Chapter One
Monday, September 2
I don't hate my life anymore. At least not today. I
guess I consider myself a recovering pessimist.
Or at least I'm trying. I used to be completely
negative and cynical about everyone and everything,
but I found that made it difficult to
breathe. So now I'm trying to be more of a realist.
That way I can be negative when I choose to, but
there's still a little room for hope.
Some people think I am dark. I suppose they're
a little frightened by me. By my appearance, or my
opinions, or the way I look them straight in the
eye without blinking or turning away, or even my
music, which can be, I suppose, unsettling.
Although I doubt they'd ever admit to such fears.
Because no one likes to fess up to being scared.
But I'll admit to it-at least within the privacy of
my own journal. I seriously doubt that I'll go
take out an ad in the Daily Times and go public
with this news. Like anyone would care.
But it's true: I am scared. And sometimes I
scare myself. Okay, I'm not talking about when I
look in the mirror, although that can be a little
frightening, especially on those mornings when I
have flattened down bed head and my eyelashes
are stuck together with that gluck that gathers
in your eyes while you're asleep. But for the most
part it's not my appearance that scares me.
Although I'm sure I seem frightening to some
people-narrow-minded people who want everyone
to look the same-like cookie-cutter characters
where everyone has a happy face stamped right
into their heads.
I've seen people stare at my hair (I cut it
myself-all jaggedy so it can stick out in all
sorts of interesting shapes, and I like putting
colors on it, such as magenta and lime and
purple), and I've seen some people stare at my
multiple-pierced ears and belly button and wince
or just back away. As if this is something
unusual. And I suppose I derive some weird sense
of satisfaction from their response. Like, see "I
told you so." Does that make sense?
My friend Caitlin O'Conner (about the
straightest chick I know) says I use my appearance
to keep people from getting too close to me.
And maybe she's right, although I've never admitted
this to anyone before, except her and then
only briefly. But I do sort of enjoy keeping up an
exterior that turns some people off-or even
frightens them. I figure if they're so shallow
that they're threatened by my appearance, well,
then who wants to know them anyway?
Besides, if you don't let people get close to
you, you lessen your chances of getting hurt by
them. Right? And that's something I could sure
live without. Not that I'm afraid of pain, because
I'm not. Believe me, I'm not! I just don't go around
inviting it to come over to visit me on a regular
basis.
I guess that's one thing that scares me
though-the way I keep shoving people away from
me. It's as if it's become this habit that's getting
harder and harder to break. In fact, I've gotten
uncomfortably comfortable with my isolation.
Well, for the most part. I mean, no one really
wants to be alone all the time. Do they? But
somehow Caitlin just pushed her way past all my
barbed-wire barriers and brick walls and actually
became my friend. Well, sort of. Actually, I
still wonder if she reached out to me because my
brother Josh told her I was such a pathetic mess.
She probably felt sorry for me too, because she's
that kind of person-overly caring and sympathetic
-something she needs to be careful of, I
think. Too much empathy can get you into trouble.
But besides Josh's involvement, I suspect
Caitlin (a Christian who takes her faith real
seriously) probably had great hopes of converting
me, not that I've ever done anything to
encourage her. But that's all history now
because Caitlin has just gone off to college. And
I'm sure she'll forget all about me before long, if
she hasn't already. I guess it just proves my point
about not getting too close to people. Because in
the long run, whether they mean to or not, they'll
eventually hurt you or leave. That's what I've
found to be true anyway.
But here's another thing that scares me
about myself: It's the way I question just about
everything. My parents call me rebellious and
headstrong. My teachers say I have an attitude
problem. Caitlin just says I'm searching. And in
some ways I think she's closer to the truth than
the rest of them. But for whatever reason, it
seems as though nothing ever comes easily for
me.
I'm not like Josh, the golden boy, who just
seems to coast through life on his wave of charm,
good looks, and general popularity. I'm probably
more like my older brother Caleb, although since
he left home while I was in grade school, it seems
I barely knew him. But his life has been pretty
messy too. Actually he's done a much worse job of
it than I have (so far). I realize that could change
for me any day now. And according to my parents it
will.
