Another Pagan Blog
I really hope you all hate the title of this post and are willing to argue that those are not in fact "typical high school emotions."
I was naive. I still am, but not nearly to the extent I was in High School. I felt so many emotions, I let so much affect me in a vastly negative way. I was supposed to be growing, but every corner I turned was another obstacle stunting my growth and sending me back into my shell. When I thought I had a poem published it turned out to be a scam, stunting my confidence in myself, not as a poet, but as a writer. The pieces and photos I put up on DeviantArt would get a few good reviews, but mostly resulted in insults or weren't ever noticed at all. Regardless of the fact that I had talent, anytime I ever auditioned for a solo in choir, since it was determined by democratic vote, I never got the solo. The one time I did, I wasn't allowed to take the solo for competition, only for the concert that only a handful of people who mattered would ever see. (Ironically, the girl who got the solo for the competition forgot an entire section of it, completely blowing the competition for us. We barely got an honorable mention. I remembered every word.)
My self-confidence was already battered into the ground before I ever got to High School. By the end of Freshman year I had made up my mind that I wouldn't be able to get into a University when I graduated, so I never even tried, I never even took the SAT. And it only got worse as the years wore on. From my dad calling me a satanist, to questioning my sexuality, to sitting in "church" every Sunday morning, convinced I was going to the Hell my parents and pastor didn't believe in, but still managed to make me terrified of.

It was my Junior year of High School that I really started pursuing my poetry. I think I honestly had a knack for it, and a love of exploring different forms of poetry. Most of it didn't rhyme, but rhyming has never been a problem for my poetry. My sister/best friend and I were really into Amy Brown and Nene Thomas at the time, so I had gone onto their sites and printed out several of their pictures that really spoke to me. Then I picked up a black journal and carried that around with me, the pictures taped to pages inside, and I would write poetry based on those pictures. In the front I had some kind of childish warning of horrible things that would happen to anyone who read or tried to publish any of that poetry. The poetry was for myself and those I cared about that I wanted to share it with, I never had any intention of any of it getting out to the public eye, it was just practiced to me.
One day I had left it by the computer that my family shared, probably in a pile of my stuff, and hadn't thought much of having left it there.
My dad was upstairs using the computer, and must have picked it up. I don't know if he ever bothered to look at the poetry or if he didn't even make it past the first page, but he was angry. He yelled a lot while I was in High School, nothing I could do was enough to make him happy. But that is one of the few times I remember exactly what he was yelling about. How he called me a satanist, long before I was ever even pagan. How he forced me to throw away my own poetry.
(Later that night my mom snuck out and picked it out of the trash and kept it hidden in her room for a couple weeks before she showed me that she'd saved it. I had her hold onto it for as long as she could. It still brings up a lot of bitter feelings whenever I look at it, and I certainly never could pick up the poetry again.)

My dad and I fought a lot. Nothing terribly different from other families, everyone has arguments with their parents when they're teenagers. But I never tried to rebel in High School. It was always over some shoe I'd left in the living room, or dishes I hadn't washed. He would be angry, probably because he just got home from work after a two hour long drive through rush hour traffic, and I would be angry that he was getting so upset over something so small. Words would be exchanged, but I would try so hard to turn the other cheek. Whenever I felt like I was getting to a point where I just couldn't say anything that wouldn't dig me further into the hole I was try to walk away, but he wouldn't ever let me. He'd get upset that I was walking away from him. The fight would continue. I'd eventually get sent to my room, which was what I was trying to do in the first place.
I used to be a Daddy's girl, and I think it killed both of us that we'd grown so far apart. I know it kills him. He feels like he failed as a father to my sisters (his step-daughters) and tried to make it up to himself by being a good father to me, but the harder he pushed, the further we grew. The closer I grew to my sisters.
I started talking to them a lot. L had just moved back to SoCal, and J and I were finally in a spot where we could have civil conversations. Most of which were about our home life, about dad. And I would sit there and look at my sister (J) who'd just had a baptisim and wonder what in the world my father could have wrong with her life choices.
Then there was L...who started attending a Unitarian Universalist church on a regular basis, and no longer believed in Jesus. (Even though I was still a devout little Christian girl I remember looking at my mom when she told me that L didn't believe in Jesus and just thinking 'so what?')
And looking at L and J, I began to realize something. It didn't matter what I did, or how hard I tried to make Daddy happy...I would never be good enough for him, because I could never be THAT untrue to myself. I couldn't believe that there was something wrong with a man and a woman living together before marriage, or indulging in drink occasionally, I had to question his political beliefs, which led me to questioning his religious beliefs.

I spent a good chunk of those years, Junior, Senior, and my first year of College, entertaining thoughts of suicide. Nothing I ever acted on, but I don't think it was just a cry for attention...because it took me a long time to bring it up with anyone. I'd written notes that I hid in journals, I'd stared at the blade of my razor, wondering how I'd even go about getting it off. Even after I had folded and confessed to my mom and my sisters, I'd still have moments while I was in the car, at the front of a line stopped at a busy intersection, and wondering what it would be like if I just stepped on the gas and drove out into the middle of all these cars racing past me. The excuse I used at the time was that I could never live up to the expectations of one person, but looking back on it, I'm sure there was much more to it. Spiritual dissatisfaction, sexual confusion, low self-esteem, and the verbal abuse of my father. I was an incredibly unhappy person.


06/08/2012 01:05

i like your blog alot .


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