Say, You're Pretty...Pretty Ugly

Okay, here's a little tale from long, long ago. It happened around the time I was eleven and, to this day, helps shape my self-image and beliefs about beauty. I had a crush, my very first, on someone other than John Stamos or various members of Duran Duran (not Roger and never Andy. Sorry dudes, you just weren't my type.) It was powerful and scary and something I ONLY confided in my very best friend at the time who happened to be three years older than me and clearly MUCH more sophisticated and worldly about such things. Anyway, I thought he was just the cutest thing ever and my friend found the whole thing entirely too adorable and was bound and determined to find out if he liked me, too. I insisted that she keep her trap shut, thank you very much, I had NO intention of sharing these thoughts with ANYONE but her and knew that I was in no way capable of handling the crushing blow that would, most certainly, be the result of her inquiry. Some time later, this boy decided, perhaps on his own, perhaps due to some of my "friend's" machinations, to bestow upon me a most lovely moniker, one that I clearly recall to this very day. Are you ready for it? Seriously, you'll just LOVE it, I know I sure did. He began to refer to me as...The Plop From Pluto. Couldn't you just die? Actually, I wanted to. If there was anything my fragile little psyche needed at such a formative time in my life it was a DELIGHTFUL little nickname like that, especially from the boy I had, until that point, thought was the absolute bees knees. *THUD* Yes, that's what it sounds like when your heart drops, just before it shatters. For an indeterminate amount of time after that, when he addressed me, if he addressed me at all, it was as The Plop From Pluto and I died a little more inside each time. For some godforsaken reason, somewhere down the line, my aforementioned friend decided to talk to him about this and ask him, I'm paraphrasing, if he really thought I was THAT ugly. His response, allegedly, was that I was "kind of pretty." This according to my friend who may or may not have been trying to spare my feelings (too late for that, sister) and soften the blow that had been dealt to me, time and time again, for months, at the very least. Now, maybe he did think I was "kind of pretty" and was just doing that crazy boy thing of being meanest to the girl he liked the most, maybe not. But the fact of the matter is, what I have always held on to is the feeling that I am, indeed, The Plop From Pluto, beyond repulsive and certainly, without question, not worthy of being liked or, dare I say, loved. Clearly, this happened a long time ago. I have since been told I am "pretty, cute, beautiful" even, at one point, "the most beautiful thing I have ever seen" but I'll tell you, even now, it is SO much easier to believe that I am disgusting, hideous and wretched than any of those good things. I have said that everyone is born beautiful and it is one's actions (or inaction) over time that enhance or diminish one's beauty but, I'm being perfectly honest here, that applies to everyone BUT me. Still, I feel passably decent-looking today. I took the time to put on a fucking DRESS (I know, right?) for no apparent reason, which I NEVER do and even shot a few self-portraits in my bathroom to commemorate the event. I think the reason I feel this way today is, as people have tried to tell me for YEARS, that beauty really does come from within and I kind of like myself today.  When I like myself, even if it's just for a passing moment (usually) or maybe even a whole day (stay tuned), I feel less than disgusting, slightly cute and maybe, just maybe, a little bit beautiful.

By the way, in case you're wondering, I would still like to kick that boy square in the balls, if he has any, just cause.

Finding My Voice

"Sometimes, I hear my voice and its been here, silent all these years." - Tori Amos

So, certain events have transpired over the past few days that have been my impetus to write again. Not about superficial things. Well, okay, maybe sometimes about superficial things but primarily about what's currently in my mind and heart and, I suspect, often about what USED to be in my mind and heart (and maybe still is today) that has helped shape me into the ball of angst and dysfunction I am now. I would like to share the good, the bad and the ugly, with all who want to listen even if no one thinks they want to hear it. Maybe they will someday, maybe not, and that's okay too because ultimately, this blog is for me, to give me a place to clear my head, reflect on the events of my so-called life and try to begin the arduous journey from who I am to who I want to be. It won't be pretty but life isn't pretty. Off we go.