They're predicting that I'll seriously blow it
in my first year of high school. They could be
right. I just might blow it-or blow up. I might
explode into millions of tiny pieces and fly
throughout the universe. Or maybe I'll try to
prove them wrong. I'm still not sure which way
this thing will go.
Caitlin thinks I'm going to do "something
wonderful with my life." Ha! But then she's like
that-the perennial Pollyanna of the new millennium.
And I'll admit I liked that book as a child,
back when I thought everything always ended up
"happily ever after." I just don't believe that
anymore. And I don't mean to slam her exactly,
but I do think she's a little too idealistic. I
mean, what could I possibly do that would ever be
described as "wonderful"? I don't even like that
word! Like I said, I'm trying to lean more toward
realism, even if it does get me down sometimes.
And I suppose that's why I question God a lot.
But that's only on the days when I still believe in
him. Because a lot of times I don't. A lot of times
I wonder about things like religious wars and
starvation and child slavery and just general
greed and cruelty-and I find it hard to believe
that God would allow such chaos.
But Caitlin says it's okay to question God. She
says, "He can handle it." And she positively
assured me that no matter what questions I ask,
God has all the answers. But she also said that
I might not always like all his answers. But
what probably frightens me the most is the very
likely possibility that he won't answer at all-the
possibility that he's not even there-and
that we're all alone on this rapidly spinning
ball called earth going nowhere fast. And for
some reason that scares me more than anything.
But I'd never admit this to anyone. In a way it
seems pretty childish to see it written down. It's
as if I try to act all grown up and mature and, I
suppose, even tough, but inside I'm just a
frightened little kid. Pretty scary, huh?
There we have it. I have just confessed my
biggest fears, but I have some smaller ones too.
They may seem minor compared to what I've just
written above, but unfortunately they don't feel
minor right now. I'll tell you what my most current
pressing fear is: School starts tomorrow.
It's my first year in high school, and I don't
even have one single friend to walk onto campus
with. Oh, sure, it's my own fault since I no longer
act, talk, or dress like my old friends. But were
they really my friends? Would real friends shun
me so easily? I think Jessie and I might've eventually
become friends again, but then she moved
last spring.
But to think I lost all this on account of a
moronic boyfriend who stabbed me in the back
because I wouldn't give in to him? How stupid is
that? Maybe it was one of those Freudian things,
like I really wanted to blow my life into
smithereens on purpose. Or not. The fact is, I now
have to face entering high school as a solo act.
And that freaks me out.
Pitiful, isn't it? Oh, I keep telling myself that
I'll just act exceptionally hard and aloof,
dressed in my tough chick threads (which have
sent my mom to her room with a headache again),
and I'll march right in there and take nothing
from nobody. But despite my plan, I still feel
pretty worried. And a small part of me wishes I'd
listened to my mom and gotten some of those more
"mainstream" kinds of clothes and tried to make
what she calls a "fresh start."
I suppose this is where my rebelliousness
comes into play. I just could NOT do it. I could NOT
give in to my mom. I think it's because I actually
like how I look. It's kind of creative, you know,
like an alternative rock star. And so far I only
have seven piercings, and I think I'll keep it at
that since seven is a perfect number. And I don't
even have a tattoo (although I've been tempted a
time or two and am still considering trying a
henna one). You'd think that alone would make my
mom happy.
And I like how my hair looks all spiky and
wild and colorful. Really, I think I look pretty
cool. And since I AM a serious and aspiring musician,
I think this image works for me. Of course,
no one (well, except for Caitlin) really knows how
committed I am to my music. Maybe I'll get more
out there with it this year. Maybe I'll see if I can
play at the new coffeehouse that just came to
town. Who knows? I could even become famous
someday. It happens.
I've heard of fifteen-year-olds who've hit it
big. Besides, everyone thinks I'm old for my age,
plus I'm old in my class since my parents started
me to school a year late due to a silly childhood
illness that didn't seem like such a big deal at
the time, to me anyway. Even my grandmother says
I have the soul of an old woman, although I don't
think she necessarily thinks that's a good thing.
But maybe that's why I've always related better to
older people. The kids in my own grade feel too
immature for me, and yet I still feel like a little
kid sometimes too.
