Why I fiction

20 03 2017

I think perhaps many people in this world generally feel pretty good about themselves. Once in a while, they get rejected, or they do something embarrassing so they lose this positive sense of self, but they recover.

I am the other kind of person. The kind with a dark, hard kernel of self loathing at the very centre of her being composed of every stupid, shameful, embarrassing thing she has done since infancy. The kind that tries to write a blog post three times, and deletes all three because she decided they were 1. Too embarrassing 2. Too ‘what I should be writing about’ 3. Too weird or honest.

I keep a secret tally of all the stupid things I have ever done, and once in a while, I go over them mentally so that I can beat myself up about them.

One of my earliest memories is of playing with a friend while I was still in China. I remember she slapped me. The act was inscrutable, so I ran to her house to tell on her. Her house was dark and narrow. Her father was lying on the bed with one leg in a cast. I blurted out what his daughter had been doing then immediately felt ashamed about it because they seemed poor, and he was injured.

I’ve carried this weird scrap of memory with me for 27 years but I can’t remember what I ate for lunch two days ago.

I also sometimes revisit how weird I was in my early teens. I’d just gotten out of a childhood where I spent large chunks of time totally alone, just marinating in my own fucked up child brain, and I really did NOT know how to live in a world where people suddenly care what you wear or how you behave. And I wanted friends. I really really wanted friends. So I thought the best way to make friends would be to yank on peoples’ backpacks so that they would fall over onto the ground or to hit them on the head with a stick of beef jerky. One time, I thought I saw someone I knew, so I went up behind her and smacked her on her pretty blonde head with a giant stick of cured meat. She turned around, and she wasn’t one of my lowly nerd friends, oh no, she was a popular girl, and I was then doomed to be embarrassed about the stupid incident for the REST OF MY LIFE.

I still feel embarrassed about it, even today. Even right now, this instant. My cheeks are flushed and I am experiencing a slight urge to pee, because that’s what embarrassment feels like to me.

It isn’t fair that such a non-event should stay with me all my life and become central to my being, while Brianna gets to live her life without even a memory of the event.

Then again, maybe growing up, her dad pooped in her shoes on a regular basis or something. I don’t know. Can’t judge a pretty blonde book by its cover.

Then again, maybe she’s one of those super tall and skinny girls who, like, works as a taster for a Russian caviar company or has her own lifestyle blog that gets profiled in Vogue or something.

Then again, maybe she is also staring at the onset of her 30s while the realization dawns that her talents, dubious as they are, will never gain more recognition than Courtney Stodden’s tits.

As an aside. I really feel like I understand women who get boob job after liposuction after boob job. If I thought getting plastic surgery would help dissolve this papilloma of self-loathing I’ve got, I would do it. One hundred percent. But they just look more and more miserable, then they get older, and their eyes fill with fear because they’ve obsessed so much about their appearance that they forgot to get a personality.

The world fucks me up sometimes. It’s like the moment you learn to comprehend, shit just starts piling up on top of you.

Intentionally or unintentionally.  Like my mother, who even today sent me an email asking if I would like for her to buy me some coffee that would help me lose weight. That’s how she says “I love you.”

I would prefer it if she would simply say “I love you” or “It’s ok that you are who you are.”

But even if she suddenly became someone who could say things like that, it would be too late, because I’d never believe her because I’m trapped in this perpetuating continuum.

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