Unmasked (Project 358: Day 82)

Day 82: Me, Then.

As I mentioned in another post, I recently retrieved my "Baby Box" from my parents' house. You know, that little treasure chest full of New Kids memorabilia? Well, there's also a bunch of other stuff in there, including lots and lots of writing. It's strange to read things I wrote when I was in elementary school, junior high, high school. Every piece is familiar to me once I start reading it and a few of them strike a deep, emotional chord within me, but it's all so vague, like an elaborate jigsaw puzzle left unfinished. It's almost as if I'm remembering a movie I watched years ago and while I know that I really loved the movie, there are whole scenes of it that I just don't remember.

Memory is strange that way, you know? How do we know, based on memory alone, what is fact and what is fiction? The mind has many tricks up its sleeve: embellishment, diminishment, suppression, extinction. And furthermore, having grown up in a household where everything was documented by video camera, do I actually remember these things happening, or do I only remember watching them on video?

Forgive me. I am rambling tonight and confusing even myself. Today's photo is one of the poems I found in my Baby Box. The date at the top reads September 1, 1992, which, if my math is correct, means I was just about to start my freshman year of high school.

This is what I wrote:

Unmasked

I was born with wings,

but have not learned to fly.

I was born on a cloud,

but have not touched the sky.

I reach for the sun,

and grasp the thin air.

I reach for the moon,

but nothing is there.

I long to sing,

but I know of no tune.

I long to dance,

but there is not enough room.

I ask a question,

no answer is hailed.

I turn on a light,

but darkness prevails.

I feel so alone,

no one is about.

I feel so closed in,

I have to get out.

I pick up a book,

the book disappears.

I walk in a room,

the room's full of mirrors.

I look in a mirror,

and start to cry.

I see my true self,

These mirrors don't lie.

A cowardly figure,

scared and alone.

But wait! There's another

side that is shown.

A smile, a laugh,

to hide all the fear.

A happy-faced mask,

that is kept very near.

So when sadness comes,

I let no one see.

I could never let anyone,

see the real me.

So I wear many masks,

to hide all the pain.

And when you see sunshine,

I feel the rain.

Okay, so obviously this poem is very juvenile (and very rhyme-y...actually, I give myself props for all that rhyming! My four-year-old would be impressed.), but it also makes me sad. It makes me sad because I know (somehow) that I wasn't writing it just for the sake of writing it; I wasn't trying to be "deep" or dramatic. I was writing it because it flowed out of me. It flowed out of me because that is how I felt at the time.

I am now a mother of two beautiful, amazing, perfect little children, ages 2 and 4. I don't ever want them to feel the way I did when I wrote this poem. The trouble is, I have no idea how to prevent that. My parents certainly didn't do anything to make me feel that way.

Okay. That's not true. I, like any other human being on this planet, can list off a few things my parents should have done differently. But they didn't know they were doing anything wrong. They loved me and were doing the best that they knew how, which is exactly what I am doing with my children, which is exactly what every parent does with their children. I guess what freaks me out is this: all parents will fuck their children up in some way, it's inevitable. But it's impossible to know exactly what it is that you're doing wrong until it's too late.

...Then again, I turned out alright...maybe it was just hormones?