Frequently, in the middle of anything I’m doing, whether it be enjoying a vacation that my boyfriend’s family was kind enough to invite me to, or sitting back playing video games, or writing, or drawing, or singing, hell—anything—I will suddenly think of something admittedly minute and pitiful from my childhood that still causes doubt and fear in me. As explored in other posts, I am extremely awkward—so much so, in fact, that most of my childhood memories involving interaction caused me almost physical pain with how depressingly fumbling they were.
Now, I was sitting in my living room, eating my breakfast of spaghetti and hot chocolate (go on and laugh, it was really good) and suddenly my satisfaction was sapped away. Why? Flashbacks. Angered that it would strike so early in my day, I decided I would do something about it. And the only thing I know to do is to finally talk to someone about it. The one true secret I’ve ever kept from anyone: Why I hate myself so much.
Now, some of these things might make you laugh—and that is exactly why I don’t share them. I remember these instances and immediately face-palm or threaten myself. I’ve tried everything to make the memories not affect me so, but it is not just an uphill battle—it is like fighting a giant—and that only works in anime and movies. I don’t have jetpacks, a gun, or anything that would threaten someone even three inches taller than me—especially if it is something in my head. I am, I suppose, my own greatest enemy. But, clichés aside, I suppose I must quit stalling and come clean.
I was in kindergarten, and the teacher asked the class if penguins had fur or feathers. I raised my hand and said fur. The teacher seemed a bit skeptical and asked how I knew that, and I said… (internal wincing) “My stuffed cat, Ridona, told me.” I have no idea what possessed me to say that, but it caused great amusement for everyone else. I sat there, holding back tears as everyone laughed and made fun of me. I suppose that answer was easier to tell the teacher than “The way you asked the question made me wonder if you were trying to make us say feathers, so you could explain why we were wrong.” In other words, I overthought it, and said the first thing that came to mind, rather than try to explain why.
I was in elementary school, probably third grade. Growing up poor is never fun, as I’m sure many people know (duh). It’s even less fun when your hand-me-down pants are too small for your rapidly growing body. I remember being in the stall, trying to get my pants up after using the bathroom, and I had to jump around to get the jeans over my thighs. I jumped awkwardly and hit the door—and behind the door was a group of snobby fashion-prick girls, and when I hit that door, they couldn’t contain themselves. They laughed, and I realized they had been watching me, God knows why, and had seen me jumping around and grunting, trying to stuff my growing figure into my jeans. I emerged hurriedly, already crying, and ran out of the restroom in shame. Since then, I never use public restrooms unless I absolutely have to.
Sorry if this post seemed to be more like, “I hate my life and I’m a terrible pathetic person, wah, wah, wah” but that was not my aim. My aim was to finally, and without fear, put some instances of my personal torment out for anyone to see—so that way I won’t feel as ashamed anymore. These things are stupid—I know that—and not worth crying over, and yet for the past ten + years of my life, they have caused me much grief—and there are many more! If I think of any others, I will post them as well, if it doesn’t bother anyone. These are things that I haven’t even told my mother—and I hesitate to talk to my boyfriend about, because I know what his reaction will be: “That was a long time ago, it means nothing, you should just laugh about it.” but it’s hard to laugh about something that even now keeps you in a stranglehold.
Anyway, wish me luck! I have much to do today, and not much optimism left after having thought about those things so thoroughly. When I come home, I hope to see some responses. Am I the only one with these tiny little thorns in my brain, or is it common? Anyway, I am going to go sing “Tied My Hands” by Seether until I feel better, because I really love that song, and singing is proven to make you feel better—I’ve tested it out since I was young(er).
Until later, The Understandably Xenophobic Nina Crowlace