27, thank god

Whether it’s a dream or a memory, I remember staring up at my parents from the bars of my crib as an infant. I remember the car accident at 2, I remember my first ass whooping at 3. I remember hitch hiking with my mother at 4. I remember bi panic at 7, during summer camp, not knowing which gender to aim for at the lake even though the concept of ‘aiming for’ was not yet clear in my mind. I settled on the girls, an easy kill since we slept in the same cabin. The path of least resistance; a creature of habit.

I also remember hiding in-between the walls of my home. Renovations from a fire preceding my birth left small openings at various points throughout the house I could easily slip into. There was something therapeutic about the whole ordeal. It felt like nonexistence, like falling into a black hole. The truth of the matter is that since I was very young, I have craved this feeling of nonexistence. To be nowhere, belong to nobody. I know that sounds all very Sylvia Plath of me, but it’s the honest truth. If it wasn’t the walls, I’d split out of a family party, go into the yard or a closet or under a bed. I’d let my family call out my name and let it go unanswered. I’d receive my lashings when discovered, and with exhaustion my grandmother would say It’s alright if you’d like your privacy, but we’ve got to know where you are. I couldn’t begin to explain that no one knowing where I was, was the point.

In my early twenties I decided to see a therapist and was told over and over that I have severe detachment issues that probably spanned from my nonverbal years, prior to living with my grandparents. The idea is all very nice and everything, but I really prefer to say I am merely addicted to agency. The keys are always in my hand should I deem it necessary to obtain a getaway car. There is something unnerving about people like that. We are genetically engineered to sense hesitation, any flinching creature who is unpredictable and assign them a threat. Like when you go oversees to get inside tiger enclosures and they say Don’t you dare get scared, don’t you dare act nervous, because they’ll take that as a welcome for a fight. And I’ve had my fair share of fights. I’ve been a shitty friend, horrid wife, a messy bitch, the worst kind of daughter. All in the name of making sure if I wasn’t fucking with the vibes anymore, I could see myself out.

A sure way I have been always able to gain the trust of others has been through writing. Regrettably, the self revealing kind. The more I spill spill spill, the more engagement I get. I think it’s my ability to tell the truth, the kind of truth you can get killed for nowadays. A truth that is not rooted in the discourse riddled, black and white thinking that is virtually my version of spiritual warfare. Whenever I don’t know what to write, I sit down at my computer and just write out my truths. I don’t think myself a prophet, I believe I have been messy and revengeful and self involved enough in my life to just simply get it. I just don’t care what people have or have not done in the name of their own self interests. And actually, I think you need to experience a bitch like that in your life to know that you can Freak the fuck out, burn it all to the ground, and be on your merry way. A woman can be a dumpster fire, nothing more than a tongue like a sawed off shotgun. Let the pitchforks and torches come knocking, they will get bored. They are so quick to get fucking bored.

As self involved as I am inclined to be, I never much thought about what I meant to other people so much as what they were to me. Maybe that is self involved? Let me know. Anyways, it occured to me in the last couple months when I got a confession from a close confidant that they had done something probably deemed unforgivable by most. Not assault or murder or any legal matter, let us be clear. But the kind of thing that would warrant a 10 part TikTok series in today’s climate. But yet also, the kind of thing your grandmother would reveal while you chopped carrots together in the kitchen. Something she did many moons ago in her youth that would cause you to gasp, giggle, and say Not You, Grandma! And she’d wave her hand in the air, clearing dust from the past and respond with Such were the times.

Given what I have allowed and moved past from my own life, there was no great reaction. No chastising looks of judgment. We shared a cigarette, she said she just knew she could tell me. From there I silently recalled all the times I have been a burial ground for shame and humiliation. When someone sat in front of me, removed a couple pounds of baggage, and took a sigh of relief. A full circle moment for the girl who hid in between her walls, disappeared into black holes after becoming a tornado and destroying all the shit in her wake. Wondering if I’d be sentenced to a life of punishment for the years I was a headcase, a cunt, a liar. I think I’m just a good place to keep secrets, ‘cause I have a junk pile of my own. I am a good place to be absolved of guilt. I am a reassuring thought. I really hate getting too Hallmark-y with my birthday reflections, but I know it’s an almost inevitable curse to fear time slipping by with age. I am once again comforted by the reminder that the years really do answer the questions we might not even think to ask. Thank God for the years I was The Fucking Worst. Thank God for 27.