Evolution of a freak. or How I came to be the way I am.

In the beginning...there was a tiny little thing with red hair. It squawked and squealed and then was driven cross country from Nevada to Maryland through a tornado, all the while turning blue. That's right...blue. Rumors of my pending demise (started no doubt by my four year old brother) were greatly exaggerated and once we had cleared Kansas and dad had proven himself mighty by out running the weather, the hospital fixed me right up.

Fast forward through three years of living in Germany and a few years into living in Goldsboro, North Carolina at Seymour Johnson Airforce Base...and you have a six year old me. At age six, I was beginning to show signs of freakdom. My hair had managed to transform from red to blonde and was beginning to darken. I was also eating wood.

Not just any wood, no I was eating that weird Styrofoam wood that you just know is soft because it is in the early stages of rotting. And I would pluck it from the bark...pop it in my mouth, and pretend it was cheese. It didn't taste particularly good, it lacked all flavor. I just though it was cool that I could eat it without getting splinters. I also ate grass but refused to eat liver, peas, lima beans and cream of wheat.

I had also had social workers sent to my house by this time. Apparently my neighbors thought I knew too much about oral sex, so I was being molested by my parents. My memory of this is fuzzy and up until a year ago I thought the woman and old man had come to the house cus I'd been bad, and had played "you show me yours I'll show you mine" with a neighborhood boy. I can still hear her telling me "It's okay, I was just like you when I was your age." And I thought, you tricked a boy into thinking you were looking too? My poor parents hadn't touched me in that way and were no doubt the talk of our gossipy block for the next year.

The irony is I didn't know what oral sex was until I was thirteen.

By the time I was eight I had developed a paranoia that my parent's somehow overlooked. I would go to the end of our block, which was all of two houses away, and have a panic attack. Someone was trying to get me. They wanted to kidnap me. To take me somewhere. The fact that there wasn't a soul out of their house, not a car on the road didn't penetrate my young delusional mind. I would feel my heart pound in my head as loudly as my feet echoing on the side walk when I'd run home. This paranoia never quite left me. I still dream of being chased, kidnapped or in danger. And every now and then I get a freaky tingle, my heart accelerates and I look around for the nearest escape route.

When I was nine and in the fourth grade I developed another unusual habit that it took my mother nearly a year to discover. I would get bored in class, at least that's the excuse I told when asked why I pulled my hair out. I saved the hair in my pencil box, I didn't want the other students to see it on the floor and think I was weird. I didn't pull strands, I pulled locks. I'd wrap my finger around a good amount and yank. And it felt good. That's why I did it, it felt good. My mother discovered this strangeness when she went to put my long hair up in pigtails one day. She screamed when she saw the two huge bald spots on either side of my head. I never did it again.

Once I hit middle school my life was forever changed as I became the target of every bully in four grades. It wasn't bad enough I was getting a daily pounding from my brother; no, strangers had to pitch in too. This would turn me into a violent little shit that thought the only way to protect herself was with her fists.

In 1991 dad went off to protect people in Iraq and I was attacked by four schoolmates. Mike, Mike, Mike and Eugene (known to his family members as Ding Ding). I managed to fight them off with my trusty Master Pad lock. It was the first time my mother had said she was proud of me. It also made way for years of teasing from my family members and a rule that I wasn't allowed to have a chain to lock my ten speed up with anymore. Actually somewhere in the attic is the actual chain in the evidence bag marked, Exhibit A.

Then two years later, when I was thirteen, dad retired and we moved to Maryland. I stopped getting into fights, and my brother stopped beating me up. I was magically transformed in to a "goody goody." But I didn't know anyone, my bike had been damaged in the move, and my daily summer swims were impossible in the new town where people had sex in the public pool let alone urinated frequently in it. So I turned to books for entertainment, science fiction and fantasy books more often then not. Thanks to my brother's penchant for Forgotten Realms and an aunt's yard sale purchase of Bardic Voices, I became the quiet girl that kept to herself and dreamt of elves and dragons, who had lost the ability to tan and was now a pale, freckled, green eyed brunette.

At some point in high school I had managed to earn the reputation of being a lesbian. I suspect this was because I didn't tell everyone and anyone that hey...I liked boys. I have to admit that part of this was my own fault, as I was starting to become extroverted and would grab my male friends discarded dates at the dances and swing them around the dance floor. By my senior year I enjoyed teasing everyone who thought I liked girls, making them wonder, and at Prom when my friend Robert abandoned his very pregnant date, I introduced her to everyone as my friend Heather who was carrying our love child.

I think I liked high school about as much as the next person. I was harassed by a group of the popular kids when the Queen of the self-proclaimed "Snob Squad" discovered I didn't like her. Despite my efforts to get along with a nasty tempered red head each year, she would out of the blue attack me verbally in class and cause much embarrassment. My crowning achievement during this was my senior year when I finally had that sassy come back that made her stutter and the entire class to laugh at her for a change. It was glorious.

By the time I entered college I had overcome my violent childhood altogether, something I'm still proud of. I had also became a red head. College made me more independent and, despite the all women's college attempts to make me a "yes ma'am" person, I stood on my own two feet. I went toe to toe with the college President, and then the next year with the Vice President of Student Affairs. I occupied myself with Student Government, Art Club, Anthropology club, Yearbook, internships, volunteering and as Resident Assistant. I had gone from the floater in high school that knew everyone but didn't really fit in, to one of the most well known students at school.

In the four years I was in college I got more than a degree in Visual Communications, I also accumulated two tattoo's, one stalker, the nickname Schmüzig Jüngfrau, a niece and nephew and some of the best friends I'll ever have.

I've been out for two years now. That sounds like a parolee sentence. Maybe it is. I'm out of school on good behavior. I'm thinking of going back for a degree in Cultural Anthropology. Since I graduated I've been stuck in this dead end job at a community college; have taught eight students who didn't appreciate the knowledge I was sharing and now are calling me up for private tutoring; have offered my old Cavalier up to the fire gods and now drive a newer used car; have acquired a new harasser to fill that void I'd been feeling in the threats department; and, have had people think my best friend is my girl friend.

All of the things that have happened in my past have culminated to make me the person I am today: a young woman who laughs a lot; tells the same stories over and over unwittingly; tends to wear her heart on her sleeve; stumbles into innuendo's when she meant to say something innocently; eats raw fish with zeal; paints for herself; is searching for a guy who will entertain her as a friend and as a lover; and, secretly wants to have royal blue hair one day.




Why the story of my life? Cus it's my birthday, today I'm 24. And cus it was either make one large writeup summarizing or make several smaller ones telling funny stories. Besides...some of you will meet me one day, you'll want to know ahead of time why I am the way I am when you do.