Mirror, Mirror

Perception. Such a tricky thing. There’s how others perceive me:

Shy.

Nervous.

Malleable.

Weak.

Since I was a child, people have made similar snap judgments about me, as people are wont to do.

Oh, she’s quiet? She must be shy.

Oh, she’s blushing? She must be nervous.

Oh, she wants to please people? She must be malleable.

Oh, she avoids confrontation? She must be weak.

And maybe I am all of those things. But I’m not just those things. I’m not just a neurotic introvert with tendencies of being a pushover. And I’d prefer if people didn’t boil me down to that. Because I am so much more.

Would you ever guess that this shy girl loves to argue? Would you ever guess that when she’s driving she cusses like a sailor? In your skewed and narrow-minded view of me, would you imagine that I’m crazy competitive? Did you know that I have a quick Irish temper? The soul of a poet? The heart of a fighter?

Funny, while in high school, everyone said I was shy. They would say it with a twinge of sympathy coloring their voices: “Oh, Katie? Well, she’s shy.” In the South, we add “bless her heart” to the end of things like that, and all the sudden, insulting someone or talking about them behind their back suddenly becomes okay. At least that’s what we tell ourselves.

To be fair, being called shy wasn’t particularly insulting. I’ve been called much worse. But as a child, I remember perceiving that three-letter-word as the nastiest of insults. Hearing it would make me cringe, because I knew it minimalized me and my abilities; I knew that as long as that word hovered over my head, I would be held back by it.

In middle school and high school, I was help back by it. I was held back by it, because I started believing it. It was the word used most often to describe Katie, the word that popped out of nearly anyone’s mouth when asked about me.

I was Katie. I was the shy girl. I was boiled down to nothing more than a label.

I think that’s what happens to many of us in high school. We get labeled. We’re jocks. Or nerds. Or outsiders. Or shy girls. We’re square pegs forced into round holes. Never mind about how we perceive ourselves. In high school, it’s all about how others perceive us.

I realized today that life hasn’t changed much from high school.

Even though I turn twenty-nine in two days, I’m still allowing myself to be defined by others. I’m still letting someone else tell me that I’m shy or a pushover or not true to myself. I’m still letting someone else tell me what’s wrong with me, why I don’t quite fit.

Source: business-beware.tumblr.com via Ashley on Pinterest

Today, something broke inside me. A flood of feelings, a barrage of pent-up frustrations, each one assaulting both heart and head and leaving me exposed and sure of nothing. Afterward the dam broke, I sat in front of my computer for nearly two hours, the day’s events replaying shot-by-shot in my head, regrets and confusion bubbling to the surface.

And I wrote this post, then made this vow:

My last year of my twenties will not be defined by friends or enemies. My last year of my twenties will be about me: the good, the bad, and the ugly. I will be myself. I will be kind, caring, goofy, and strange. I will worry about everything. I will laugh about nothing.  I won’t let the negativity of others drag me down. I won’t let the opinions others have of me define me. I won’t let their misconceptions rule the day. I will be me, and I will love that person, flaws and all.

Have you ever been defined by a label? Do certain people in your life have misconceptions about who you are?


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The Eighth Year

This post originally appeared as a guest post at one of my favorite blogs Narragansett No. 7, but I thought it was appropriate to share it here as part of "The Living Nightmare" Halloween prompt at The Lightning and the Lightning Bug. 

The Eighth Year

The sleeping patterns and habits of an eight-year old rarely make any kind of sense, and my sleeping habits were even more of an enigma than that of most eight-year olds. I know I gave my mom fits as a child. Constantly fighting sleep. Constantly crying out her name in the middle of the night. I can remember our mutual frustration in trying to figure out what was keeping me awake. Even so, sleeping didn’t become a major issue for me until my eighth year.

That eighth year was eventful. I remember a lot from my childhood then. I’ve been blessed (sometimes it’s a curse) with an active mind and can hold onto most memories well, and it seems that most of the memories from my childhood come from that turbulent and tumultuous year.

Daddy had just gotten laid off from his job. He is and will always be the hardest working man I’ve ever known, and during the time between his old job and what would become his new and better job, he did everything in his power to provide for our family.  As an eight-year old, I probably couldn’t fully appreciate the sacrifices that he and Mama were making during that time of struggle for our family, but looking back on it as an adult, I do. I realize just how much that period of my life shaped the person I am today, and I couldn’t be more grateful for the lessons learned then. To this day, I try to never take anything for granted.

When Daddy did land his new job, it was two hours away. Until we could all move to our new town, the family was separated, and the rock and protector of the house was missing. Thus began my sleeping woes. Or at least that’s where I think they began. I can still clearly see myself as if looking down from above. There I am, lying in my tiny twin bed, the ruffled and flowered bedspread covering my slight eight-year old form, an army of stuffed animals arranged around me in a protective ring. When it comes to the dark, I’m a chicken through and through. For as long as I can remember, I’ve feared not the dark itself but what may be waiting in the dark, what the dark hides from me. The dozens of stuffed animals that I slept with as a child were a form of comfort to me, a symbolic means of protection from what was hidden in the dark.

Via

In addition to the stuffed animals standing sentry over me, I took the measure of pulling the sheets over my face when I slept. I still practiced this habit until I got married a few years ago. If I couldn't see the dark, then it couldn’t see me. To avoid looking into the darkness is the key. 

To this day, I avoid dark windows. When I look out into that cold expanse of darkness, I can’t help but feel that Something, somewhere is looking back at me. I have stood at windows for long stretches, staring hard into the night, looking for a glimpse of whatever is out there watching me through depthless eyes. Daring whatever it is to jump out and reveal itself. 

