"Step on a crack, break your mother's back," they said.
As a child, I meticulously avoided these horrible cracks, for I loved Mother dearly and she adored me. I was a pretty, sweet, intelligent, albeit friendless child; what parent wouldn't love me?
Five years later, I was a foot taller with a face full of pimples and two armpits full of hair. Denied access to a razor and make-up by the woman I once considered my best friend, ridiculed at school for that hint of a moustache on my upper lip and voluptious eyebrows, I turned on her. She made me ugly, made me stay ugly, although she had every power to do otherwise.
Unacceptable.
But what could I, an awkward, insecure, oh-so-lonely twelve-year-old, do about it? I didn't have access to methods of hair removal to cure the ugly, and I did not have access to drugs to soothe the pain, or money with with to buy drugs, even if I had access. No friends to confide in- too ugly to be worth a second glance, too mature for the morons my age, too intelligent to be understood. Eccentric, paranoid, odd, etcetera. And children are cruel- were cruel- to me.
I really did want to kill myself. There are still two parallel scars on my lower forearm from that time I got drunk and depressed and wanted to see if I could still feel pain, for nothing so ugly could be human, so I took a pair of sisors and dug in as hard as I could. Was facinated to see the blood ooze and drip. Did it again.
But what could I do?
Oh, sure, the cutting, but that didn't do much. Sometimes I would take a marker and color them in (the cuts) hoping ink poisoning would kill me. Crying, because of life, simling because of death.
Yes, stupid, but it was worth a shot.
Other than that, I stepped on cracks.
All the cracks on all the roads and sidewalks and even the gaps between the wooden panels on the house floor. I would stomp on them, jump from crack to crack, so so so filled with hate.
Yes, I hated my mother because she stopped loving me like she used to, didn't notice how I was falling apart, and when she did- when she saw the scars, I was insulted for being stupid and weak. For feeling sorry for my oh-so sorry self, because self-pity was a sin. But- but you can't pity the ones you hate, and I only hated myself- no pity.
So, I wished her pain. I danced on the cracks.
As a child, I meticulously avoided these horrible cracks, for I loved Mother dearly and she adored me. I was a pretty, sweet, intelligent, albeit friendless child; what parent wouldn't love me?
Five years later, I was a foot taller with a face full of pimples and two armpits full of hair. Denied access to a razor and make-up by the woman I once considered my best friend, ridiculed at school for that hint of a moustache on my upper lip and voluptious eyebrows, I turned on her. She made me ugly, made me stay ugly, although she had every power to do otherwise.
Unacceptable.
But what could I, an awkward, insecure, oh-so-lonely twelve-year-old, do about it? I didn't have access to methods of hair removal to cure the ugly, and I did not have access to drugs to soothe the pain, or money with with to buy drugs, even if I had access. No friends to confide in- too ugly to be worth a second glance, too mature for the morons my age, too intelligent to be understood. Eccentric, paranoid, odd, etcetera. And children are cruel- were cruel- to me.
I really did want to kill myself. There are still two parallel scars on my lower forearm from that time I got drunk and depressed and wanted to see if I could still feel pain, for nothing so ugly could be human, so I took a pair of sisors and dug in as hard as I could. Was facinated to see the blood ooze and drip. Did it again.
But what could I do?
Oh, sure, the cutting, but that didn't do much. Sometimes I would take a marker and color them in (the cuts) hoping ink poisoning would kill me. Crying, because of life, simling because of death.
Yes, stupid, but it was worth a shot.
Other than that, I stepped on cracks.
All the cracks on all the roads and sidewalks and even the gaps between the wooden panels on the house floor. I would stomp on them, jump from crack to crack, so so so filled with hate.
Yes, I hated my mother because she stopped loving me like she used to, didn't notice how I was falling apart, and when she did- when she saw the scars, I was insulted for being stupid and weak. For feeling sorry for my oh-so sorry self, because self-pity was a sin. But- but you can't pity the ones you hate, and I only hated myself- no pity.
So, I wished her pain. I danced on the cracks.