You Never Know

Sometimes, usually when you least expect it, life throws you for a loop. Generally, at least in my experience, this is NOT a good thing. However, once in a great while, even when you feel most unworthy, you find yourself the recipient of a sweet surprise - something far greater than you probably deserve but nonetheless, there it is, this remarkable gift, so much greater than you could have imagined. Sometimes, this gift comes in the form of a person, a new friend, someone who seemingly knows you, can see inside you, without even knowing you at all. I cannot overstate how powerful an experience this can be. I am in the midst of one right now and, honestly, at this moment, on this day, it is enough, more than enough, to keep me going, even if only for one more day. I am humbled and so grateful.

Talking to the Wall

Sometimes, most times, I feel like what I post here on this blog and what I actually say aloud in the world falls on deaf ears. I think that I've been silently screaming for most of my life and now I want those screams to be heard. Alas, who enjoys listening to screaming? Thus, my dilemma. How do I find my voice, share appropriately or, should I say, in a user-friendly way, and still manage to be heard? Is what I have to say even of value, to anyone, even myself? I'd like to think so. I'd like to believe that I have something worthwhile to contribute to the world, although, in 39 years, I have yet to figure out what that might be. I want to leave something behind when I go, something of substance, something that truly matters to someone, to anyone. It is so hard, merely existing, never truly living, so paralyzed by fear and shame.

Dichotomy

I think too much.  It seems like, as a general rule, most people lead with either their head or their heart but, of course, I have to be different and lead with both, often at the same time, and usually when they are in direct conflict with each other.  I am, and have always been, a person with a great many thoughts and ideas but rarely in possession of the courage to share them.  I am in an almost constant state of turmoil and I find it very hard to trust my own judgment.  I'm a walking contradiction.  I trust, truly trust, almost no one, yet I open my heart and spill my guts on this blog, on facebook, through my poetry.  Why am I this way?  Part of me says, "shut the fuck up, Kari.  Opening your mouth, and your heart, only leads to misery and pain."  Then, the other part says, "for most of your thirty-nine years, you have lived in shadows, afraid to share what is in your mind and heart, constantly berating yourself for being so afraid.  Now is the time to share what is inside you, regardless of what anybody else thinks."  But, therein lies the problem.  I do care what people think.  I care what EVERYBODY thinks, even though I know I shouldn't.  I let people hurt me constantly.  Everyone's opinion matters.  I can feel fan-fucking-tastic (well, theoretically.  In reality, that doesn't happen often) one minute and then, a perceived "stink eye" from a complete stranger, what may just be an off-handed remark having nothing to do with me, can set me into a tailspin and break my heart.  Why am I like this?  Why do I let others dictate my self-worth?  Maybe that's the wrong question.   My husband tells me all the time, "People love you.  They care.  They show you this in words and actions.  Why don't you believe it?"  That is a question to which I have no answer.  I've been analyzing things more than usual for the past few days, for reasons I don't care to mention, but what I'm starting to believe and understand is that I can't believe it because I don't think I deserve it.  I try my best to be a good person, however one defines that.  I put others above myself, always.  But, in my heart, I feel like I am unworthy.  If I'm not, why am I always, ALWAYS, unhappy?  Sure, I have fleeting moments of joy but, at the core, I am always unhappy.  I have clinical depression.  I am currently not medicated.  That is certainly a big part of it.  But really, why do I have clinical depression?  Why can't I get a handle on things the way I wish I could?  What it seems to come back to, for me, is that I must deserve it.  I must deserve depression, deserve dissatisfaction, deserve pain.  I don't know why.  People tell me that they don't believe this to be true but I do.  How can one person feel so trapped in sadness on a near-constant basis unless they deserve to be sad?  Is there a "big lesson" that I have yet to learn?  I know that I am better off than some.  I am in reasonably good health, I have all my limbs, I am not homeless, I have family and friends who love me.  Why can't these things be enough?  Why can't I, for even a minute, just take a breath and say, "everything is okay.  It's not perfect, but it's okay" and truly believe it?

Betrayed

Long and thin
Pulsing green
With life
I take you in my hand
Gently at first
Then suddenly
Squeeze with
Great vigor
With power
With all I have left
Your only defenses
Pierce my skin
Blood rushing
A brief distraction
From the far greater pain
Residing in my heart
I take your petals
One by one
Tearing them from you
Watching them fall
Not questioning
If He loves me
For I already know
He loves me not
 -Kari Murphy 5-28-12

Nostalgia...

Whoever it was that said "Time heals all wounds" was, most definitely, full of shit.  Some wounds, many, most, never fully heal.  Even if they do, in theory, there is most likely some sort of remnant, a scar, that remains forever.  

