Bethany Mr. Minges Seminar September 22, 2008 Life of an Ex Liar Staring into the endless array of white, fluffy clouds I began to distance myself from the world. Only a few minutes ago was I playing in our yard without a care in the world, and now I lie in our neighbor’s yard with scratched knees silently crying for the pain to end. How was this fair? The day was April 17, 2002 and it must have been around 7 P.M because the sky was getting darker by the second. Though during a time of deep despair nothing seems to matter. I remember walking away from his corpse, in hopes that the memories would instantly vanish. But no matter how much I walked, or how fast I ran nothing seemed to help. And to think, I was only ten years old at the time. It was cold, and maybe even rainy. I’ve never been told this by anyone in my family, but I would like to think that my birthday had this magnificent setting around it to compliment my wondrous beginning. Like a curtain shielding a mysterious item, I wanted my birth to be shielded by the unwavering rain, just so that the rest of the world wouldn’t know who I was, and thus they could not care. It has been recorded that I was born on January 6, 1992 at 6:25 P.M, but I have no way in knowing that this is the truth. Of course countless relatives have told me that the records did not lie to me, but apart of me is always questioning. Always wondering. But deep inside, I know that this is the truth because no other season has ever felt so right to me. As odd as that may seem. Playing with Barbie dolls has never been my thing. As a child I remember holding onto the comfort of friends; imaginative or real it never mattered. But just to have someone close was good enough to keep my love, and child like mind alive. When I was a toddler I would play with the shadows on walls, the pile of lint in the corner, or even the reflection off of a puddle. And no one ever questioned me for it, because I was small and unneeded. But now, my every action is set on stage in front a million people and questioned. Mainly for it’s importance in their society, but it really doesn’t matter to me. What I’m trying to get across to you is simple. I miss my childhood. Back then I wasn’t handed with so much responsibility that I felt like I couldn’t budge, and I wasn’t classified by my outside appearances for the entertainment of a sick crowd. Once upon a time I was free. Overall I had a great childhood filled with wonder, excitement, love, and contentment. I rarely had to wonder about the chaos in this world, so I came out into this world believing that everything would come out for the better. I can honestly say that I was a very naïve individual, and always will be. But, I wouldn’t give up this characteristic of mine for the world. As I grew so did my perception of life. And I soon found myself dwindling into the world of pessimism, although this phase has passed and I’ve become the ‘oh so lovable optimistic yet dimwitted girl’ that I still know and love. It took only two boulders in my life to permanently scar my faith in my own self. These boulders were called Mrs.? , and Mrs. Owens. They were my Kindergarten and 1st grade teachers, and they made me question my own intelligence for the longest time. My Kindergarten teacher, Mrs. ? (whom I can’t remember her name) yelled at me for my shortened attention span, my inability to read, and my inability to speak in full sentences. I knew that I had a lot of problems in school, but it’s not like I didn’t try! To this day I haven’t seen her, and for that I’m grateful. My other boulder was Mrs. Owens whom was my 1st grade teacher, and a true bully. Like Mrs.?, she would yell at me for my shortened attention span, but she never yelled at me for my literacy problems. No, instead she’d write out my problems on a piece of paper for my parents to read. Obviously these teachers were mean, and impatient but as a child I thought that they knew it all. So I believed their every word, and thus ruined my own ability to believe in myself. However, things have changed for the better and I haven’t had disheartened teachers since. Thank God. Autobiographies should be meant for people who have an actual story to tell, because thus far my life has just been a string of messages. I suppose my life will become more eventful in time, but right now I’m still learning several important things so I’m bewildered in why I must go through this strenuous process of trying to make my life seem better than it is. So, I’ve decided not to even bother. Whatever I put onto this thin line, well it’s unblemished and has no blind spots to it. It’s out there in the open, only if everyone else would write with this same effort…. It’s funny really. Each month it seems like I receive new bruises, scratches, and sprains from out of no where. Unlike the rest of my family it seems that I am ‘accident prone’ and I’ve come to relize that luck is rarely on my side. My first big fall was when I was 7, and had to receive one surgery to place my arm back into it’s previous form. I remember falling off the table to find that my arm resembled a type of rubber, and at first I was confused. And then the pain finally kicked in, and nothing mattered. Apparently I had broken my arm in three separate places, had to have two pens placed inside my arm, and had to go through six months of overwhelming therapy. Overall, I can say that the experience made me stronger mentally. Plus the attention I received wasn’t that bad either. Among the time that I was in elementary school, I developed a terrible habit that has taken so much from me already. This ‘habit’ is lying, and it’s become one of my biggest faults to date. Granted I have tried several methods in stopping, but just like the thousands before me, I will always struggle with it. It’s not as if I’m a criminal of sorts, but I do have this desire to ‘spin cotton into gold’. In other words, I want to turn a Plain Jane story into a Faery Tale, without the dragons and other surreal creatures/objects of course. Fortunately for me, my lying has been so severed that even my conscience gets to me now days. Thus, I cannot lie in fear of hurting my own self as well as others. Before, however, my conscience was rarely involved so this is a great change of pace. Now that I’ve told my side, I think I should give at least one example in how bad my lying has and could become. Five years ago I told my third best friend that I was going to give her a whole bunch of things for Christmas and didn’t do so. She, however, gave me this beautiful porcelain doll and I was barely able to bring that friendship to it’s former self. Maybe, I was luckier then? I really don’t know. But, I do know that I have changed for the better…even if others can perceive that for themselves or not. Besides if they can’t look beyond my imperfections then are they really worth my time? I think not. Why is it that most teenagers my age feel like their lives are not complete without great clothes, boys/girls, and popularity? Well, I suppose I’ll never completely understand the ‘normal teenager’, but that’s fine by me. Since I was about six I’ve had to deal with the fact that no one else will ever be like me. My obsession with the paranormal (i.e fantasy), anime/manga, and literature/music were much greater than anyone else could comprehend. From such a young age I would try to read, just in the sake of being able to. During my 3rd grade year I finally began to read at a much higher level than my class allowed, and surprised teachers with my intellect. It just took me a longer period of time to grasp the concepts without any misunderstandings. So, so what if I’m slower than the rest? At least I can question life without having to look for the opinions of others, and to me this is enough. He died on April 17, 2002 without a word or a promise or even a good bye. There was nothing between him and death now, and that realization took me brought me to a place that I had never previously known. So, like any other child in a state of true torment, I ran. I ran from everything that his corpse meant, and everything that it could mean. In that one moment in time my only hope in keeping my own sanity was to run…so I did, and at the cost of my own happiness. Sometime that night my brothers found me and brought me back to the same place that I so desperately wanted to escape from. But, I didn’t have the strength to fight them…so I slept and dreamt of absolutely nothing. Which was heaven to me. The next few days were a series of flashes. One moment I was forced to eat, the next I was forced to attend a ceremony, and then the next I was forced to go back to my previous way of life. Unfortunately for me, I could not remember much before my Papa’s death…so everything had to become so new to me. All over again. It’s been six years now, and I’m over most of the trauma. But, apart of me still recognizes that pain, still acknowledges the fact that he will never come back, and still fears the change that death can so easily bring. Though, I feel powerful in knowing that only a select few will ever feel the way I felt when death came towards my own family.