Truth of the Damned

We all have a story, and mine begins quite the same as yours. A mother, a father, a lot of love and giggles and that weird triangular solidarity of familiarity. And then, my plot dips. The white devils overtook the red knights, and my father succumbed all to soon to that unearthly dimension of heaven. And now we were two. Too young to grasp my status as outsider, different or otherwise, I lived happily in my loving bubble of family. Aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins and a myriad of little pets filled my young, unburdened life. And then, I started school.

At six years old, children have no filters. Sometimes, we learn the hard way to keep it all in - shoving down the darkness that threatens when overtaken by shame, fear and other all important emotions. The questions inane and insane to my now adult ears, were knives separating me from the playground posse, stranding me on the sidelines at recess. "Why did your mommy kill your daddy?" or "My mommy said you can't have only a mommy." or "Your daddy didn't die, he left because he couldn't stand you." And worse. I think the roughest one was inflicted by a third grade teacher,  uncompassionate and cold, she stood me before my new classmates and announced that the new girl only had a mother. With questions on the faces of those I thought I might call friends, she orated a tale that my father and mother were divorced, and once I acknowledged it, I would be free from my own prison. I cried that day. On the rooftop playground, in the far corner behind the handball wall. And then I got angry.

I found my solace in books. Friends were penned with compassion and sincerity, with secrets and acceptance. Honestly, I spent most of my life in the library, clamoring for anything to devour. As a consequence, I distanced myself even more, by reading 4 levels ahead of my grade when I was only in the 4th year of school. I don't remember many of the basic lessons, except for the writing. I was encouraged by one very special teacher to write, free writing in a journal became an antidote to loneliness, and my essays excelled all others. I continued writing and reading until - well, I haven't stopped.

So what did I learn in school that most of you did not? I learned so very early on that people are not to be trusted. The favor of a shy smile will award you sneers, pushes and lies. People are inherently selfish and cruel, and unless one chooses conformity, well, you remain alone, an outsider. And I am. Now, I wrap myself in the comfort of my friends- those beloved favorites from my well thumbed, dog eared books, and sometimes, with the few who see my heart.

My mistake has always been loyalty and naiveté. I always assume the best, even of employers, and neighbors. But I have been burned. Singed all the way to my now dark soul that refuses any more false friends. It's still so hard to smile and mingle with the plastic people of my city. A city born of rats - equally fitting to the community and people that dwell here.

I should perhaps mention that I no longer mind the solitude, that a coffee and a book or journal with my favorite purple pen are soothing companions. As are the birds and occasional offspring at my side. But that too is limiting. As my babies suffered the fate of the friendless, I watched their innocence die. They are scarred humans with little emotion befitting one who must function in the world. And to those parents who allowed and encouraged the taunts and jeers at my brilliant one, it is your ignorance and shallow matrix that will be your downfall. Now grown they will rise like the phoenix and surpass all your wormy expectations. Just as I will. My middle one - so complacent, empathetic, and well-loved, sees through the thin veneer of false-fronted friends. He knows where his loyalties lie, and is true blue to those who are steadfast. Well-liked not only by classmates and students in all grades, but he is also the epitome of what we all should be. As for my baby - hurt again and again by backstabbing peers had opened her eyes, like mine to the darker side of humanity. She knows who her few friends are, but holds much close to her stitched-together heart. Enough about the plastics, back to my story. Alone, I knew that I loved animals, books, and my bicycle. I would ride the tree-lined pathways of my neighborhood to the furthest park, a book and a snack in the basket, and spend leisurely hours visiting faraway places. I think that's why I love to travel now. And the people I meet in my travels often remain friends- true friends for life. I think I live in the wrong place.