When I was eleven years old, I watched Sailor Moon religiously every morning. It kept repeating the same season over and over, and I always cried at the end. The main character was close to my age, and her daughter came back in time from the future for reasons I don't recall. I do recall the scenes showing her future, with a good man at her side, all grown up with a daughter. It just struck me last night, in the middle of work, that I used to always fantasize about being her in that position. Grown up, with a husband and a daughter. The memory was literally staggering for me, I almost fell over in mid-stride. I've completely forgotten so much of my past that links to the present issue. I don't remember what it was exactly that scared me enough to not just hide my feminine self from the world, but to hide it from myself, deep in the subconsious.
One of my more stubborn friends (who hasn't known me as long as most), says that when I act my female self and dress up, it seems like I'm forcing it. Well, I haven't had the chance to correct him yet, but what I will tell him is YES! I AM FORCING IT! I never imagined it would be this hard to bring out a part of my mind that was once so healthy and active. My therapist told me when I was fourteen that she was glad I came to see her, because she saw me as being borderline suicidal. Well, as far as I'm concerned, I already committed suicide. By the time I was seventeen, in my senior year of high school, I was practically dead inside. I remember avidly speaking about how weak emotions made people, how pointless love was, how depressed people should just roll over and die and stop wasting everyone's time. I was horrible.
And now I feel like I'm trying to do something as impossible as raising the dead. I think it's working, but the little girl inside of me is so terrified and timid, I've beaten her so badly. She was my scapegoat for years. I blamed all my problems on this stupid feminine alter ego inside of my head that, despite my best efforts, would not stay down. Eventually, she snuck into my writing, taking the form of a pre-teen genius with a bitter, jaded outlook on reality, much like the first girl I ever fell in love with.
She's coming out more and more now, though, and as she does, I am afraid for us both. She is angry.
I am angry.
And you all must know what it's like to lie in bed, images in your head of your feminine self weeping, sobbing, clinging to her loved ones and pouring her heart out like she's always wanted to, but not being able to shed a tear. It makes me feel sick in a very deep part of myself. Like this cold, lurching feeling in my chest.
You think they'd help me come out if I held him hostage?
