Heavy

Did you have crazy ideas of yourself when you were a kid? I mean, the lot of us did. Like, did you have the crazy idea that you were going to be a somebody. A big shot, someone your parents could be proud of? Someone you could be proud of.

Girls, don't lie, you dreamt of the perfect man. The prince charming, the wonderful guy to sweep you off your feet. The perfect wedding, the dress, the bridesmaid dresses, the flowers, color scheme, even the church or palace it would take place.

You never think of the jerks you'd have to go through to get to your prince charming. You never think of how bad you had to be treated to understand, and finally get to that one person who treated you way differently. The guy who took you away from all that bullshit. The one guy who said I love you and didn't do you any harm.

You never dreamt about these assholes, because you never expected to be around assholes. You had a vision, as a child, that everyone is a nice person. Everyone was kind in their own way. Not once did you think maybe that evil could be in the form of a male. That evil could penetrate your world. Even if it did, your fairy godmother, or prince charming would slay your dragon.

You never think about it until it happens; that your with someone who treats you badly.

Well, luckily, I'd gone through it all when I met my prince charming. 

Oh, how he made me smile. He wanted to be mine. He wanted to touch me. He wanted to kiss me. He wanted me.

Aside from all that, what did you think of your future job? Your skills? Your profession?

Did you want to be a doctor, a lawyer, a ballerina, perhaps? Because, being a princess was beyond realistic, but hey, we all dream.

I never dreamt about being a princess. I was more so infatuated with being a star. A big, shiny, high in the sky, star. I wanted to be happy.

In school, my third grade teacher, I will never forget, had us draw what we wanted to be. We could cut out silhouettes of our heads and put what we wanted to be underneath it. Anything we wanted to be.

There was a lot of falsehood of fairy tales, let me tell you. Lots of girls put Princess, Ballerina, and Mommy. Bolder ones said Doctor or Teacher. Boys were easy: Wrestler, Doctor, and Artist. 

Me: "I want to be happy."

My teacher, Mrs. Mel, she told me that, that wasn't possible. I questioned her, "I can't be happy?"

Mrs. Mel was stumped then, but she said, "You need to pick a profession, a job, October."

"I want to be a happy person, then."

Let's just say, Mrs. Mel didn't understand that you can be a happy person when you're older. I did understand the assignment, but I always felt that you could get a job as being happy, why not? It wasn't impossible, anything is possible.

Mrs. Mel had a talk with my parents. My father, he was a big, man, who sang in a folk band, "October can't be happy?" He had questioned her as well.

My mother, she was chubby, too, with a big bright smile, deep dimples that I was lucky enough to inherit, she sized Mrs. Mel up, "Are you happy? Why can't my daughter have a job that happens to be happy?"

Mrs. Mel got honest with them, she hadn't spoken the right words, and I don't really remember all she said; it was 15 years ago. She had summed up my happiness as challenging. I was thinking, far ahead, too smart for being 8 years old. I was too smart for her, too smart for a 34 year old school teacher. My parents doted me, they had told me all this, and I can't say I believed them totally, because I was 8, after all.

But, from that day on, I figured that Mrs. Mel didn't like me, this, turned me in a self-conscious kid. I "dumbed" myself down a lot. I got answers wrong on purpose, I never raised my hand in class, and I never really applied myself in class.

A lot of kids called me the real dumb blond; I wasn't really blond, but my hair was a gold brownish color. I wasn't really dumb, either. I sort of regret letting Mrs. Mel get to me.

Because of those words, I let others make fun of me. I let words hurt. I let myself go, in a way. I never let anyone get too close; words. Words just hurt me so damn bad.

It got so bad, that by the time I got to high school, I was a solid C student, I had no friends -at all, I cut myself -a lot- and I talked to myself, because no one would talk to me. My parents saw a real big problem, they saw through the bad grades and the fake smile. They never disciplined me, because they knew I was hurting already; grounding me for a C- couldn't contrast with the fact I cut myself over that C-.

So, Mrs. Mel was right. I couldn't be happy when I got older. I didn't do shit when I got older. Sure, I had dreams now, no fairytale dreams, a small, possible dream. I wanted to become a writer.

I wrote a lot; poems, short stories, haikus, and a few songs. I could play the guitar, thanks to my dad, and I played my songs to myself. I had no one to share them with, besides the puffer fish in my bedroom. My dad heard me sing once, accidentally, and I stopped singing out loud. I sang in my head, the only place I was safe.