Dancing Queen to Dairy Queen: A Tale of Sweet Salvation
As most little girls, I craved adoration. I have both vague, and vivid memories of experiencing joy at a young age. Many of these memories can be attributed to awesome feats in magic-making, by my mom and dad. There are a few, however, that center around me, being the laser-light disco ball of my own universe. While I have no distinct memory of when, or where, or why, or how…I’ve always known, even as a child, that I am only my true self through creative expression.
My greatest loves early on were music and dance. Whether it be for the masses, in tutu and tiara, atop a stage, or belting The Bangles “Manic Monday” into my mom’s hairbrush, I was elated to just let it all out there. After dance recitals, I would be bathed in love, gifts, and accolades. At school, there wasn’t a production or musical team that I wasn’t involved with. I was cherished, and loathed, and enjoyed every moment.
One could make a strong argument that I peaked before the age of 10, because by the time I hit the 3rd grade, my world had begun to turn upside down. After losing both her mother and grandmother, my own mother started a downward spiral that she is still trying to recover from. She went from being the “It Mom”, to a shell of a person. Her depression became like a quicksand. The perpetual motion machine of our family had lost it’s energy source, and the pursuit of happiness got lost in the mix. It wasn’t long before foreign substances lead my parents to making one bad decision after another, after another.
Eventually, what I call “The Darkness”, consumed us all. My siblings and I tried our best to remain positive and hopeful, but that dwindled over time. The best we could do was help each other escape. Books, which were always a large part of our lives, mostly used for entertainment and learning, now became weapons and tools. With them, and through them, and from them, we created worlds different than our own, where there was beauty, and fun, and wonder wherever you turned. The world around us was drastically different. We hardly left the house, not even for school, because our new reality was full of drugs, death, and crime. Without proper diet or exercise, we gained incredible amounts of weight. I had been chubby by nature, but by age 12, I was obese.
Through another series of fortunate, and unfortunate events, we found ourselves on the verge of homelessness, and by some small miracle, swept away to a new place. This new land was completely different from the big city we had come from. Life seemed to move in slow motion here, and while it was safe, and beautiful, it was also cold and terrifying. What this new town lacked in infrastructure, it more than made up for with ignorance.
I started my new school at the end of 6th grade, in an environment where everyone seemed to have known each other since birth. There were a kind few who were fascinated by the “New Girl” from the “Big City”, and extended a hand in friendship, but most mocked my accent, my weight, and my voice that was “too deep for a girl”. While they marveled, and jeered my lack of athletic ability, they used my dancer’s balance, and sheer mass to anchor their tug-of-war teams. That was the nothing I had become. I sank deeper, and deeper within myself, hoping that I would eventually just evaporate completely.
The last few weeks of school brought on much meaningless busy-work. One assignment called for us to anonymously write a story, creating life for a sheep-herder. They would be read by fellow classmates at random, and when yours had been read, you would have to identify yourself. A tiny girl, with a mousy voice, began my story, and my heart stopped. I didn’t dare breathe as I watched the faces of my fellow classmates and tormentors. By the time the twist at the end had been revealed, there were looks of shock, horror, and even a few tears spreading around the room. Everyone glanced around anxiously as the teacher urgently asked for the author to raise their hand. I bit my lip hard, and slowly raised my hand as the room broke out in raucous applause. While my teacher had zero appreciation for my work, her student teacher, who hoped to become a Professor some day, pulled me aside at the end of class to let me know that he recognized my talent. He asked about my writing practices, and encouraged me to continue, no matter what.
Until then, my writing had been strictly personal. I had notebooks full of thoughts, poetry, and letters unsent. When my childhood took a chaotic turn, blank pages became my sanctuary. As the eldest, I felt it was my duty to keep my “brave face” on at all times. Once the household was at rest, I wrote furiously into the wee hours of the morning. Those pages housed my cries for help, my shouts of pain, my questioning of God, my deepest fears, my childish hopes, and grandest dreams. And in a way, they still do.
Day to day, I may not always remember how I became who I am, the battles I have fought to survive, or why any of it even matters, but there are countless spiral notebooks, and online thought-logs that could tell you. Writing has always been my free therapy, and therefore written with the intended audience of me. When it is shared with someone, and they appreciate it, or are able to take something for themselves away from it, I am filled with joy and gratitude. I know how very necessary reading and writing have been to my sanity and growth as a person. Being able to add anything to the ocean of creativity that offers refuge to those in need, reminds me that no experience is ever truly in vain.
