in some ways, i feel i have always lived a halfway life. observing others teeter on the edge of what my learned bias denotes as true chaos and sin, finding myself in turn committing only petty venial ones and calling it rebellion. maybe everyone who grew up stiff and religious feels that way? in my prepubescent years, when i was feeling particularly scorned, i’d slip away to stick my middle finger up in the privacy of a single use bathroom, my other hand hovering over it so God wouldn’t see.
i used to be afraid of saying i don’t believe in God, for fear of eternal damnation, but truthfully i don’t. despite my rationale and disbelief, it continues to scare me to say so. to even think about it, to think about thinking about it. but what is hell anyway? is it the 6 consecutive and torturous months of dreams where i’d see my deceased brother alive, question his presence before my eyes, only to wake up in a panting sweat remembering the truth? is it the quiet glaring pain in the eyes of those i pass on the street each day? if so, what do I have to fear when i’m gone? for many, hell is here and yet i can’t shake the feeling that all of my mistakes are lethal to my soul’s future. that i’m going to be punished for seeking out pleasure, for denouncing my former faith. blame it on my lifelong catholic school education. i do.
those teachers, my fellow students, that well-endowed set of bricks. they all did a high budget show stopping number on me.
every day commenced with a paper white short sleeved button down hanging on my bedroom door, crisp and freshly ironed by my mother’s perfectionism, and with a gnawing sense of dread i would start dressing from the bottom up. first, the essentials: underwear and a solid black or skin toned bra so as to not distract my male teachers with a color or pattern that could draw attention to my adolescent chest. next, precariously maneuvering my legs into sheer tights bound to snag and tear on my peer’s sharp remarks by days end. i’d tuck my shirt into my tights after buttoning up, so that i looked as neat as possible, and with a slip up my thighs my pleated skirt, a new england flavor of navy, completed my base. a clip-on tie that i would swiftly be penalized for if found missing, and my sad stiff blazer waited for me at school in my locker. five days a week i went like all the others, properly dressed and primed for brainwashing.
not being white, not being straight, not sopping wet drenched in wealth despite my most earnest attempts at cosplay- pick a card, any card. they all lead to the same result: me, sticking out like a sore thumb in a cult that at its core never wanted my membership.
my mother raised muslim, my father protestant, i had no reason to be there other than their craving for me to have structure. structure that would proceed to give my life its shape and color. thirteen years i spent circling the drain of self loathing, wondering when my existence would stop feeling like a constant performance. if it ever would.