For some reason, I decided to re-read my high school yearbook today.  I genuinely don't know what made me do it.  It has been here, on my bedroom carpet, amongst a pile of random detritus, for many months, if not years.  It has been quite a while since I last perused it, as I quickly noticed after removing the thick layer of dust that coated its cover.  Reading the comments, some from friends, some from passing acquaintances, some from folks that I hardly knew at all, I was forced to consider who I was back then, as perceived by others and within myself.  I have to state now, once and for all, that those two people were COMPLETELY different.  Well, maybe not completely.  We shared a few characteristics.  We were "smart" as defined by others and standardized testing.  We were "sensitive" and "creative".  However, that is about where the similarities ended.  The "outer" Kari, the one on the surface, was S-H-Y and Q-U-I-E-T.  She, seemingly, had very little to say and on the rare occasions on which she spoke, it was in hushed tones.  However, the "inner" Kari was SCREAMING.  She had SO very much to say but was too afraid to use her voice.  She felt hideous, repulsive, even.  She knew, just KNEW that nobody liked her, that if she disappeared from the planet, no one would give a shit or probably even notice.  Boys, most definitely, did not acknowledge her existence, at least not until nearly the end of school, and then it was, of course, only for platonic reasons.  As for the girls, there were a few, a very few, who saw MOST of her, who knew that she was secretly in possession of a biting wit and very, for lack of a better expression, "deep thoughts."  She had very strong opinions about most everything but very rarely shared them aloud.  To the rest of the girls she was, like to the boys, a nonentity.  Perhaps they gave her a passing glance every now and then when they passed in the halls but she vanished from their thoughts just as quickly.

Now, let me state that this was all how I perceived my situation back then.  I have been told, since, that my perceptions were slightly skewed.  I had an experience in college where one of my former high school classmates, one of the "cool" girls who I barely knew, and I, shared a class.  We got to talking, one day, I don't recall how it began, and somehow we found ourselves discussing said perceptions.  For example, I shared with her the fact that I never attended high school parties for the majority of my high school career, not due to lack of interest but due to the nearly immobilizing fear that I would be ostracized for doing so.  Hell, none of those people "knew me".  I mean, sure, we had all gone to school together for many years, some for 12 years, but aside from knowing my name, they didn't know me or give a shit about my existence.  What she said to me next caught my breath.  She said, and I'm paraphrasing, something to the effect of "Are you kidding?  We would have thought it was so cool if you had shown up."  *THUD*  Now, of course, I'm not sure who the "we" was, to whom she was referring.  It could have been that she was speaking merely for herself.  But, let's be honest, that would have been enough.  If I had felt even the slightest bit of encouragement, I would have loved to have had that experience.  I would have loved to have taken a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and walked into one of said parties, a clean slate, just waiting to see what adventures lied before me.  But, I didn't.  I was paralyzed by fear and their (who is "they" anyway?) imagined perceptions of me.  I remained the "surface" Kari to all who's gaze happened to fall my way.

Now, over twenty years later, I am still paralyzed by fear. Well, I can't exactly say that.  I am writing this, now, and sharing it with all who may be interested.  Perhaps no one is but the important thing is, I am sharing it.  I am not letting my fear keep me from expressing my innermost thoughts, even if they paint me in an unflattering light.  I am still filled with opinions and ideas, still quite amusing, if I do say so myself, and still screaming inside.

I often think about things that have happened in my life, consider what I would change, and I'm going to be honest, it is a LOT!  Some folks say, "I wouldn't change a thing.  If I did, I wouldn't be where I am now."  I don't believe that, though.  I mean, yes, of course, you wouldn't be EXACTLY where you are now, not at this precise moment in time, but I do feel like the important things, the things that define one's soul, the life-altering experiences that make one who one is, would still happen, perhaps on a different schedule, in a modified way, but ultimately, we would end up where we were supposed to be, eventually.  Do I wish I could re-do high school?  Absolutely.  If I knew then what I know now, I would have been far less afraid.  Can I apply those changes to my present self in my present life?  A far more difficult question and one I hope to answer in the days, weeks, months and years to come.  Like all of us, I am a work in progress.  My story will continue and if you care to join me on my journey, I'll gladly save you a seat.