You Have No Power Over Me.

Today I'm pouring my heart out with Shell.

A girl I went to high school with once accused me of sleeping with our writing teacher in order to get straight A's in the class. I'll just wait here while you pick your jaw up off the floor. We were juniors at the time (do I really need to say that I was still very much a virgin then?). She did it in front of a large group of our classmates in room 15, the one with the steep step up to the basketball court. At first it was all slow motion and foggy, like I'd heard her wrong. But the mean look on her face and the quivering anger in her voice indicated otherwise. I couldn't stand everyone staring at me, mouths agape, as a heavy blanket of silence fell over the room. So I ran out, called my mom in tears and asked her to come and get me. I'd been shamed, somehow turned into a small child again; yet I hadn't done anything wrong. My grades sucked in everything else, but writing? That was my one true thing. I earned those A's, and it wasn't by hopping into my teacher's bed.

I didn't stand up for myself. I didn't confront her. I ran away. As is my tendency.

Later on as a freshman in college, my peer review group in one of my classes informed me that I "used too many big words." Our professor had asked us to to read each other's work and give critiques. I was completely crushed. And I took it personally, which I shouldn't have. Perhaps my sensitive nature got the better of me. As it tends to do.

I'm a writer, people. It's what I do. I'm a sculptor of words. I mold and shape them, manipulate them. Give them depth, breadth and feeling, make them convey what I want. It's me, who I am at my core. It's why I'm shy, why I'm not a banker or a doctor or an actress. Besides, I'm terrible at math, science, and public speaking. This girl just wants to write.

Old habits die hard; I've let these things live and thrive in my memory, pervade my entire existence, belittle me, convince me I have no real talent. I realized after reading Julie's post over at Dutch Being Me yesterday that I'm just beginning to respect myself (long overdue). Did that high school girl think I couldn't have just one thing to myself? Everyone else has a niche, why not me?
Writing is mine. I claim it now.
I. Am. A. Writer.
No one can take that from me.

And now for a cheesy blast from the past.
"You have no power over me."


Labyrinth, 1986, starring David Bowie & Jennifer Connelly

Pouring My Heart Out: A Bad Day in 1996, My Journal Entry

I'm Pouring My Heart Out today with Shell over at Things I Can't Say.

Most of you know my dad is gay and came out of the closet when I was 15 years old. If you didn't, please peruse some background here, here and here. I believe his revelation will always impact me in one way or another, and over the years how it has affected me has ebbed and flowed. The major blow was the day he told us his secret and the few weeks/months afterwards. Next came college, where I lived on my own for the first time and really began to process the issues that resulted from his revelation. Below is a very graphic journal entry written from that time period; a time when I had so many powerful emotions swirling around inside that I didn't know what to do with them all. I took my anger, depression, anxiety, and confusion out on myself. If you are not familiar with the concept of self-harm or self-injury, you can read more here. 


The most important thing to realize is that self-mutilation is not about suicide, and I have not harmed myself in over 10 years. If this is too disturbing, please do not read it. And as always, remember that you don't have to like me or agree with me, but you do have to respect me. This is my space. My blog is growing, changing, and soon you shall see less randomness and more reality. This is life, people. We all have skeletons in the closet whether we admit it or not. I am admitting it here.

Moving on. Below begins the actual journal entry from Fall, 1996 (I was 20 years old):

The brand new silver blade bit into the white, trembling skin of my left wrist.


I crouched on the green bath mat just outside the shower stall, trying to make myself small.
My hair was freshly washed, still wet and clinging to my cheeks and the back of my neck. A whiff of Herbal Essence shampoo. It was late on a weeknight, I'd planned it out somewhat.


My heart thundered in my chest and I felt the searing, slicing and it felt good. So I did it again. And again. With immense relief and disbelief at the same time.


Blood, red and thick, flooded to the surface and ran down the side of my arm, dripping.


Drip. Drop. Drip.
Plit. Plat. Plit.
Watching. Like slow motion. Numbness. A separation. Pieces of myself. Breaking off.


Red, paint-like splotches on the grey tiled floor of the shower. My nose was running and tears blurred my vision. I wasn't crying for the pain on my arm, but for the pain in my heart, my soul. Each time the razor sliced into my flesh I felt relief, release, rebirth, a newness. I felt purged and holy and clean. Bloodletting.


The blood flowed freely as I stayed quiet, hovering. I heard nothing save the sound of my own breath and the throbbing beat of blood pumping in my ears.


Pain---what is it, after all? This was a self-imposed pain, so it didn't count. There was a gauzy bandage wrapped around the site of my pain for a while, and now there are long sleeves conveniently covering my pain. But still, that's just the outside pain. There are two kinds, you know. The other is internal, deep inside my heart. It never goes away. I tried to make the inside pain go away by creating a pain on the outside. But that pain proved to be only a temporary distraction.


