Exhibit A: Week Two: Throw Back The Little Ones
Let me tell you how many times I have tried to write for this topic, and failed. There must be a million different things that could be written in response to throw back the little ones, but I’m drawing a blank. All I can think of is fishing! And how boring is fishing, really? Sitting there and twiddling your thumbs while waiting for the chance bite? Bah.
Alright, that’s not entirely truthful. I started with an entry that had to do with my transition to the now, but that was so awkward that I couldn’t get more than a paragraph in without sounding disjointed and rather horrid, really. I thought of an entry regarding my childhood, feeling like the fish my family tried to throw back because of how unique I am compared to their normalcy. And perhaps that would have been a good one! Maybe I should have kept it. Then I went on about painting and how it was like fishing, and I was writing for two hours before I figured that it was really not the best piece I’ve written and I’d probably be eliminated immediately. And I’m really rather a serious person, very bad at writing comedy (I’m famous for one-liners in my family, not for stand-up routines), so while I wanted to write something rather lighter than the last piece I wrote, I’m pretty sure that’s not going to work-at least not with this topic.
You know what, why don’t I go on with my childhood. The little girl who gave up on God when she was four years old because “that bible makes no sense!”, who could see and smell and hear things that weren’t there…who was eventually (mis)diagnosed with bipolar disorder with her memory and mind half-destroyed by the cocktail of medicines no child should be subject to. The little girl who was an artist of above-average skill since, to her memory, age five, who loved to make origami Santa’s Sleigh complete with Reindeer every winter and who always made pretty little name cards for the family dinners. The little girl who had to be on sleep medication because the nightmares were too bad to remember, or to let her sleep. The little girl who didn’t know her mother was trying to suffocate the creativity and artistry and independence out of her since it was different from mommy, at the same time as trying to teach her to be dependent on no man….who didn’t know that Uncle wasn’t supposed to act that way with her.
The angry preteen who never forgave her mother for the divorce, who suspected her of intentionally putting distance between her and her dad, covering it up all the while. The kid who was responsible for taking care of a sister two years younger (or so she felt), angry because the SISTER was the one who found out mom was making out with the supposed family friend while we slept, pissed off when we got stalked by the asshole’s ex-wife. The kid who spent a full year sick as a dog, and then decided “To hell with an above average IQ, I don’t give a rat’s ass about school”.
The teenager who discovered how socially stunted her mother had made her, who rebelled even harder to break free of that cotton prison and become her own. Who ended up being kicked out, and promptly discovering what the receiving end of sexual abuse was, what hunger was, before running out of the frying pan back to the fire. Who thought she found freedom in another guy who taught her that that stupid senseless bible wasn’t the only one out there, how to be a person, what integrity was.
The young woman who defied her family to move halfway across the country with that man, and found out that no matter what he taught her he was no better than the first one, and just preferred a bit different a flavour of sexual abuse punctuated by a hefty dose of physical. Who loved the freedom that independence gave and kept it up, even finding some people who were actually good people, though she didn’t know it yet. But who eventually gave up, gave in, accepted failure. Who would have died had that little flame of fight not given her that last kick in the right direction. That woman hadn’t healed yet. She just kept spiralling downwards.
Yeah, let’s talk about her, instead of all the other topics, all those other little fishies, so much kinder and safer. Let’s throw all those life rafts back, and go swimming with the sharks. That’s a great idea.
Alright, that’s not entirely truthful. I started with an entry that had to do with my transition to the now, but that was so awkward that I couldn’t get more than a paragraph in without sounding disjointed and rather horrid, really. I thought of an entry regarding my childhood, feeling like the fish my family tried to throw back because of how unique I am compared to their normalcy. And perhaps that would have been a good one! Maybe I should have kept it. Then I went on about painting and how it was like fishing, and I was writing for two hours before I figured that it was really not the best piece I’ve written and I’d probably be eliminated immediately. And I’m really rather a serious person, very bad at writing comedy (I’m famous for one-liners in my family, not for stand-up routines), so while I wanted to write something rather lighter than the last piece I wrote, I’m pretty sure that’s not going to work-at least not with this topic.
You know what, why don’t I go on with my childhood. The little girl who gave up on God when she was four years old because “that bible makes no sense!”, who could see and smell and hear things that weren’t there…who was eventually (mis)diagnosed with bipolar disorder with her memory and mind half-destroyed by the cocktail of medicines no child should be subject to. The little girl who was an artist of above-average skill since, to her memory, age five, who loved to make origami Santa’s Sleigh complete with Reindeer every winter and who always made pretty little name cards for the family dinners. The little girl who had to be on sleep medication because the nightmares were too bad to remember, or to let her sleep. The little girl who didn’t know her mother was trying to suffocate the creativity and artistry and independence out of her since it was different from mommy, at the same time as trying to teach her to be dependent on no man….who didn’t know that Uncle wasn’t supposed to act that way with her.
The angry preteen who never forgave her mother for the divorce, who suspected her of intentionally putting distance between her and her dad, covering it up all the while. The kid who was responsible for taking care of a sister two years younger (or so she felt), angry because the SISTER was the one who found out mom was making out with the supposed family friend while we slept, pissed off when we got stalked by the asshole’s ex-wife. The kid who spent a full year sick as a dog, and then decided “To hell with an above average IQ, I don’t give a rat’s ass about school”.
The teenager who discovered how socially stunted her mother had made her, who rebelled even harder to break free of that cotton prison and become her own. Who ended up being kicked out, and promptly discovering what the receiving end of sexual abuse was, what hunger was, before running out of the frying pan back to the fire. Who thought she found freedom in another guy who taught her that that stupid senseless bible wasn’t the only one out there, how to be a person, what integrity was.
The young woman who defied her family to move halfway across the country with that man, and found out that no matter what he taught her he was no better than the first one, and just preferred a bit different a flavour of sexual abuse punctuated by a hefty dose of physical. Who loved the freedom that independence gave and kept it up, even finding some people who were actually good people, though she didn’t know it yet. But who eventually gave up, gave in, accepted failure. Who would have died had that little flame of fight not given her that last kick in the right direction. That woman hadn’t healed yet. She just kept spiralling downwards.
Yeah, let’s talk about her, instead of all the other topics, all those other little fishies, so much kinder and safer. Let’s throw all those life rafts back, and go swimming with the sharks. That’s a great idea.