My brain is one of those places that holds prisons of terror deep within. There are times where even I the owner of this castle of light and dungeons of dark do not dare to enter. To my friends, I joke that solitude is all I want in life. I want go deep into a forest and live in a pale yellow cabin that is one room. There I would live and write. No one would know me. I would know no one. In my head, it was a dreamy place where magic happened. It was a place where a man would be drawn to because it held me hiding amongst the greenery. He would come and he would love me. During the day, he’d catch me repainting my pale yellow paint to my cheery little cabin while my large dog romped behind me. The picture was perfect in my head. I would live in this dreamy paradise until love found me.
Naïve should be my name. I forgot the horrors that slither through my mind. When left for hours on end alone, my mind begins creaking and groaning. It shares angry lies and it whispers untruths like there is no tomorrow. Before long, my little cheery cabin becomes a place of nightmares where nothing can save me. I am locked within the prison of my mind and there is no key. No prince charming can come and unlock this self-made prison. No fairy god mother will have mercy on this girl that outwardly is perfectly normal and fine. It’s all a façade. I may be pretty, nice, laughing. Yet, does anyone care to see the flowing animosity that my mind seems to have for me. It wants me dead. It keeps me alive only to use me.
My mind is ingenuous. It sees things that I don’t. It catches onto people’s feelings and beliefs. In those quiet desperate moments, it latches on to these people. It whispers to me, “Those are the weak ones. You see them. Go to them. Be sweet. Be kind. Listen. Remember that you are the strong one. Feed off of their weakness.” While they, these weaklings, cry tears of sadness and vulnerability, I – in my castle of perfection – chuckle to myself to see this agony. Their weakness imbues strength into me. While they pour out their sorry hearts, I sit back with a kind compassionate even loving face and listen. It is wonderful that the Great Being Who Is did not permit us humans to read minds. My face may say compassion and care. Inside, I am anything but caring.
“Aw, you poor baby. That boy dropped you? No wonder. Do you see the dandruff in your hair? Oh, and, honey, people say that guys like thin sticks for wives, but let me tell you. I know. I know that men like a little somethin’ extra on their women. You don’t stand a chance. Quit whining to me, child. Those tears that you think are oh-so-vulnerable-and-endearing? They make your face blotchy, your eyes swell up, and the snot glistening in your nostril just screams ‘kiss me now.’ You want some advice, baby child? Walk away and don’t give him another minute. He’s not worth it. Of course, your weakness right now is so completely enthralling. I just can’t tear my eyes away from your little sniffling heart. You think I care. Let me tell you something. I don’t. So go wipe your mascara on some other pitiful human being.”
Women have come up to me and told me things like, “You’d have a chance, dear, if you’d just drop a couple of pounds.” I smile and whimper. I agree with them. And then, I think to myself, “I get laid more than a newlywed skinny mini so get off it, Miss Granny Panties.” I’ve had others inform me that I’m far too bitter to ever meet a man and keep him. I say, “To hell with it. A man is only good for keeping the bed warm anyways.” Women smile at me and say these patronizing phrases, “I can hardly wait until your prince charming comes along.” You know, I truly wish that these women would just stick a dick in it. They are all so high and mighty thinking that they know what is best. After all, a young single woman must be in want of a husband. The last thing I want is some fanciful little fairy prince who tries to woo me with sweet little nothings. If he wants a real woman, then he’d better make like a man otherwise I don’t want him.
Call me what you want, you self-righteous world. Yes, I am a bitter old hag. Oh, wait. I’m twenty hardly a hag in age at least. What a sweet relief. Now that I’ve spilled my mind to you, why don’t you go drown yourself or better yet stop bugging me about men. Last time, I looked I couldn’t find any.