An introduction to the protagonist of her own story.
Meeting the Beast
Personal blog #2
Personal blog #1: A World Outside the Picture:
Sometimes it’s hard to think about what to write. See. Another reason I’m entirely just not good at the concept of a blog in general. I could have the most noblest of intentions in the world. Hellfire, it’s even to the point that I’ve had the briefest—if not vaguely funny—thought that perhaps the reason I have a somewhat decent writing head on me is simply to be able to tell my story to the world.
And it’s a struggle right now. Trying to balance maintaining anonymity and giving a bit of background. I swore to myself that this wasn’t going to be a chronological blog. Honestly it doesn’t make sense for it to be chronological. Better to be topical, where I could draw from multiple examples from all time periods: BP (Before Poly), DF(During Freakout), AP (After Poly). It wouldn’t do for you to get to know the girl at the beginning when she no longer exists in the same capacity.
But, I could at least haphazardly drag out the building blocks for your understanding. I owe y’all this much. You deserve some sort of background, something to relate my crazy antics and thought processes to. Otherwise, I feel like it may become impossible at times to really bite down and understand what I’m trying to say, or why something was so difficult (or, you could be on that opposite end of the spectrum where you can relate in such a way that you’re like thank merciful heavens and the gods above somebody has had these sometimes ugly thoughts too!!!).
So, buckle in and prepare to meet this beast of an intro. I only nibble on occasion.
I grew up in some backwoods that a deity set up as a garden and forgot to tend a few eons back. I lived deep in the Appalachian mountains, and those hills shaped me in such microscopic ways that sometimes I feel completely alien from other humans. There are beautiful moments and ugly moments to living in a culture that is so misunderstood and tainted by complicated sociological issues that they are their own blog monster, but for its intents and purposes, they do affect some of the things I’ll talk about. If there is an interest (assuming anyone will read this! HA!) after some of the topics have been discussed, we could totally explore the complexities of my culture, the culture shock of leaving and how that has affected me in not just my relationships but everyday life.
But, like I said, a different beast.
Except to say, I grew up isolated. I am not a unique case, but I am a rarer case. I wasn’t only growing up in the Appalachian mountains but actually in the mountains. I lived on top of a mountain, quite literally at its highest point in a tiny tiny community that had a school so small we had one class per grade (our largest class had twenty five students!). We lived thirty minutes from the small city and forty five minutes from the slightly larger small city—that meant thirty minutes from whatever medical care or ‘fun’ one could think to have. I had no computer until I was sixteen years old, no internet except dial up until I went to college. I grew up the majority of my life without cable, and beneath the very strict eye of a religious mammaw. My mother was strict, but she at least enjoyed fantasy and horror movies, but my mammaw…she was something special. My mammaw thought Harry Potter was gonna turn me to wicked ways of witchcraft (nice try mammaw, but the trees are what did that….long story…another blog). Even outside of the eye of mammaw that seemed to have her special brand of scry magicks, there wasn’t a lot of exposure to anything—how else to say it but… “Other”.
And I’ve always craved that, in one way or another. Sometimes unspoken because I felt unfulfilled though never fully realized to myself. One would think that going to college, it would have me release my rather short hair down, but no. By that time, I had caged everything inside me that whispered to me, “You aren’t happy living like this. This is not your life.” I believed that these thoughts were dangerous, the makings and ravings of something unhealthy. So I bottled and corked it away, buried it for it to take roots years and years later.
Nobody told me I shouldn’t do these things. Mental health isn’t something you just…talk…about in my culture. You got up and you do. You don’t discuss any stigmas that could make you seem weaker. It’s a pride thing. Everybody got sad now and again, and no matter what’s going on in your life—guess what? Someone somewhere has it worse off than you. Never mind my region, my culture, my people have some of the worse suicide/mental health disparities statistics in America…
But that’s another beast, isn’t it?
This begins with a happy beginning. A marriage. My husband and I have been together for over a decade now, married six. (Yes! We lived in sin for almost half a decade! GASP in shock!). And we’ve been happy…but it was that bottled cork buried stuffed thoughts kind of happy. We fed a beast, brought it to life on our own. There were unspoken truths that I always knew about him, and I mean always. Inklings that told me I should ask him those hard questions that would have harder answers, but what would those answers mean? And there were things he knew about me in the same way…that I didn’t know of myself, or had buried so deeply that I hadn’t even thought it yet, except in brief, uncomfortable glimpses.
By the time those beasts had rooted themselves inside us, and demanded to be let out—we were so involved in each other. So madly in love, for better or for worse. And in some painful ways, that was for the best. Maybe that was future me whispering to me to not ask those unspoken truths from him in a time I wasn’t ready and I would have ran. Who knows?
So, in these ramblings I hope you can find context. Context for the struggle to accept new thoughts, the desire to run, and the pure stubbornness to stay. I attempted to say this in my first blog, but I will reiterate it as a warning: I’m not going to be sugarcoating my thoughts, glossing them over for a sensitive audience.
I’m human, and I have faults. A single thought does not encompass all that I am, and in all of this I want to show the good and the ugly, because I know some people will come out of trials similar to my own battle scarred but proud…and a little guilty. It’s okay to have those ugly thoughts, to think them and then reevaluate them. I am not the same person that started this journey, but I love both the girl that I was, the girl I am, and the girl I am becoming.
Strap in. Now that you’ve met this beast, help me feed it.