Musings of a Sullen Girl (2018)

Artist: Unknown

I used to have a dream, more like a fantasy.  Walking along a purple beach.  Almost like the inside of a planetarium, only real and vast. There was a cosmic quality to the sky, not like a regular beachy skyscape.  It was like it was a beach on another planet.  I was draped in a black cloak, but I didn’t feel suffocated.  I felt freer than I have ever felt.  My hair was long and I was 17 years old.  A teenager connecting to some sort of primal energy.  My hands were outstretched, summoning something ancient.  The moon was practically the only celestial body in the sky.  The stars around her were distant and emitting a light that barely illuminated the sky.  The sky was almost emitting its own lilac glow.  The tide lapped the shore, gently. Despite the moon pulling on the water, its like the ocean had a mind of its own and just ebbed and flowed on her own terms.  It was mystical perfection.  I remember standing there, honoring Her and sitting in silence, in sheer awe of this place.  This was always my place.  The place I ran to when I was scared.  The place I ran to when my dad didn’t love me. In this place, I was me. 

I was always a creative kid. Passionate about writing scary stories and being a rocker version of Mariah Carey.  I used to tell people that I was going to be the next Stephen King.  Here I am, an adult.  In my 30s and I am a working in retail. 

When I was in high school, I studied to be a witch.  I fell in love with The Craft and sought out something to show me how to make it happen.  I read Teen Witch and I knew this was my calling.  I think a big part of it was that I wanted to be different.  Unique.  Special.  Nonconformist.  The weird one.  Even now, I want people to look at me and see someone strange BUT intriguing.  It’s a gratifying feeling to know that you are the center of attention. 

I never fully was the center of attention.  There was always someone better.  Someone skinnier, more talented, more driven, more beautiful, taller, prettier, they made more money, smarter, unafraid.  I was the friend of the person who was the Rockstar.  And it made me feel shitty.  All the time.  It’s silly but I have a lot of resentment.  Resentment for the people who left me and for those who I felt surpassed me and created a wonderful existence for themselves thru my ideas and desires. 

Where do I fit in the world?  Is it here within these pages of scribble scrabble?  I mean, what could I contribute now?

I based my worth as a youngster, as a teen, and a 20something year old adult on the validation of others.  I was worthless when my boyfriends left me.  I was worthless when the men I fucked through me away after the night was over.  I was worthless after Shawn, the first boy to ever touch my private parts never spoke to me ever again and told everyone I knew that we had sex.  I was worthless when Ricky, a 24 year old predator who groomed and molested me, told my best friend at the time that “he wasn’t going to jail for me” after I fell in love with him.  I was worthless when my dad went on a drinking bender, disappeared for days, took the money that was supposed to be for pernil and spent it on booze, then came back and my mom called him out on it and had a full blown argument with him.  I was in the front yard with the only girl that came to my house for my birthday party and we had little plushies that I was genuinely proud of.  I was so embarrassed.  I was 12 years old, innocent.  I loved my toys and just wanted to have friends that were genuinely interested in me.  That didn’t happen.  Hell my own dad didn’t care about me enough. 

What ended up happening was that I subconsciously believed I was worthless.  My so called friends talked shit about me in front of me and used another name to disguise it.  And when they told me about it, I was beyond heartbroken.  I was alone.  I was betrayed.  My only friend was my mom.  I was lost and didn’t matter.  The friends I started to make a little at a time, I ultimately detached from because “there was no point” – I didn’t matter at all so they were better off without me.  This is why I stopped writing to Larry, my closest friend in junior high, after he moved to Florida.  I miss Larry.  That was one friendship that really should’ve lasted.  Same with Laura, and Cathy, and Juliette – my closest friends in high school.  And you know what?  Eris, my closest friend in college, wanted to stay friends but I tossed our friendship away.  And reconnected years later and I felt better.  But with HER, I feel so beyond insecure.  She’s the girl I wanted to be.  Surrounded by friends, adored, fearless, beautiful.  I can’t hold a torch to her. She’s PERFECTION.

What is my contribution?  Who am I now?  35 years old and carrying years and years of sadness, insecurity.  I know WHY I felt these things.  But my gifts, my talents – they just seem to be buried under it all.  How do I uncover it again?  How do I find that fearlessness I had when I was 10 years old, writing “Crockwell’s House” in a composition notebook and showing my writing to my grandmother, my mom, and anyone who would read it?  How do I find that fearlessness that I had when I wrote alternate lyrics to Mariah Carey’s “Hero” except I called it “Lover?”  How do I find that sense of pride and fearlessness when I sang Michael Jackson’s “Heal the World” in front of an auditorium of kids when I was in 4th grade?  I remember how awesome I felt when people called me Mrs. Michael Jackson. That lasted for a day. Then the kids picked on me for weighing over 100lbs and for being the only kid that had a pimple. 

When I look in the mirror, I see a chunky kid with untapped talents. I want that little girl to flourish into the woman I should’ve been.  The thing is, I know that I have gifts to share.  But is my purpose to sing?  To write horror?  To tap into something mystical and cosmic and spiritual and share that journey with the world?  All three?  None?  Something else?  I question this every day. 

I think the first step is to find the balance.  Physical, mental, emotional, spiritual.  Earth, air, water, fire.  Journaling was a favorite thing of mine. All of my journals were named Randy.  It was my safe place.  Like my purple beach that I created when I studied witchcraft.  It was the mystical place I created for myself to feel the most connected, the most powerful.  To feel chosen.  To feel special.  To feel like I was the one that mattered the most.  Is it selfish of me to want to feel that?  To want to be desired?  To really feel and be special?

(names have been changed to protect their privacy)

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