of my mind, the way I think, the way I feel—or don’t feel—are more than just quirks? What if they’re pieces of a larger, darker puzzle?

They say people with DiGeorge syndrome have uneven cognitive profiles—peaks and valleys, strengths and weaknesses that are so stark they might as well be playing tug-of-war with your soul. Then there are those traits that some would call… psychopathy-like. It sounds sinister, doesn’t it? And yet, when I line it all up, when I lay my cards on the table and stare at them one by one, I can’t help but wonder if that’s the hand I’ve been dealt.

Let’s begin with the strengths—because who doesn’t like a little ego boost before the fall? If there’s one thing I know about myself, it’s that my mind is sharp. Razor sharp. I see patterns where others see chaos, solutions where others see problems. Give me a puzzle, and I’ll solve it. Give me a challenge, and I’ll conquer it. Hell, one-on-one, I can be a perfectionist. It’s where I thrive. But put me in a room full of people? It’s less a sales pitch and more like a hostage situation. Every smile feels forced, every word calculated. It’s not charm; it’s survival. And survival, as it turns out, is exhausting.

But that brilliance, that clarity—it comes with a cost. You see, the peaks of my mind are matched only by the depths of its valleys. Staying organized? Forget it. My thoughts are like a thousand birds trapped in a cage, each one flapping its wings in a desperate bid for freedom. Memory? Attention? They’re fleeting things, like shadows that disappear the moment you try to hold onto them.

And yet, somehow, I’ve managed to make it work. I’ve learned to thrive in the chaos, to bend it to my will. It’s a dance, really, a delicate balance of brilliance and disarray. But sometimes I wonder: how long can I keep up the act? How long before the chaos wins?

Now, let’s talk about empathy. Or, more accurately, the illusion of it. It’s not that I’m incapable of feeling—I can feel joy, pride, even anger when the situation calls for it. But empathy? That’s a game I’ve never truly mastered. It’s like chasing my tail, running in circles, trying desperately to convince myself—and everyone else—that I’ve grasped what they’re feeling in the moment. But the truth? I’m just losing at the game of Clue.

I’ve watched others with that raw, unfiltered connection, the kind that seems to come so naturally. I’ve seen them cry over things that would barely register as a blip on my radar. And when I try to mimic it, to piece together their emotions like some sort of emotional detective, it feels like I’m always a step behind. Always guessing, always wrong.

Here’s the thing, though: empathy isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be. It clouds judgment, makes people hesitate when they should act. Me? I don’t have that problem. I see the world as it is, not as I wish it to be. I make decisions based on logic, not emotion. And if that makes me cold, so be it. And cold? No, I’m not cold. I know rage, I know love, I know all those emotions. I have them. They’re just too fucking scared to come out of Pandora’s box because it could lead to disaster—or worse, being happy.

Ah, risk—my best friend, my favorite instant gratification. It’s not about the thrill of getting caught; no, that’s too simple, too predictable. It’s about the dance, the tease, the tantalizing question: Can I get away with it? Can I cross the line, let everyone see me cross it, and then spin around like a magician and make the whole thing disappear? That’s the real fun.

The actual risk? That’s boring. What gets my blood pumping is the justification, the mental gymnastics, the smug satisfaction of knowing I’ve fooled them all. Imagine this: everyone in the room knows I’ve broken the rules, knows I’ve bent reality to my will, but there I am, smiling, doing a little jig because we all know… I got the fuck away with it.

It’s a magic trick, really. A sleight of hand. The world’s watching one thing while I’m pulling the strings on another. That moment when the dust settles and I know—I pulled that bitch off—that’s the real reward. Not the act, not the risk, but the aftermath. The smug little laugh in the back of my mind that says, Ha, I’ve won again.

So what if I get to be happy or content? What’s the worst that could happen? The world will end? I’ll drop dead? I’ll be locked up in a cage with no walls that every former friend or ex would be happy to see me in? Or worse… I might find serenity. I might find comfort in knowing what I know, in embracing the silence. I might nod my head instead of barking like that needy bitch dog I joked about in therapy once. What then?

It’s funny, really. Puzzles? I can’t do CAPTCHA for shit, can’t piece together an actual picture unless it’s already assembled in my brain. Thanks, DiGeorge. But put me in the middle of a mental minefield meltdown? That’s where I shine. Give me a mess of wires, and I’ll find the right one to blow the bitch up. And when it’s all over, when the smoke clears, I’ll stand there, grinning like the hunchback of Notre Dame—or maybe white Urkel—because somehow, Are You Smarter Than a Dumbass? is the game I keep winning.

It’s a strange thought, isn’t it? To think that the quirks of my mind, the things that have shaped my life, might be more than just quirks. That they might be pieces of a larger puzzle, a puzzle that I’m only now beginning to understand.

But here’s the thing about puzzles: they’re meant to be solved. And if there’s one thing I know about myself, it’s that I’m damn good at solving other peoples puzzles.

Now, I could sit here all day, sipping my soda and pondering the mysteries of my mind. But pondering doesn’t get you anywhere. Action does. So the question becomes: what do I do with this newfound insight? How do I take these pieces of the puzzle and turn them into something greater than the sum of their parts?

For starters, I’ll play to my strengths. I’ll use my intelligence, my charm, my ability to see the world as it is. I’ll take risks, calculated risks, the kind that lead to get out of all the uncalculated ones.   And I’ll do it all with the baggage of empathy, with the hesitation that holds others back as reminders to justify being me. 

But I’ll also acknowledge my weaknesses. I’ll attempt ways to manage the chaos, to bring order to the scattered thoughts that threaten to derail me & be ok if it does. I’ll build systems, routines, safeguards to hydroplain when neccessary. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that even the sharpest blade needs a steady hand to not stab yourself with it.  

And so we come back to the question that started it all: Is this me? The answer, I think, is yes. This is me. The good, the bad, the brilliant, the broken. All of it. But that’s not the end of the story. Because who I am is just the beginning. The real question is: who do I want to become?

I want to be the man who turns his quirks into strengths, his challenges into opportunities. I want to be the man who doesn’t just survive, but thrives. The man who takes the hand he’s been dealt and plays it knowing the house may be the real winner & not him.

So here’s to the man in the mirror. The man who’s still figuring it out, still piecing together the puzzle. The man who’s not afraid to ask the hard questions, to confront the uncomfortable truths. The man who’s ready to embrace all that he is—and all that he'll never be.