I just spent the last thirty minutes in the bathroom. Hang on folks this isn't something weird. I think. Actually it's always weird. Every second of every day since I was born and until I die.
The first ten I spent looking at myself. Doing the usual. Wondering how on earth I can be so freaking different yet still some how look like every body else. No horns. No strange colored eyes. My teeth are all docile. I look absolutely mundane.
Then I find what I always find. A scar. The length of one of my fingers vertically and a few centimeters from the top, a one inch line across. A cross. Just above my navel. Just below my sternum. One night in one of THOSE dreams, I dreamt that I was being CURED. the only thing they could think of to alieve me of my burden was to excersice it out of me.
But it hurt. And when I woke up, there it was. A burn the shape of the cross marrying my skin.
It was so long ago. Today it is only a fading scar. Still too noticeable for me to wear a two piece but I have hopes. I saw it today. As I have every other day and it looked absolutely hideous. I snatched up some foundation from a glittering make up kit and attacked it. Piling it on like a weighted prayer. I knew I was asking for too much. That hiding the scar that no one but my mother and sister knows about accomplishes absolutely nothing. That the scar is there wether I can see it or not. I will never be "normal".
Still, I spent twenty minutes pretending to be covering a birth mark or a childhood accident. But as I looked again for anything else that set me apart and found nothing left, I found myself even more devastated. I felt like even more of a shameful mutant. Even more of a blemish on my family tree. This abnormal girl. This gentle abomination will always be hiding in plain sight. Why bother trying. I'm doing such a great job at unwanted solitude anyway.
Saturday, June 21, 2014
Friday, June 20, 2014
Surreptitious
I like to think that every one that means something to me knows. The reality is: that's not nearly true.
I live my life surreptitiously. Everyone knows the book worm whose quirky and does strange thing, changes subjects smoothly but noticeably. They know the writer and and musician who smile is always a little too wide. But of all these people who I would sit with daily, laughing and whining about high school, only one of them knew i was never paying any attention a single word any one said.
Crowds are hard for me. I feel what everyone is feeling. I can feel a secret about to burst from some one's lips. The dying need to let something go. Everything. If I'm not too careful or focused, I feel everything because the longer and more I intimately I know someone, the harder it is not to steal little pieces of them without their permission. I don't want them believe me. But, Melissa, Melissa stops people from paying too much attention to the way my eyes glaze over from the strain of my dual reality. She answers questions I obviously didn't catch and I rest with my head in her lap, pretending to be annoyingly detached from everyone.
I've had... unpleasant experiences after telling people. Some take it hard, and I regret it instantly because I know we'll never speak again. One was so excited my heart soared, but then she began to obviously see me as a "what" and not a "who" and it became difficult to be near her at all. I wish I could tell people that matter most to me. It's only fair that they bare their souls to me on purpose that i do the same. They will never really know me, but it's a precaution that I have to take.
My writing mentor, a woman i meet with regularly who helps my writing along, she wants me to journal, just to see what usable personal writing prompts I produce. But I can't so that. I can't spill my secrets for her to see in the bright afternoon light of whatever coffee shop she wants to test out. I need her see me as a WHO not a WHAT. And while I don't plan on telling her, I also refuse to make elaborate lies, like writing fake journals, because that may be even worse than all the truth withholding in the first place.
The people I love, the people who I would lay down in traffic for, they don't know me. If they did my raging, loud, energetic circle of friends, would be a lot smaller. I guarantee it.
I live my life surreptitiously. Everyone knows the book worm whose quirky and does strange thing, changes subjects smoothly but noticeably. They know the writer and and musician who smile is always a little too wide. But of all these people who I would sit with daily, laughing and whining about high school, only one of them knew i was never paying any attention a single word any one said.
Crowds are hard for me. I feel what everyone is feeling. I can feel a secret about to burst from some one's lips. The dying need to let something go. Everything. If I'm not too careful or focused, I feel everything because the longer and more I intimately I know someone, the harder it is not to steal little pieces of them without their permission. I don't want them believe me. But, Melissa, Melissa stops people from paying too much attention to the way my eyes glaze over from the strain of my dual reality. She answers questions I obviously didn't catch and I rest with my head in her lap, pretending to be annoyingly detached from everyone.
I've had... unpleasant experiences after telling people. Some take it hard, and I regret it instantly because I know we'll never speak again. One was so excited my heart soared, but then she began to obviously see me as a "what" and not a "who" and it became difficult to be near her at all. I wish I could tell people that matter most to me. It's only fair that they bare their souls to me on purpose that i do the same. They will never really know me, but it's a precaution that I have to take.
My writing mentor, a woman i meet with regularly who helps my writing along, she wants me to journal, just to see what usable personal writing prompts I produce. But I can't so that. I can't spill my secrets for her to see in the bright afternoon light of whatever coffee shop she wants to test out. I need her see me as a WHO not a WHAT. And while I don't plan on telling her, I also refuse to make elaborate lies, like writing fake journals, because that may be even worse than all the truth withholding in the first place.
The people I love, the people who I would lay down in traffic for, they don't know me. If they did my raging, loud, energetic circle of friends, would be a lot smaller. I guarantee it.
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