This is also old. I was 17 when I wrote this.
A white light blinds my tired blood shot eyes.
Memories flood my mind: times were better then. Sweet innocent lips of pink untouched, un-kissed, unblemished curved in a smile on my porcelain skin. A dress of blue, white flowers, golden hair lying on my shoulders in unkempt waves.
40% of childhood memories are fabricated. Your mind, it plays tricks on you. We struggle to be ourselves because so many facets of ourselves are guarded and inaccessible.
The daisy hair band, my bare feet on cool grass, the park bench behind my grandmother’s house, the very essence of life exhaled from my lungs.
Now replaced with cigarette smoke, anorexia induced ketosis, and expletives.
Is this an illusion? Were my emerald eyes lying when my lips were upwardly curved? Laughter, so distant, so faint, but I can almost remember what it felt like then. Is it only because I have photographs? Am I piecing together a puzzle totally irrelevant to who I am today?
The earth was removed beneath me, replaced with Alice’s well to Wonderland. Unlike her, I’ve been falling ever since. I fell past my friendship, and First Communion. I fell past all the other girl’s making friends, getting boyfriends, and doing their hair. I was on auto pilot- I had no one. I had no love. They pushed me into a corner and left me there to be scorned.
What led to this condemnation? Surely a child of six is inculpable of being alienated, of being bullied, what behavior portrayed is so obscure at such a young age it pushes all of the others away?
Blue white dress, lying on the floor, bare feet cold against the carpet, pink lips curled in a downward ‘u’
“You’re a princess”
The hoarse voice mumbles.
The daisy halo stays on.
Last day as an angel, my wings tumbled faster than my fragile body. Goodbye Wonderland.
Enter rebel, enter angst, enter sadism.
The television programs allured me. That which was intended to keep me safe drew me in like Icarus flying too close to the sun. Introduced to a game no one should play at any age when I was much too young.
And what, is that my downfall?
What became of me? The world was in the palm of my small hand. Life was all mapped out, all I had to do was stay straight. I swerved, I veered, and sometimes I think it’s all a sick joke. Like someday I’m going to wake up and someone is going to be in a white lab coat at my side and they’ll tell me:
“See Darling, that’s why you do what your parents tell you.”
I am beautiful. I am beautiful. I am beautiful.
Someday people will say that. My acne littered face, obnoxiously obvious braces, frizzy hair, poor clothing choice, bitter existence. I felt trapped, confined, smothered. I was. I was nothing. Nobody. Someday… Someday someone will notice me. Love me. Be drawn to me.
I am beautiful. I would mumble, scream, whine, whisper, into my pillow. Tears burnt my broken skin, no one took the time to teach me about hygiene.
A monster. When I stare into the mirror, I see a monster. Where did it fall apart? Who did this? Did I do it to myself?
How can I live with myself if I did? I destroyed a life. I made their life hell. I told them they were awful, disgusting, fat, annoying, I told them to kill themselves, bleed out, fade away, am I the bully?
I told her she was stupid, I told her she was worthless, good only to be used, good only when they bow to her, good only when everyone is kissing her feet, and surely, with an attitude with hers, no one would readily get to their knees.
A darkness now.
How can I put this into words? What can I say that makes sense out of senselessness in its pristine state?
I love myself. I love who I am. I love the way I think. I love the way I can read into the human soul. I love the way I interpret life. The way no one else has the audacity to.
They hate me. They hate who I am. They hate what I think and say. They deny all I say and think about them. They hate how I view life. They believe nothing I say is true. Nothing is real.
What is reality? I’m losing my grasp. One day’s end blurs with the start of another. Who am I? Where do I end? Where does the next person begin?