Yesterday I spent some time around different areas near where I grew up.
It had been at least 15 years since I had last been that way in town.
I remembered that when I was little I was refused to the school right in front of my house, so I had to go to another school further away. So my friends were not so close to hang out with every day after class and the kids from my neighborhood didn’t accept me because I was different (redhead and freckled and pale and thin when everyone else was tanned and dark-haired and cool). I remember playing a game with other girls in my street where we had to choose the “prettiest” whatever among us, for example, hair or eyes or anything else, and obviously I had never anything that was the prettiest. I stopped going out to play.
When I went to high school, I was also refused to the one that was nearer where I lived, and so again I had to make new friends. Then we moved away to another neighborhood and I didn’t make friends in there either. I was still different: (still freckled and redhead but also) quiet and introverted and freakishly a fan of music. I used to spend hours and hours in front of the radio or listening to my Walkman while staring at the starry sky in the patio, whether winter or summer, hot or cold, music full blast in my ears. When I was out, I was buying books about vampires, or LPs or cassettes to copy the LPs, and then CDs later. Then I went to university, started working, shying away and perfecting a plan to get away from so much denial and pain over the years.
Then I moved abroad and felt great, I worked, and studied, and worked, and moved again, and worked some more. Suddenly I was getting recognition, I had a lot of friends who were there all the time, to talk, to laugh, to travel… They never left me behind.
Then I moved back from abroad, and suddenly, out of the blue denial again, so I never wanted to go back there. Then little portions of refusal, regularly, in little doses, so as almost not to notice. Then refusal at work, hitting very close to me. Not wanting to be there anymore… Then refusal strikes me again.
And then again and again: the many people that brought refusal on a silver plate that I could see shining from far away.
Another place that is doomed.
So this is who I became, it was inevitable.
Funny that I’ve never told this whole story to anyone. If they had cared, they would have found out, I would have told.
I don’t do well with refusal, I’ve done it enough already.
This is why I can’t return to the places that hurt. This is why I try to not allow myself to look back.
It was Sunday, and the area was really deserted. But I am sure that even if it had been full of people, it would have felt the same way to me: it felt like desolation was looking right into my soul.
(This post best read while listening to:
Blue Chicago Moon by Songs:Ohia)