I wish so badly I had money to go to school. There’s so much I want to learn, so many skills I must sharpen. I’m 20 and I feel like already so much I’ve let pass me by. The past few months, part of my “personal coaching” was to remember good things about my childhood. A lot of things stuck out from my past that generated feelings of rejection, unworthiness, and failure. Even when I was little, I was so hard on myself, and weeped constantly. I think I was 8 when I created an imaginative world called Remoria that belonged to winged beasts, talking animals, enchantments and giant snakes. Lost in a new world, our heroine finds love by accident, her place in the kingdom, and a secret power held inside her. By the time I was ten, I had 400 pages of this world, with maps, encylopedia of creatures created by me, illustrations, and character charts.
I painted elaborate murals of this heroine’s accomplishments with topography- I’d even hold out a page at arm’s lentgh and admire the way the paragraphs flowed like a black river. I was responsible to cure the winged horse of a poison arrow, I had been destined to become a fairytale warrior, with the great sword from the capital of Remoria, decorated in dragon armor, my long hair like a flag in the wind in a conquered tower.
Why then, did I lose all the battles I fought? Why do I always declare war against myself? When I started showing interest in my own image, all i found were faults. My hair was hard to love, and helpless. Damaged, deyhrdated, and frizzy. My skin broke out in hideous red bulbs, I didn’t know pimples could get so big! I couldn’t hold up an iron skillet, let alone a great sword. Why, was I afraid of becoming something? I believed that I was just a crumb, or the leftover piece of thread after you snip it. I stayed within the domain of dragons made from ameyst and crystal, stones I had from my rock collection. I lost a compass at a strom in the sea, and it washed up in the artic northern lands that belonged to a colony of barn owls.
It took me a very long time until I realized that the love I had for this imaginary land served a secret desire in my heart. I’d like to finally feel beautiful and secure. I’d like to finally feel some credit of self-acceptance. My love of fantasy didn’t classify me as a nerd, it qualified me to love sci-fi by ray bradbury, self-portraits and expressionism, jewelry, traveling, herbs and things. I shouldn’t have been such a downer, I really inhibited a lot of potential to grow.
Last year after spring started, I had this epiphany that I could be reborn. Like new, recreated. I could abadon every notion I had of myself and start over. I didn’t push myself to write poems or stories, instead, I took this time to experiment with new tools, like a fan brush and fake eyelashes. I wanted to give myself something I had denied myself for so long – a knowing that I had found the key to happiness. As long as I had this key, I could unlock an exotic paradise.