I've been confused, lately. Something hasn't quite been right. I've been positive. I've been downright chipper. I've felt positively splendid. And what for? Around 4am yesterday morning, after hours of pacing back and forth and wringing my hands out, it hit me: I’m happy. I’m not happy about any particular thing, or for any particular reason. I’m just happy. For the first time in my life, I don’t desperately wish I was somewhere else, somebody else. I’m even happy while sober. And I’m not even on psychoactive medication. Who would have thought this day would ever come?
The reality of Being Barbie is that I have a fantastic memory, with few happy memories on record. Despite carrying the burden having a plethora of less than fantastic memories with which to piece together my life, I refuse to bury them. At the end, we’re reduced to memories. When my time is done I hope to be remembered for what I am; not for pieces of myself. Consequently, it’s necessary that I remember myself as what I was; not for what I’ve become, but for why I’ve become This.
As I incoherently announced in a previous, grief sticken post, I’ve been grappling with the death of a friend since late January. I haven’t really been able to bring myself to write anything about him. There are a number of outlets on facebook where mutual friends have expressed their grief and shared memories. While I respect that everybody has to grieve in their own way, I would hate to remember him in pieces. My complete picture of what I knew him as is not something that I can put into words that could be shared. And so, I focus inward and do what I can to take away something positive from one of the most difficult experiences of my life. Much like I refuse to remember my friend in pieces, I refuse to remember myself in pieces.
I remember Christmas 1989, the last that my original family spent together. I received a Zeddy Teddy Bear; basically a regular teddy bear branded by Zeller’s. I still sleep with it. I’m 25 and still sleep with a stuffed animal. This is either really cute or really pathetic. Either way, Zeddy is my security blanket; the only constant throughout 19 years of shuffling. He’s become rather decrepit in his old age but can still be recognized as the most fantastic teddy bear this world ever did see, matted face and all.
I remember the first time that I tried to make Kraft Dinner. I was probably in the third grade, though it doesn’t really matter. It was my turn to host Caroline for dinner before our gymnastics lesson at 6. Mom didn’t come home that night. Caroline and I made the most of this experience and proved to be expert water boilers. Sadly, we lost the plot a little bit when trying to make the cheese sauce. Who knew that you were meant to use all the cheese that came in the package? We caught on to this fact only after throwing the half that we didn’t use into the garbage bin. After my brother mocked us relentlessly, as he often did, my sister helped us mix something together with what we had and some grated cheese. It was edible. Barely. From that day forward, I always used the entire package of cheese mix. A culinary genius was born.
I remember the time that I tempted fate in the tree house at my original home. I was curious what would happen if I swallowed a very small twig, probably no larger than an inch in length. Given that we moved out of that house when I was 7 or 8, I was probably no older than 5 or 6. I just wanted to see what would happen. The result? Nothing of note. Apparently I needed to have swallowed a larger twig if I was looking for a life of serious digestion issues. The lack of negative side effects set me up for a life of continued idiocy. I regularly try things that I shouldn’t, simply to see what will happen. Like that time that I put my middle finger on the donut maker that my father had advised me not to touch. Ah, my first burn blisters! Or that time I decided to stick my finger on the prong of the plug from my lamp which I had gingerly set half way out of the socket. Ah, my first electrical shock! Or soju. Ah, soju.
I remember everything, really. If I take nothing else away from my friend’s death, let it be that I need to celebrate my own past. Not to dwell on it, but to love myself for what it’s created. Perhaps, then, I can someday attack my own life with the same zest that he did his. A lifetime spent trying to separate myself from my past has been one spent void of anything real. As such, in the midst of the monologue of self mockery that is This Space, there will be the occasional reminiscent interlude.
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