I'm tired of pain. I think a lot of people don't understand where my pain is coming from. Maybe I don't really understand, either.


It's hard to write about pain. I know it by heart, but I've always had trouble putting it into words, vocalizing it. Yet I don't mind putting words on paper. It's easier than talking about the pain, that's for sure.


Pain is a looming, growling monster that gallops after me. He chases me until I am too tired to run anymore. I trip and fall down and he jumps upon me, howling and writhing and fierce and mad. He won't let me get up and he chokes me, latches onto me. He follows me everywhere, taunting me in foreign tongues. I try not to listen.


I know his words are bad.

(end of journal entry)


And here is a Sylvia Plath poem that speaks to me in many ways:

"Cut"

What a thrill ----
My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone
Except for a sort of hinge

Of skin,
A flap like a hat,
Dead white.
Then that red plush.

Little pilgrim,
The Indian's axed your scalp.
Your turkey wattle
Carpet rolls

Straight from the heart.
I step on it,
Clutching my bottle
Of pink fizz. A celebration, this is.
Out of a gap
A million soldiers run,
Redcoats, every one.

Whose side are they on?
O my
Homunculus, I am ill.
I have taken a pill to kill

The thin
Papery feeling.
Saboteur,
Kamikaze man ----

The stain on your
Gauze Ku Klux Klan
Babushka
Darkens and tarnishes and when
The balled
Pulp of your heart
Confronts its small
Mill of silence

How you jump ----
Trepanned veteran,
Dirty girl,
Thumb stump.

Hi, My Name is Erin, and When I Was 15, My Dad Came Out of the Closet.

When my parents announced that Sunday morning that it was time for a "family meeting," my stomach lurched and the golden, glistening fried eggs I'd just eaten threatened to reappear. My younger brother, Mark, and I jeered and jabbed at each other on our way down the stairs, but part of me knew something wasn't right. While we joked in whispers that we'd better start doing our chores more diligently, the silent scream in my head warned me to stop time, to take the brittle hands of the clock and snap them like sticks, freezing us in this moment forever, untainted.

As soon as we sat down on the couch across from my parents, we knew this wasn't a meeting to assign more chores or rake us over the coals about something we'd done wrong. Mom was crying. Ever the lawyer, Dad was pacing with a legal pad and it wasn’t long before he began his opening statement. He was preparing to defend himself. “This is about honesty, integrity, respect, and my love for all of you,” he began nervously and somewhat formally. I suddenly couldn't stop looking at the dirty off-white carpet beneath my feet, its fuzzy fibers unraveling in places. I felt myself unraveling, too, things inside me twisting and pulling against each other. I wanted to take a loose loop of wool and run with it, clamp my hands over my ears and shout, "I CAN'T HEAR YOU," like a young child often does when there's something she doesn't want to hear.

Dad announced he was moving out, his sentences littered with awkward but telling third-person references “Your mother and I are getting divorced because your father is a homosexual.” He couldn't own it himself, the secret he'd just spilled from his lips. It was like he was speaking about someone else who wasn't there. He said he'd known he was gay since he was 12 years old, but thought he could hide it, squash it down, and lead a normal life. He thought he could pretend it away by marrying Mom. I tasted my breakfast in the back of my throat. I hoped that this was either a very realistic dream or April Fool's in November. Of course it was neither. As the tears threatened to roll, all I could think about was that I needed to get out of that house. I needed a friend. I needed air. I needed to think. This couldn’t possibly be happening. A lot of my friends’ parents were divorced, but mine never seemed like potential candidates---they always got along so well and things seemed relatively normal. I was also quite certain none of my friends had a gay parent.

As soon as they were done talking to us, I tore upstairs and called my best friend *Michelle. She was out of town at a soccer tournament. I called *Joe next. I think I blurted out, “My parents are getting divorced.” He suggested we meet at the nearby park and do homework together. I borrowed Mom’s car and left as quickly as I could. I think Mark retreated to his room, and only Kevin, the youngest of the three of us (nine years old at the time), remained with my parents to ask lots of questions I don’t think they were prepared for.


I got to the park and could barely speak. Just lots of tears, sobbing, and snot. I remember copying some of Joe's Latin homework. Amo, Amas, Amat, Amamus, Amatis, my dad is gay? My brain wouldn’t process anything, especially not Latin vocabulary and verb conjugations. I was on auto-pilot. Miles upon miles of senseless thoughts raced through my mind, colliding and causing traffic jams. Joe lent me an old handkerchief he found in his jacket pocket. At 15, he was ill-equipped for such an emotionally charged situation, but he did the best he could; he held me while I cried and he tried to make me laugh. As the afternoon sun waned and the skies began to darken, I knew I'd have to return home and face the challenges ahead.
 
Stay tuned for the next installment, my brother Mark's perspective on the very same day....
 
(*Some names have been changed.)