Crash and Burn...

I just did the dishes. Well, most of them. I started with the pots and pans, moved on to the plates and bowls, scrubbed a few forks and spoons, but by the time I got to the cups, wine glasses, and French press motivation dwindled; while drive to pull a mid-afternoon espresso shot came over me fast, and hit hard. Pause.  

And, maybe this is the point where you’re asking yourself: “Why is she writing about doing the dishes? Where is this piece of grizzled tripe disguised as writing going? What’s the point? Etc.”  And, to that I say: “Fair enough, I’ll recommence focus and goal-oriented word arrangements right meow…”

The answer to all of the questions raised above is the same. I am trying to record my trajectory from Princess to Goddess. Like a phoenix, I am on a journey of becoming: a crash and burn and rise. And, lately, when I am quiet and breathing I swear to you it feels like I am about to sprout wings.  

Does this make any sense yet?                           

Well, you might well then imagine how I am grappling with these forces…

>>>SLEEPING BEAUTY:

From a young age, I remember always dreaming of being a Princess. This option seemed really attractive as a life goal. And, more real to me than thinking about any other possible career. Picking a real, pretend thing to be when you grow up was just not my thing…it was too much pressure…

With the benefit of hindsight, I see several reasons why I identified with and was interested in the Princess figure:

·         1)At the least they are pretty, and at best they are exquisitely beautiful.

·         2) They are loved by Nature, deeply connected with it.

·         3)Most of their decisions are made for them, and they just roll with it. Like they get to push the "EASY" button in life. 

          4)Even in captivity, they somehow find ways to occupy their time.

·         5)They are ALWAYS the victim, and they ALWAYS get rescued by a handsome Prince.

·         6)Whatever trials and horrible things happen to them are only temporary and not comparable to the joys found in their new lives with a Prince.

·         7)They spontaneously burst out in song.

Basically, these bitches have it made.

Except, they don’t….

In reality, most of those bullet points are fraught with all sorts of problematic loop-holes, counter points that should be raised, and statistical impossibilities.

Except the spontaneously bursting out in song, let’s leave that one alone.

I don’t know how healthy, wise, or helpful it would be here, and now to list ALL of the things in my young life that I was trying to escape in taking on the Princess role. Let me just be clear that I was never sexually or physically abused, but I would consider myself a pretty emotionally battered child in many respects.  

My parents are both workaholics, and I know that they have always worked to provide aplenty for our family, but they frequently lost patience with my emotional needs; or were even completely unable to deal with them. I’m not saying this was all the time, and I know to my core how much they love(d) me, but the lonely child in my mind still cries out for support, for an audience, for acceptance, for praise.

Add to this situation: my sister, Colleen. Again, I can’t get into the whole thing here, it’s really pretty counter-productive; but, from a very young age, Colleen had health-related behavioral issues that translated into me constantly picking up her slack.

A memory, and then it’s really time to tell how I became Sleeping Beauty:

I am 10 years old, it is late in the afternoon, and I am at Latchkey Afterschool Program. My sister has just got into a physical fight, and had to be pulled away from another kid. She is in indefinite time-out until one of my parents picks us up. I know we are both going to get yelled at on the ride home. I am in the school hallway, by the 2^nd grade classrooms and the small gym. It smells a little moldy and sweaty, everything looks tan-colored, and the sunlight is faint. At 10 years old, I sobbed on the phone to my mother – in fear, hunger, and frustration: “I feel like the weight of the world is pushing down on my chest and shoulders.” She told me to “Suck it up” – or some comment to the tone and affect of: “Stop bothering me with your emotions when I am at work.” 

Well, I “sucked it up” – I sure did. But that weight…all these years later, even, I just can’t seem to shake it…

>>>WHY SHE SLEEPS:  Fast-forward to Middle School. And, my long hair almost always feels stringy, oily, and impossibly flattened against my head. My glasses are way too big to be even remotely cool. I can’t keep up with the windpants, Adidas, and Starter jacket craze. My feet smell awful, and I’m pretty sure people can smell them through my shoes. I sweat so much I think I might pass out in class. And, when I get my period in 6^th grade, I almost DO pass out in class. People have to help me to the Nurse’s office. The cramps rattle my body, and double me over in pain. It hurts so much I throw up: every.single.time.I.menstruate. My face is no longer just speckled with freckles; acne is all up in the oil, pore-rich T-zone. The zits are like volcanoes, they mar my once creamy and clear skin. I am at war – with my body, and socially.

In 7^th grade French class, my backpack is a frequent target of theft, and a dumping ground for papers, pencil shavings, and my own makeup. On the bus I try so hard not to cry, to not hear their words, to read through it, but it rarely works. It seems like Books are my only real friends. I don’t even really want to be my friend. I start to believe what they say about me. I can’t wait to get out of here…

Freshman year seems like it will be a fresh start, a tabula rasa, but it only intensifies in nature and level of bullying. I cry so much I start having panic attacks. Sometimes I stop paying attention in class. I stop taking notes, I just doodle and write. I start writing on myself. I start drawing on my wrist to make it look like I’ve slit it. The gobs of sharpie-blood run down my arm. I try to get help, I know I need help. School counselors, the Vice-Principal, teachers – no one really knows what to do. They dole out some in-school suspension to a few bullies, but no one actually helps me. I don’t even help me. Instead, when I get off the bus and come home in the afternoon, I scratch my arm till it bleeds and swallow a handful or two of Advil. Then, I sleep. I hold my unicorn stuffed animal, cry into its neck, and finally find peace in a few hours of mid-afternoon sleep. When I wake up, as my parents get home from work, I go sit at my desk and furiously try to make myself whole again. I write, draw, sing, cry, read, make myself laugh, and try to figure out how I’ll bide my time till I get out of this place.

Weeks, and weeks worth of my life were spent like this.

No, to be more honest, it was years. Maybe the behaviors changed, or shifted a bit. But, the end result – the mire of the victim that I fell into in my Princess complex – that never went away.

And, finally, I met a worthy, compatible, devilishly handsome Prince.

And, we lived happily ever after…

But, really, there’s much more to it than that.

However, I’m still in the process of sprouting those wings.

To Be Continued…