A lot of recent events has occurred that brought me to this conclusion. I think I’ve always known this to be true, but my rather toxic sense of pride has kept me from facing it.
I have to let go of my past in order to finally move forward.
Everyone has or will experience a low point in their lives, and only by choosing to endure it will they ever see that it does, in fact, “get better”. Fortunately for me, I believe I am finally reaching the end of this low point in my life. I am finally looking past old wounds and dark biases. I am finally, ACTUALLY seeing the light.
My low point is not the most original or winning story. It lasted all throughout middle and high school, hell maybe even started at elementary school now that I look back at it. And it wasn’t even a “hitting rock bottom” type of low point, it was more of a gradual descent into pure and utter unhappiness.
It didn’t really have much to do with anyone else around me, it was all me. Ever since I could remember, I was always thinking, observing, and analyzing. Whatever kind of social situation I was forced into, I could never feel truly apart of the experience, I always felt like an outsider looking in. I could never just be a normal, blunt, naive, carefree child. I always found myself being too conscious of nearly everything that went on.
I didn’t exactly think anything of it until I started going to Kindergarten. I guess it’s something about being meshed into an institution full of hundreds of other people your age that makes you even more hyper aware of the kind of person you are.
Anyways, every day we all had this little thing called “play time” in Kindergarten in which we could chose from several different play stations to take up that half hour. There was the building blocks station, where mostly boys would play–out of this love of building things just so they can destroy it all in the end. There was the reading station, where let’s face it, no one ever went to. There was the Play House, which was evidently the most popular play station, consisting of a little house you can go inside of with fake cooking sets and stuffed animals and other props to help create the illusion of a home. All the outgoing kids went there, where they selected familial roles for each other to play within the house. It was always crowded and always loud–which is why I never had any interest in spending play time there.
Finally, there was my favorite play station, the arts and craft station. Only second to least popular–thanks to the reading station–I was usually the only student to go there every play time. I loved drawing because it didn’t require friends or anyone really. All I needed was computer paper, crayons, and my imagination. And I always enjoyed myself.
However, one day my Kindergarten teacher approached me during play time and asked me the questions that I believe started my slow, gradual descent into pure and utter unhappiness:
“Why are you always here alone at the arts and crafts station?”
“Why don’t you ever want to try a different station?”
“Do you want to try maybe playing with everyone else at the Play House?”
Ok, so admittedly I don’t remember how exactly the questions were worded, but I guarantee it went a little something along those lines.
At first, I just shrugged it off I guess. I just told her that I liked drawing more than the other activities, no big deal. But as the week went on, I started questioning myself more about my teacher’s intentions. Even I, as a 5 year old, could detect the concern she had about me. I knew her coming by and asking me those questions meant something more. It meant pitying, it meant singling me out, it meant that I was out of the loop and she was worried why I wasn’t like everyone else.
Why wasn’t I like everyone else…
And so, the descent begins.
Later on that week I even decided to try going to that obnoxious play house just to see if I can finally get why everyone else is so into it. It didn’t help that my teacher was observing this cringing attempt from afar.
So I approached the front of the play house where all these outgoing, loud, annoyingly peppy kids were running around, and messing with the props, and shouting all kinds of things I couldn’t distinguish. I couldn’t get the attention of any of those kids immediately, so I spent a very self conscious, uncomfortable 10 minutes or so fiddling with toy cooking ware and plastic fruits until someone finally noticed me.
This loud girl with blonde hair shouted at me “Hey!” and explained that she was the mother role in this play house and only she can touch the kitchen stuff. I knew how stupid this whole thing was but just went along with it, especially since my teacher was watching me.
I just said ok and asked her what I should be. And here I was thinking maybe the daughter…or aunt…even grandmother or something! But nope of course not, this bitch of a kid told me “You can be the cat!”
The cat.
The mother fuckin cat.
At that point I knew all of my teacher’s concerns are proven true. All the other kids didn’t even really acknowledge me, despite swallowing that insulting–or rather degrading–role I had to play in the “house game”. I even tried to interact with some of those kids, I even faked being all loud and reckless (it was uncomfortable of course, faking shouts and squeals). If even a bunch of 5 year olds could detect that I was different from them, then yeah, that speaks volumes.
After a while of playing that ridiculous game I just decided to leave back to the drawing station to salvage the fun that was left of the few remaining minutes of play time. Those kids at the play house didn’t even notice me leave, and as I spent the remaining time drawing by myself I tried to purge all of it from memory.
And the descent only continued from there.
To wrap it up,
I experienced a long period of self loathing, and being in complete denial of it. I used drawing and writing stories as an escape. I developed a short temper and lashed out on anyone who aggravated me. I became uncomfortable and harshly rejected any romantic relationships. I faked the majority of my cheerfulness and personality just so others didn’t have to experience the disturbing amount of unhappiness I felt. I started developing this unwillingness to socialize and make new friends by the time high school rolled around–resenting the idea of school dances and other extra curricular events that involved any form of student interaction.
The only good thing that came out of my long, long low point was my discovery of fashion and how it made me feel better about myself. I mastered the art of clothes in masking flaws, along with applying my artistic mind into creating my own innovated, creative take on style.
And perhaps, this dark period of my life did help me out a little with my story telling skills…
But anyways, fast forward to present day. Me, 19 years old, almost finished with my freshman year of college.
I have confronted my past, my feelings, my flaws, my demons in all of it’s forms…and I have accepted them.
I realized I spent so much of my time time being angry at my friends and all the other people around me, like people at school, etc. But all this time it was just me. I’ve been angry with myself. Angry that I couldn’t belong. Angry that I couldn’t understand why.
But I get it now, NOTHING is wrong with who I am.
I’m not that different, I know I’m not the only one who experienced this outsider feeling.
I only seemed so different–I only seemed like I didn’t belong because well, I didn’t.
Not here, in this average suburban town.
I’m an artist–a spectator. I’m someone who notices all the things that average people don’t usually care to even acknowledge. But that’s another thing about being an artist. Artists can see beauty in the things that most ordinary people would undermine. Artists can draw attention to even the most unsuspecting, maybe even unappealing thing, and make it beautiful…or at least intriguing!
I had to use this perspective on my own self as well. It took me so long, it’s crazy that I am just now starting to see what a work of art I truly am.
With that said, I can let the frustration
and the anger
and the sadness
and the resentment go.
I will move to a place where I can make everything that I am more useful. A place that can use an artist mind like mine, and not to mention my killer fashion sense. A place where I can apply my story to all my life aspirations and make something of myself.
And when I get there, hopefully by my Fall 2015 semester, I can finally let go of all the remaining dead weights of my past and move forward. Never forgotten, but understood as a learning experience.
The descent, I believe, has finally ceased. And now I’m probably going to go through something a hell of a lot harder:
Ascension.
princessjanny 