I apologize for typos.
I’m sorry I’ve been neglectful. I’ve wanted to write but my emotions have been haywire lately and most of the writing that came from that deserves to remain private. My head has been so jumbled. I swear it feels like my cranium is full of water. Or maybe oil. Yes. Oil is thicker. My cranium is full with oil and everything inside is moving about like a slow snow globe. Everything is sluggish and tired and so am I. My head is the creepiest, strangest snow globe and it needs a nap.
I constantly need a nap.
Loyalty is one of my favorite words to say and feel in my mouth. It feels full and rich as it slides off the tongue, making its escape for freedom just beyond plaque caked teeth. Off the tongue like a diving board. Looooy. Uuuuhl. Teee. Yum. I want to thank those of you who have remained avid readers even in my dry spell. Its so nice to hear that people read and reread entries that they’ve enjoyed.
I have come here without a plan today so I’m sitting here trying to dig up a story for you from the decrepit, overstuffed filing cabinets in my mind. And when I say I’m digging, I mean I’m really digging. I could tell you all a lot of things, a lot of stories but the long and short of it is that I don’t know if I’m ready to. Secrets are usually secrets for good reason… Specifically when they are secrets you’ve kept to yourself.
Here is a post about some fucked up things. Here is me trying to make myself vulnerable. Here I am possibly failing.
In the fourth grade I knew a girl that would constantly itch her scalp and look under her nails. Sometimes I would watch her bring her fingernails to her mouth and gnaw out whatever dead skin and who knows what from beneath them. It grossed me out to say the least but I don’t remember mentioning it. Soon after I noticed this habit of hers, every other kid in my class began to as well and they were ruthless. I felt bad, like maybe someone had caught me staring at her too long and saw what I was gawking at, so they began to gawk too. Like a sad domino effect. I sat by silently and tried my hardest not to stare. Someone started a rumor that she had bugs and I tried not to think about it.
That same year I got bugs. I don’t know what kind of bugs, but they were brown and lived in my hair. I remember being very disappointed and ashamed of myself. What had I possibly done to deserve this? I had kept my mouth shut about that girl but maybe staring in a judging manor was enough to cause dirty, brown bug karma. I remember crying. A lot.
I also remembering sitting at my desk, that exact moment that I scratched my head and felt the squirming beneath my nails. My stomach turned and I checked them just as the girl in my class had. Oh god.
I never told my mother or father. In fact until about a year ago I didn’t share this bit of information with anyone. I never forgot it, I never could. It grossed me out. I asked my mother to buy me this special shampoo, as it was for dry scalp as well as many other things. My excuse was dry scalp and it worked. I attacked my hair, cut it myself. So short.
I remember wondering what I would have to do if the bugs didn’t go away. I would have to tell my parents and then I would have to explain to them why I didn’t just tell them from the start. Luckily I rid myself of the disgusting creepy crawlers but sometimes I still have dreams where I feel them.
I’m sure all you took from this story is the fact that I had bugs when I was young but the point was mostly the fact that I couldn’t tell my parents certain things, even from a young age. I’m sure this seems silly as most kids hide things, but trust me- it gets real cute.
When I was eleven I was friends with this girl, I guess.. Kind of. Okay so I wasn’t really, I didn’t want to be but her mother used to be friends with my mother when they were in school. And how convenient! They had moved back to the neighborhood! Only a handful of steps away, right around the corner. It would have been incredibly wonderful if the girl hadn’t been such a suck bag.
We rode to and from school side by side on the bus for a year, I think. Maybe less. She got too crazy for me too fast, which is saying something. She had a round, pudgy face. Pudgier than me, which is also kind of saying something. She had long, stringy, greasy blond hair and she smelt like cheese often. Her breath did anyway. Her eyes were big and brown, they looked really innocent. They were probably the only part of her that truly looked that way.
Halfway through our shitty friendship her father took his own life. I wasn’t as bothered by it as I think I would be now if one of my friends parents pulled such a stunt… But I have to account for the fact that little jean also had to witness this girls father all but beat his family. Something I never mentioned to my parents either. Of course as time went on this was the least of our friendships issues.
Once I got fed up with the agonizing, volatile feel of her home, I started inviting her to my home. It seemed like a good idea as I was far more comfortable in my own home. We spent a lot of time in my bedroom listening to music she liked and lazing about. I had a captains bed that ruled, so hard. There was cabinet storage underneath the mattress area, built into the frame. On the opposite side of the storage was a wide open spot where I had made a bed beneath my bed. I had extra blankets, pillows and my extra large stuffed bear.
One day while she was over, looking up things on my computer, I had shuffled my way under the bed. I traced the knots in the wood of the underside of my bed while she listened to music I didn’t care about. Awful, awful music. When sh was finally bored with her internet endeavors she came down to my level, staring at me a bit too long.
I’m bored and I want to play a game.
Okay. Grab one.
Not that kind of game.
She grabbed the extra large stuffed bear that I had and this sick smile spread across her lips.
Its called, what would you do if…?
She ground the bear into my crotch area, making weird noises. I could feel the pressure of the hand behind the bear bruising my pelvis. I didn’t know what was going on. She pressed the fuzzy head into my chest. Pressed its hand into my crotch. I wanted to be demolished, ruined, swept under some rug and stomped into nonexistence.
What would you do if _____ did this to you?
What. Would you do?
I don’t know!
She groaned and pressed the bears crotch into my face, I could feel the fake fur in my eyes, nose, and mouth. I couldn’t breathe and I started grasping for the back of the stuffed animal. I started squirming and whining before she removed the bear from my face.
Did you like that?
I tried to avoid eye contact with the wood knot.
I said, did you like that?
I don’t want to play this.
Oh come on, try it on me!
I don’t want to.
I’ll show you what to do!
I crawled out from under my bed and scurried downstairs to my mother. I told he that I wasn’t feeling well and asked her to send my friend home. I hid out in the bathroom until she was out of my house. I crept back upstairs and placed the stuffed bear in my closet. I laid down on my bed beneath my bed and avoided making eye contact with the wood knot that had seen it all. I disassembled my faux-bed and placed the extra blankets as well the pillows back into my closet.
For days afterward she would make fun of me relentlessly to and from school on the bus. She would try and trip me and prod at me until I was shaking, my nerves really driving me. One exceptionally awful afternoon I nearly cried.
Are you going to cry, baby?
You so are.
It looks like it cry baby.
I’m not. Because my dad is still alive and I’m going to go hug him.
She told her mother what I said. Her mother told my mother what I said. I was made to go to her house and apologize in front of her mother and my own. I never outed her, even though I felt like I should. Because I didn’t know how to tell my mother. I didn’t know how to explain. I just dealt with it.
I have a million and one shitty stories like this. Stupid little secrets I keep locked up in my noggin. And I could share them but I guess this was more of an example than anything else. A way to prove something. I have been through some bullshit. Just like the rest of us, so that being said-
This is why I don’t appreciate it when people get bothered by my reaction to their break downs. I know it isn’t fair to not care just because I’ve never projected my inner turmoil on others because I didn’t know how to deal with my own problems, but. I mean. Do on to others as you want them to do on to yourself.
Just last year someone who I was very close to assumed that I didn’t know how to deal with a break down because I’ve never experienced one or a loved one go through one. The mere fact that anyone could think that someone else hasn’t gone through their own melt down is ignorant and just rude.
I don’t know where I’m going with this any longer and I’m sorry but I guess- take care of each other. Try to understand others needs, not just your own.
Over and out.
P.s. the answer to the title is “because they don’t know where home is.” Bet you didn’t see that one coming.