What makes me, me: part 1

1. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.
This book has always had a major impact on me, probably because I identify so much with Franny, the main character. When I read it for the first time, I felt like Betty Smith knew me, and I felt less lonely. Her imagery still stays with me today--the taste and smell of pickles and ice chips and steaming mugs of gritty black coffee. I have never had art speak to me, but if I saw a painting that spoke the way this novel does, I'd take out a loan to ensure that it would live in my home.

Thinking about it, I am struck by the realization that I was and am one freaking lonely kid. Part of it is self-imposed; I love the romantic, tragic deliciousness of being all alone. I enjoy solitude and the way that I can live in my own world and dream and create and pretend. I still enact entire scenarios in my mind--what I would do and say and how I would live. By the time I am done dreaming, I don't need to go out; I have already survived tragedy, won a major award, and floated down the river in a makeshift funeral pyre. The other part of loneliness is the very strong belief that I am strangely different than everyone else. I guess that is why I love Franny so much--she is frail and lovely and homely and lonely and brilliant and not the favorite. I felt all of those things as a kid, and still do, much of the time.

The first time that I had a panic attack I was 12 years old, sitting in my bedroom at home. The lights became suddenly bright, and I couldn't stop itching inside. I heard mumbled, muffled voices in my ears, but there was no one there. I had the distinct impression of a pure white room, being quickly spray painted with black, fuzzy graffiti. As hard as I tried, I couldn't erase the writing. It lasted for what seemed like an hour, and I was exhausted and terrified when it was all done. The next time, it was all I could do to not hurl myself at the floor-to-ceiling mirror in our hallway, because I was sure that it would stop the buzzing. I never told anyone about this, because I was certain that I was crazy.

I started to mutilate my body a few months later, because it made things easier. I can't explain why, but the relief was palpable when I could see myself bleeding or blistering from being burned. Again, no one knew because I was certain that I was crazy, and as much as I wanted to be normal, I knew that I would never be. Many years later, it became okay to talk about this stuff, and I was absolutely astounded that I was not the only person who did it--It really reinforced the concept that our bodies are the "natural beings" designed to conflict with our spirits. I hope that my girls are given better tools to combat that natural tendency.
My family was good, my life was good, but I was crazy. Nothing to it but that. In retrospect, I don't know what would be different if I had told anyone. My family was not financially in a position to send my to a Swedish hospital or wherever they send you, and the medication of the day was not nearly as good as what you get now. When I first started Zoloft I remember thinking "This is how people are supposed to feel." It would have been nice to always have felt like that, but it also would have made me feel even more different and lonely; it was one thing to suspect that I was crazy, another entirely to have medication and, therefore, proof.

Why am I baring this? Why has this become my journal? 1. laziness--I am not picking up a pen. b. When it is out, it is expunged. Just like I cleaned out the file cabinets in my mind a few months ago, I am cleaning out the movie track that I play each night. Over and over and over again. I can't change what happened, and I am tired of reliving it and fearing that I will make the same choices again. That was then, a lifetime ago. This is now--I am still lonely and different and crazy and homely and lovely and brilliant, but I am better with it, because it is me. (Stay tuned for another afternoon special: Jenny, eat something!)