Girl Anachronism
The Perfect Fit
“I used to be the tight one...the perfect fit...” I sang. Well, if you could call it singing. Mostly when I played my songs, certain parts included screaming or a shrill cry. My mother would always tell me,
“Stop being over dramatic!” And in my own defense I would yell back,
“I'm not being over dramatic, I'm feeling! I'm expressing!” She would stick her nose high in the air like her shit smelt like roses. She often accused me of acting out for attention. Several times I pleaded to her,
“I'm not acting, Mother. I'm feeling. I have feelings!” She made me feel like I was crazy. As if I were crazy to express how I felt instead of swallowing everything down like painful medicine. I hated the fact that as a child, and only as a child, you can act freely and express feelings in the most dramatic ways and it's okay. But as you grow older and mature, the people around you tell you to hold things in and your brain starts contracting until you make yourself sick. Emotionally and mentally, I had a lot on my plate. And whenever I tried to create from it, people thought I was crazy. Anytime I broke down my barriers through making music, I was crazy. I got a lot out of opening up, but it made people believe I was crazy. In my head, I was fine. But if you took the elevator down to my heart, it was a completely different show. I was not fine. And I wanted to express this through my music, my art. Music was what made me not crazy. In the music room of our house, where we stored our pianos, I had created a nest for myself in which I could get this all out of me.
I wasn't ladylike like my sister Alyson was and I think my mother resented me for that. My brain wasn't built to talk about cute boys or shopping or going to the mall with girl friends or anything of that nature. Purely out of defiance, took make a statement, I stopped shaving. EVERYWHERE. My mother was disgusted. “Have you no pride in your appearance?” she demanded with a snarl.
“Go upstairs, Amanda, and shave. NOW.” As soon as her ignorant words spilled from her mouth, a light turned on in my head.
“Okay, Mother.” I replied calmly, and obediently walked upstairs to my bathroom I was forced to share with Alyson.
“Oh yes, Mother Dearest. I'll shave for you alright.” I said out loud to myself into the mirror. I began applying shaving cream to my eyebrows. I came back downstairs and with one quick glance, my mother screamed. There was no hiding my triumphant smirk of defiance. Alyson snickered at me as she stood next to our mother.
“Hey, if you didn't have any eyebrows, you'd look like a fucking alien too.”
“Amanda...” my mother finally uttered. “What are you going to do? If you think you had a hard time making friends now...” and her voice trailed off. With a shrug I came to a conclusion.
“I'll draw them on. It'll be fun.”
“FUN?” my mother exclaimed in horror. “I suppose if you call re-shaving your face like a man and drawing on your face every morning fun...I don't get it.” She rambled on and on. I, on the other hand, was excited. Now I could the space my eyebrows once were to be creative and express myself as well. I would do fancy squiggles, lightening bolts, or even write my name in cursive. Oh what a fun project this would be...
“Stop being over dramatic!” And in my own defense I would yell back,
“I'm not being over dramatic, I'm feeling! I'm expressing!” She would stick her nose high in the air like her shit smelt like roses. She often accused me of acting out for attention. Several times I pleaded to her,
“I'm not acting, Mother. I'm feeling. I have feelings!” She made me feel like I was crazy. As if I were crazy to express how I felt instead of swallowing everything down like painful medicine. I hated the fact that as a child, and only as a child, you can act freely and express feelings in the most dramatic ways and it's okay. But as you grow older and mature, the people around you tell you to hold things in and your brain starts contracting until you make yourself sick. Emotionally and mentally, I had a lot on my plate. And whenever I tried to create from it, people thought I was crazy. Anytime I broke down my barriers through making music, I was crazy. I got a lot out of opening up, but it made people believe I was crazy. In my head, I was fine. But if you took the elevator down to my heart, it was a completely different show. I was not fine. And I wanted to express this through my music, my art. Music was what made me not crazy. In the music room of our house, where we stored our pianos, I had created a nest for myself in which I could get this all out of me.
I wasn't ladylike like my sister Alyson was and I think my mother resented me for that. My brain wasn't built to talk about cute boys or shopping or going to the mall with girl friends or anything of that nature. Purely out of defiance, took make a statement, I stopped shaving. EVERYWHERE. My mother was disgusted. “Have you no pride in your appearance?” she demanded with a snarl.
“Go upstairs, Amanda, and shave. NOW.” As soon as her ignorant words spilled from her mouth, a light turned on in my head.
“Okay, Mother.” I replied calmly, and obediently walked upstairs to my bathroom I was forced to share with Alyson.
“Oh yes, Mother Dearest. I'll shave for you alright.” I said out loud to myself into the mirror. I began applying shaving cream to my eyebrows. I came back downstairs and with one quick glance, my mother screamed. There was no hiding my triumphant smirk of defiance. Alyson snickered at me as she stood next to our mother.
“Hey, if you didn't have any eyebrows, you'd look like a fucking alien too.”
“Amanda...” my mother finally uttered. “What are you going to do? If you think you had a hard time making friends now...” and her voice trailed off. With a shrug I came to a conclusion.
“I'll draw them on. It'll be fun.”
“FUN?” my mother exclaimed in horror. “I suppose if you call re-shaving your face like a man and drawing on your face every morning fun...I don't get it.” She rambled on and on. I, on the other hand, was excited. Now I could the space my eyebrows once were to be creative and express myself as well. I would do fancy squiggles, lightening bolts, or even write my name in cursive. Oh what a fun project this would be...