my mom says when i was born, i silently scanned my surroundings for two seconds. then, i screamed, and i wouldn't stop. it wasn't an exclamation of excitement, or of sadness, or of longing. it was rage- raw, nasty, ugly rage. at my core, at my reeking, rotten core, that is who i am. that is who i would have been. sometimes i go back to the videos my dad recorded on his y2k camera, and notice that i couldn't speak, i could only scream. i had a scathing glare i'd shoot when something didn't go my way, and toxic tears would tumble down my angular cheeks at the slightest inconvenience. i was abrasive and expressive and so, so difficult. as i got older, i noticed that not everyone was me. other girls were soft, other girls were sweet. other girls were strong- they could shut up and suck it up in ways that i never did. other girls struggled to speak, to socialize, to self celebrate, and every parent, every teacher, every mentor, would sprint to surround her, hold both her hands, and congratulate her as she overcame her self induced obstacles. i'd also be proud of her. i'd acknowledge the magnitude of her accomplishment, and i'd understand why she needed that attention, that care, that love. i understood, but i couldn't accept. i didn't need to be loved like that, but goddamn, how i so crushingly craved it. so i began scrutinizing others perceptions of me. at four, i spent a few hours at a friends house. on the returning drive, my mom meaninglessly mentioned that i'd been out of the house more than anyone else in my family that day. i immediately erupted. i yelled, and rapidly rationalized that since my dad was in the yard trimming bushes, he'd in fact been outside the most. at five, my preschool held a ballet recital. i was so distracted by the glitz and glamor to be anything other than myself, and when the other moms praised me for being so confident, i coldly contested them and lied that i was shy. over the years, i've learned. i've learned to be as smooth as as silk, and i've learned to be as silent as a mouse. i've learned to shrink myself to a smidgen, and as an adult, i am the tallest, yet smallest version of myself i have ever been. i stare at groups of girls wishing i had the guts to approach them, and the inability to do so has become instinctive. i sit in class with the correct answer twirling on the tip of my tongue, and the pit inside me preventing me from raising my hand feels fundamental. men six months to nine years older than me are attracted to nothing more than my seeming controllability. i am over-assisted and infantilized by not only my elders, but by those around my age as well. if i'm honest with myself-my shallow, shaky, sold out self- there's a part of me which likes it. it's a part of me that not only likes it, but basks in it, relishes it, gets off on it. i doubt it's the adult who spends hours alone, reading, writing, contemplating, cozily content. i believe it's the child in the car, the child at the ballet recital, the child inside me, smiling her evil, crooked smile, saying to herself "i finally got them to care about me. i finally got them to love me."