Caitlin encouraged me to journal down my
thoughts. She said it's a good way to get in touch
with my feelings, although I feel pretty in touch
already-sometimes too much so. She also said I
should write down prayers. I tried not to laugh
when she said that, but I'm thinking: What
prayers? I mean, I don't ever pray. I don't even
want to pray. And why is that? I say I still
believe in God. Well, sometimes anyway. So why
wouldn't I want to try praying to him?
I guess it's because I'm worried that, if he
really does exist, he'll want to change me. And
I'm not sure I'm ready for that yet. Even though
I'm unhappy and mixed up and feeling a little
frightened, I'm still not sure I want to change. So
instead of a prayer, I guess I'll just write down a
poem. Because I'm not only a musician, I'm also a
poet. And I am me! Chloe.
WHAT IF
what if all there is
is me? what if i am all i see? what if life is only this? and ignorance is bliss? what if love is only pain? and nothing can be gained
by living every day
and there is no better way? what then? cm
Chapter Two
Friday, September 6This was the longest week of my life. Every single
day was grueling-worse torture than walking
barefoot over thumbtacks or having bamboo slivers
stabbed beneath your fingernails. I am
utterly exhausted. Now, for whatever reason, I
have promised myself not to swear or cuss or use
profanity in my diary. (I also try to avoid such
cheap tactics in my lyrics.) But right now I could
easily back down on this puritanical pledge.
Because what I want to know is: What's the
bleeping reason for throwing a bunch of insecure,
heartless, narcissistic, shallow, malicious,
crass, and did I mention self-centered,
adolescents together into one huge merciless
cement complex and making them spend four
years of their young impressionable lives
together in there? If we were rats we'd probably
start chewing off each other's tails by the third
day. Come to think of it, that's exactly what a lot
of kids do. But what's the point of this pubescent
penitentiary? Is it because the rest of the world
is so frightened of teenagers that they want to
keep us off the streets for at least seven hours a
day, five days a week, and nine months out of the
year-like a part-time prison? Because it makes
absolutely no sense to me.
Like today. I'm just minding my own business,
washing my hands at the sink in the girls' bathroom
(a dangerous practice, I have learned, much
more hazardous than walking around with toilet
germs) when Tiffany Knight looks over at me and
says, "Hey, I thought Goth went out with the last
millennium." Then she and her moronic friends
laugh as if that's real funny. Now I've known
Tiffany since junior high, and she's always been
a great big pain in the you-know-what.
She's one of those girls who craves, more than
anything, to be really popular, but she can never
quite make it into the inner circle of the elite.
Probably because she's so mean. As a result she's
gathered a small group of friends (Tiffany
wannabes) that she controls like a bunch of
trained monkeys. And her group of followers
seems to derive a twisted pleasure from torturing
anyone they perceive as below them-which
probably consists of most of the rest of us.
Okay, I realize now that my first mistake was
to even talk with her. I should've just walked
away. But regrettably I reacted. Remember how I
like to learn things the hard way?
"Do you even know what Goth is?" I ask, but not
in a mean way exactly. At least I didn't think so
at the time.
Well, this stops her for a moment, as she
stares at me with obvious disdain and a pretense
of superiority, but it doesn't shut her up long
enough for me to make my exit. Besides that, she
and her goons are now blocking the door. So she
sticks her chin out and says, "I know that your
look is definitely the lamest thing I've seen
since my grandma's old Persian cat got his head
stuck in the garbage disposal."
Now this really cracks her friends up, but I
don't quite see the humor. Still, instead of just
walking away, I toss back my own zinger. "Well,
Tiffany, I guess you should know since you and
your cookie-cutter friends all look like a bad
day at the Fashion Butterfly." Now that's a pretty
good put-down because Fashion Butterfly is this
old ladies' store on Main Street where no self-respecting
teenager would ever be seen. My mom
won't even go in there.
Naturally no one laughs at my joke. And the
next thing I know, Tiffany is right in my face, so
close I can actually smell her Tommy Hilfiger
perfume as well as see a fairly large but well-concealed
zit on the tip of her nose. And her
friends are right behind her.
Continues.