Lying in bed at night, the fear is of waking up and seeing Something or someone standing beside my bed, looking down at me. This particular fear is more acute, probably because it actually happened to me during my eventful eighth year. 

After what had already been a long night of going back and forth between her bedroom and mine, trying desperately to get me to go to sleep, Mama finally let me crawl into bed with her. The comfort and relief I felt when I snuggled up to her warm body was indescribable. You see, I had convinced myself as long as someone was in the room with me whatever was lurking in the dark would stay away. 

I was wrong.

I woke in the middle of the night, as I had before and have millions of times since, with the feeling that Something was watching me. I kept my eyes squeezed shut, unwilling to let a drop of the darkness in. I listened.  Mama's soft snores interrupted the silence of the night, but there was another noise, something I've never heard before or since. I don't think I can even describe it, other than it sounded heavy, as heavy and thick as the air in the room felt.

When I finally gathered the courage to open my eyes, a dark figure stood at the side of the bed, bent down over where Mama slept. It was watching her, and it knew that I was watching it. I felt its eyes transfer to me, and pure dread settled into my child's heart. I gasped. I snapped my eyes shut and scrambled to pull the thin sheet back over my face. I lay there for hours, too terrified to move, too paralyzed with fear to even wake my mother who lay sleeping peacefully beside me. I didn't open my eyes until I felt the warmth of morning sunlight on my face. It chased the black void from the room and closed that gateway to Hell.

I still feel eyes watching me sometimes, resting upon me as I move through the darkness of our house, as I settle down to sleep at night. Over the years, I've grown more comfortable with these feelings. I have never seen a ghost, but I have experienced things, especially in my eighth year, that leave me knowing, without a doubt, that something else is out there, watching from the darkness.


  

A Southern Storm

I’ve always counted myself as pretty brave when it comes to spring thunderstorms and Mother Nature’s fury. After all, I’ve lived in Georgia my entire life, and if you aren’t used to thunderstorms after living in Georgia for 28 years, then you’re not going to get used to them. When Jeremy first moved here from California, he’d get extremely incredibly pretty damn nervous when it would storm (although he probably wouldn’t appreciate me telling you so). Up in Jefferson State, where he’s from, thunderstorms were something of a rarity, and I suppose even when they did occur, they weren’t quite as volatile as a Southern storm can be.

During our first year together, his mother and sisters would call often after hearing about “bad weather” down South. I think they got more or less used to it after a while, but they still worried over him being swept up and blown away in a tornado for some time. Jeremy seems to have gotten used to Southern weather as well, although he still hates the humidity (it’s not the heat; it’s the humidity…truer words). Now me, well, I’ve gone and regressed a little since getting married. Take last night for example. All day long last Friday the weather people, including Glenn Burns aka minor weather god, were predicting bad storms to start sometime past midnight. Per usual, their predictions were dead on, and the storms started as scheduled around 6:00pm.

Up until then, the wind had been blowing like crazy, and I was scrambling around trying to put up the two oak leaf hydrangea and the tiny Japanese maple that I’d bought at a plant sale earlier in the week and had still not planted, as well as making sure anything that could get ruined by wind or rain was safely tucked away inside the garage. Basically, I was battening down the hatches. The wind felt so good as I darted here and there trying to get everything done before the storm, which was obviously arriving earlier than predicted. Frankly, I think that all my chicken-with-my-head-cut-off energy was coming from a little bit of nervousness and, dare I say, fear of the encroaching storm. Jeremy hadn’t gotten home at this point, and I honestly was feeling a little scared in anticipation of facing a wicked storm while home alone.

I’m embarrassed to even admit that. I’ve always loved storms. Thunder and lightning, the sound of the wind blowing and the rain falling. But in my old age, I’ve apparently become a bit of a wimp, a scaredy-cat who literally cowered behind my husband that night when a huge clap of thunder alarmed me. Great, another fabulous thing about getting older. What happened to the fearlessness of youth? I remember my sister and I hiding in the laundry room of my parent’s house when I was a child, a tornado raged outside the door and all I remember feeling was excitement.

But I’m rambling. The storms last week turned out to be not so bad. And Jeremy got home just in time, so he could protect me as a man is wont to do. We were bad and ordered hot wings from our favorite wings’ joint…right in the middle of the storm. Don’t worry we tipped the delivery guy really well. So, we ate our hot wings and watched the DirectTV screen saver flash across our tv screen while we ate. The satellite eventually came back on, but it didn’t really need to. Sadly, I was probably too distracted by my new found fear of thunderstorms to even notice what was on, and hey, this is Georgia; it won’t be long before another thunderstorm rolls around, and when it does, you’ll almost certainly find me, battening down any hatches, cowering behind my strong, fearless husband, and hiding under the bed with my three cats.

The Donkey and My Acute Fear of Log Flume Rides

A personal fear rarely makes sense to anyone but the person who possesses that fear. For instance, I don't understand ailurophobia, which is a fear of cats, because I personally love cats. I'm the crazy cat lady, after all. So I wasn't surprised when tonight while having dinner at The Lazy Donkey with my husband and Aunt Claire, I was made fun of by both of them about my fear of log flume rides. 

Now, I did check to see whether or not there was a scientific term for a log flume ride phobia before writing this, and because there wasn't, I made up my own. As a victim of logflumaphobia, I have long-suffered with a nearly paralyzing fear of rides like Splash Mountain at Disney World or Dudley Do-Right's Ripsaw Falls at Universal Studio's Islands of Adventure. In fact, in the past I have totally avoided such rides due to an overwhelming wave of nausea and a case of the shakes every time I am even near one.*

Strangely enough, I haven't always been afflicted with logflumaphobia. At one point, the log ride at Six Flags was one of my favorites. I would beg to ride it! 

Look at the sheer joy! What happened to those careless days of childhood?