Dead Girl

A challenge about a time I didn't fit in. Hmm. I believe that's the current status quo in my life, but rules are meant to be broken, and lives are meant to be changed.

It was the 7th grade. Our assignment was to write a poem--no rules, schemes, or word count--just a simple poem that we were to share with the class. I was an adolescent hellbent on a heavy dose of depressive thoughts, self-harm, and living a life that was "livable" at best. I was bullied for the fact that I kept to myself; my natural heterochromia and long hair branded me a witch to most of the popular crowd, but that nickname was kind of compliment in my eyes. At any rate, literature was a strong suit for me, and I prided myself on writing and poetry.

"An opportunity to show the world a piece of me."

That was the words that played in my head like a Jefferson Airplane record minus the LSD. I spent countless hours scribbling away on pieces of paper that my classmates carelessly threw away--next to the trashcan (idiots) and wrote most of my works on that. It was a noted 'law' in the classroom to never waste a good piece of paper on scribbles, art, or anything that detracted students from their academics. Did we care? Not all, in fact, we relished in the fact that most of our binders were odes to our favorite musical groups and our high school crushes.

I was a bit...different from those crowds, but I didn't mind it. I spent a good portion of my youth watching cult-classic horror and digesting my fair share of FANGORIA and binge-watching 'Hellraiser,' so horror, the macabre, and the deranged were my life. When Mrs. Flannery gave us our assignment; I was immediately enamored. It was the first time in the classroom that we were given an opportunity to shine. Seeing that my expertise was delving down a rabbit hole into madness, I based my poem off the videogame Max Payne. (I should also note I'm a huge geek.) I wrote the words down and they flowed like a river out of my hand. I remember on my middle finger where I used to hold my pencil, I had a huge bunion from where I used to write like an addict fiending over drugs. When I started writing my poem, I remember how excited I was. The dark prose was the perfect homage to the depravity behind the story. I took it personal, and of course since I was brimming with the usual case of wanting to die, I made sure to add my own spin on "scraping the pain out of my skull," as Max so eloquently states.

Fast forward, I turned in my (what I thought was) gem and went to my next class period with a certain sense of grandeur. I believed wholeheartedly that what I had written was a testament to who I was, and a wonderful introduction into the person behind the black, long hair, and weird eyes. I felt like I was a human; just this once, I felt like I belonged.

It was the next day and I went into Mrs. Flannery's class thinking how I would surely ace my assignment. It was simple, right? Write a poem that came from your heart and don't plagiarize. I sat at my desk, waited for that moment for her to hand out the graded project, and prepared for that scarlet A (without the adultery) to sit atop the left-hand corner. My turn came and I was grinning from ear to ear like Cheshire cat. She passed by me, handed over the paper upside down, and I flipped it.

It was an F. A fucking F.

Well, I felt my heart emerge from its place in my chest and make a nice, little home inside my esophagus. I didn't cry, but the idea of it seemed like a good idea, given my one passion was ruined. To top it off, a lovely note was fixed right next to that big, fat F.

"Your words are good, but your content is way too disturbing. Maybe you should see a therapist."

I should see a therapist; that'll fix me right up. My thoughts in those moments of disbelief made the room around me funnel into an apex. Words sort of distorted in such a way that my classmates' laughter, gossiping and talking turned into a down tuned note on a Jackson. Truthfully, I felt embarrassed. All those words that people had told me felt reiterated, solidified, even. It was first grade all over again when my bullies knocked my crayons out of their box and stepped all over them. I remember how proud I was getting that brand new box, after I was bullied for not being able to afford crayons. I carried one, purple crayon and one, blue crayon with me for almost a whole year, before I could afford crayons. In those moments of reading and re-reading that caption atop the page...I felt like my purple and blue crayon was all I was.

"Maybe they're right; maybe I'm just another "goth" girl who belongs on the back burner of life, with nothing to contribute and no reason to live."

Stupidly, I let one of my friends in the class read my poem, and their words were exactly, "that's dark."

I didn't know what to say. I felt so humiliated that I went home and questioned throwing out all my artwork and poems. It was my long-term passion to become a writer, and all I knew was the solemnity that followed me through my teens. I couldn't help but wonder if there was something wrong with me, and that maybe I did need to seek out someone to free from my dark subconscious. Later on, that night, it ate away at me so badly that I couldn't bear to look at my mom. It was ironic in the sense that my mother was the only one that kept me pursuing my passion for writing and art. She introduced me to Hellraiser when I was three, and she kept my mind always eager to learn more about the horror world. She knew something was wrong with me, and upon asking me several times if anything was okay, I eventually caved and told her. Disappointment was what she felt, not because of what I had written, but because of the fact that I had given up. Her words were always, "I didn't raise you to quit," and she was right.

I went into class the next day and felt shy to see Mrs. Flannery and my classmates. I was the atypical, dark entity that lurked in the back, awaiting all the eyes to gaze upon my melancholy existence. My already depressive state was exacerbated to the point of wanting to break down and cry. My passion was seemingly a piece of dust that withered into the spaces between light. The lesson was some boring topic about something I barely remember, and as usual, I spaced out and went on with usual spacey fantasies. I grabbed my pencil and started scribbling out swirls, until the swirls became letters; the letters slowly transformed into sentences, and before I knew it, I was writing.

In that moment, it clicked in my head that passion can't be killed when your heart is destined for a path already predestined. I realized that no matter what anyone said about me or how people felt, I was a writer, and writer's job is to capture the best, worst, and odd moments of your life. As time went on, I started getting bigger and bolder to the point that my classmates eventually became used to my brutish appearance. I even went on to selling poetry to the jocks and cheerleaders for when they couldn't chock up anything for their homework. It was kind of an ironic twist, and with any story, no good plot ever existed without a pivotal turn of events.

Fast forward to now, and I’m a cult-horror writer who does work for two big name companies, and even have my own business. I guess I’ll always be that creepy girl who writes disturbing poetry and even more disturbing novels. Sometimes I look back and thank that F. Why? Because if I didn’t see what giving up was, I might never know what success feels like. I like the dark, decrepit, realistic views of humanity most refuse to acknowledge; it’s my way of showing people that you need to understand it to know the good side of things. Turns out, I didn’t actually need therapy (until I was mentally and sexually abused, but that’s another story), and I went on to help other people find the courage to write despite what peoplr thought of them. Your passion is not dictated by what people think of you. Yeah, people aren’t going to necessarily enjoy everything you do, but it’s not your job to people please. I don’t fit in, and though the point of this challenge is to write about the opposite, I look back and laugh.

Screw fitting in; seriously, kick that crap off the edge and watch it break every bone in its existence. Do what you LOVE, even if you don’t fit in. Never ever give up…EVER.