21:05 - July 09, 2002
kept in the dark
Oftentimes I get hit with the notion that I've actually lived two childhoods, in the impressionable sense, at least... the pre-third grade post fourth grade pre eleventh grade, and the post third pre fourth post eleventh; that is to say, married home and divorced home, respectively. To understand this, you have to know that they were separated temporarily for the entirety of my fourth grade year, until they split for good in September 2000. I only think about this because I was a different person each time, aside from the normal growing up phase, that left me feeling distinctly more influential and realistic when living with one parent rather that two. In sixth grade I wrote this story about a girl named Emily who was in a wheelchair and was very popular, and then she had to move to another state and she got so depressed she wheeled herself off the roof of either an apartment building or a school building; I don't remember. In any case, when Nicole, Emily's former best friend, heard about her suicide attempt, she hopped into her dad's helicopter (because, luckily, Nicole's dad was a pilot) and flew into Michigan, landing in the hospital parking lot. The thing is, I thought that was perfectly realistic. I would have lots of points in my stories like that. People would just happen to have helicopters in their backyards, and they would just happen to magically have tickets to concerts, and their crushes would always, always like them back. As it was, my seventh grade english class read the Emily play out loud, as a project, and I never purposely made anyone laugh so hard in my life. They loved it. Matias, the boy who played Fo (evil classmate in new town who drives Emily to suicide) couldn't finish one line without losing control. Laura, Emily's mother, had to hold her stomach's spasms in with one hand while holding her script in another. I mean, doesn't every building have a wheelchair ramp leading up to the open roof?

The point to which I was sheltered, or babied, or indulged, is amazing. My only taste of real conflict in the real world was when my parents began fighting, and then, inevitably, separated, and I had to live with their selfish, angry differences and the way they handled me when apart. This was when I started being an incredible liar. I'd always lied, but fourth grade was when I became an expert. People would believe anything I said. I told the social worker at school that I was having psychological issues, and she let me miss math once a week. During the sessions-in-place-of-math, I sang the fifty states in alphabetical order and recited capitols. The only time I ever felt anything resembling sadness was when the Nintendo couldn't be wired right at my dad's new apartment, and, of course, when they announced they were getting back together.

In ninth grade I wrote a story about Amelia, a six year old prodigy with a knack for the trumpet and a special 'friendship' with Rob, the cute seven year old french horn player. She of course wrote in perfect longhand with impeccable spelling, and had crushes long before the onset of anything even resembling puberty. This phase was largely autobiographical; normal, for the age, but what I didn't realize was how obvious it was, and therefore ran around showing it to people, including those who were plainly characters in the story (Erik=Rob, anyone?)

It's nice to be kept in the dark sometimes, because you don't worry about anything. Now I'm fully aware, probably even hyperaware. I know my impact, I predict my impact, and I know what's going to be believed and what's not. I'm still an expert liar. But at least I know why people laugh, when they do. I know why the things I say are often met with a cringe. Before, being so sheltered I couldn't even part the curtains, the laughs and the confusion from others around me were shots in the dark. It's nice to be kept in the dark, but only if you're alone in there.

I think that there should be a comprehension limit on money. People have a million dollars who don't even know how much a million dollars is. If we can't count up to it fairly easily, it shouldn't be around. Where's the exchange rate? How long is it going to be before a car is 25 million dollars, and Bill Gates is penniless, comparatively? Something to consider; a million dollars could buy you a nice house, or it could buy you 2,000 of my cars, or it could feed 500,000 hungry people a meal.

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