…from the Bills.

There’s something about swagger that draws me in, even when I’ve already predicted my eventual disappointment. It is a thrilling, magnetic mystery though at first, amongst the sea of Expecteds one must always wade amongst: the sparkly je ne sais quoi, the undulating power that draws you in, slippery charisma, cocksure & conceited. I get a genuine warm quiver and wave through my limbs when I get to encounter The Dazzling Arrogant, like a gift of repulsion I can’t wait to dive into. And in particular, for me at least, the most mesmerizing are The Writers. Which is funny that I start here.

I have an older brother who unintentionally taught me at an early age that most things that were considered girlish also happened to be… what’s the word… ah yes, “dumb”. And if I expected to have any social standing whatsoever in my coming years, fighting off my inherent nerdy leanings and general inability to be socially relatable to my peers, I’d kick this interest in girlish whathaveyou to the curb and realize Y-chromosomal whatnot was where it was at. Incidentally, this was not helped by the fact that my parents befriended nothing but other parents with sons. Now 35 years later, should you meet me in Physical Life, you’ll see me as rather feminine, almost flauntingly so. When you speak to me, however, you’ll likely find me nerdishly charming ( read: well, this) and weirdly man-ish in my occasionally abrupt ways and indifference to 75% of the lauded Female Experience. It’s admittedly an odd mix, sprung from a true awkwardness and having witnessed the value of social fluency early enough, I resorted to what I knew: I studied. Like Hillary from the Bills.

Despite this invaluable fraternal education, I occasionally fought for physically girly things, having resigned myself to being an emotionally lonely tomboy. At perhaps the age of 8 or 9, I received a diary (a right proper one with a lock and key to boot!) at Christmas and was weirdly rather excited: who would think I could want such a thing! What would I do with it?! Why did someone think my thoughts merited the written, eternally permanent form? (I say this partially as I have no recollection who gave me the diary, and truly, it was probably something picked up absent-mindedly as a ticked item on the Christmes To-Buy List. As seen here by this entry, it was the one gift I recalled from that Christmas, thus, well-done you last-minute shopper. Downright INDELIBLE.)

I was chuffed. And such a nice accompaniment to my recent birthday gift of a REAL desk. I was on the fast-track to growing up and becoming a Somebody who had Value and such. I organized important items in this desk, props I had accumulated through the years that I rarely used but felt appropriate to house in this beautifully important piece of furniture (wood, painted white, small faintly-painted peach Sweetpea on the front of the main drawer, with an oak top and matching spindle chair, slightly too big for me which was absolute perfection as it meant this was an “investment piece”). And now, a diary. Things were certainly going according to my plan, mining my ever-wandering noggin for those juicy bits of fluff, that like my desk held their relevant assemblages, my diary would become my passport filled with stamps of recollection, hardships, learnings, LIFE.

Before you invest a shred into any of this, I’m warning you now, I wrote a single page. And before you assume the typical childishly-fleeting interest to be the culprit, I’ll give you a hint: I stopped for a reason that would ultimately have an even greater effect than this diary could likely have had.

We still had those plastic-electric-yet-still-tasteful taper candles in each window of the house, this now being a full week past the New Year. My dad wasn’t around that evening and my mom (I really only realized this a fair bit later in life) had been drinking and managed to yell at me about something*. (*It’s worth noting I got in trouble a lot as a kid, my brother did not, he even agrees with me on this, and I didn’t really do anything bad. We’ll digress on this many more times I’m sure but I felt this was useful context. Maybe that’s debatable. I’ll continue now.) I went up to my room, and lit by these tacky-yet-beautiful glowy faux candlesticks through watery eyes, I wrote my first entry into my fresh diary. Huh. (a mixture of emotions seem to occur as I contemplate their purpose, yes, even at this age)…I did feel a lot better. Weird. It was like the page listened to me. So THIS is what all the hub-bub is about. Noted. A regular Emerson in-training! Or perhaps a Socratic Ephron? Onwards and upwards. Wow! This diary and I will be the best of mates! I locked MY gorgeous book up & snuck the key away in my undies drawer, in the back left naturally, tucked under Saturday which I somehow never wore.

A few days later after dinner, now fully into the schoolweek, my mom struck up another disagreement with me out of left-field. And as she was getting angrier, I realized she was referencing my Lone Page. My mind & heart & gut did this weird icy-lava thing and an actual golf ball seized up in my throat. There it was laid before me: she went into my room, found my damn Saturday Hiding Spot, unlocked my gorgeous gal and continued with the abuse until the single entry was consumed. I was crushed in such a confounding multiple of defeat & sorrow: the loss of Imminent Adulthood, the loss of My One Privacy, the loss of My Unfailing Sounding Board, my friend. And no less, to my mother who already was the source of most of my misery worth writing about, and now an abuser of trust in the very worst of ways.

I never let on that I knew, I just simply never wrote again. Ever. I wouldn’t let her have such easy-won access to my thoughts or feelings, especially not the latter. My ability to compartmentalize was born. My sense of Betrayal became fully-formed. Instead of this diary that was to be my New Friend to share my trials & wonders with, I realized now what emotional weaponry was and how it could be utilized. I started building my wall, each brick was a little trinket of herself she let slip out, revealing herself bare, and I laid these all together to make a nice tall fortress, so you could only see the bits of me I chose to let you see and was now surrounded somewhat giddily with her novice; I didn’t even need her key. Henceforth every interaction was shaded with Perception of Truth: what would I choose to reveal for you to find me in a certain light? Intertwined by the little sociological crumbs you’ve given me to then choose my reveal better? Optimizing perception, at 10. One does not make such a sweeping habit in a single evening however, but the honing had certainly begun. What a wonderful and important lesson to learn so early, especially in this man-ish little world I was in. What can I say besides, “Thank you, Mom!” (It’s not lost on me that I could find that diary somewhere in their basement and write another page, seeing if this old trick of mine still works, a new Saturday Hiding Spot to be created.)

Yet voila! Here I am now, here, writing, the Ultimate of all egotistic pursuits: that one dares to think what they write has some worth, their voice matters. It just feels so good to know she would never look here, that every single other human could read this open-source diary except her. Mmmmm. . . lecker. It really is a delightful and spiny feeling, but I’ll stand by it for the moment.**

**I’d rate this entry fairly high on the Woe-Is-Moi/Embittered scale. Any new entries will be tempered accordingly. Though this perhaps proved a successful wall to prevent any further reading 😉