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Volcano Drunken Too Deep

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Seventh grade is when I discovered my impulsive and fluctuating darkened moods, my power to hurt, the power to manipulate… and my power of imagination and to write.

Eighth grade is when I exercised those powers, with reason. Nothing is worth doing without reason. Being in constant battles with my mother, and defying my new religious school. I was literally trapped between the corners of parental control and religious control. The most empowering, inspiring and provocative thing I did within those two school years was: I let go what was human in me. I experimented the art of painting over emotions with white paint, and plugging the ability to care with a drain-stopper. Everyday I peeled sympathy and empathy from my skin, with a psychopathic blade.

My ambition was to be invincible…untouchable. Nothing could hurt me, nothing could satisfy me, and nothing could make me sad or happy. If you dream hard enough, they say you’re ambitions prevail. The one main impediment was: I had the wrong ambition. Thus, obviously, I failed.

I couldn’t admit to the world I had failed. I couldn’t bring myself to recognize that silly things could affect me. Feelings aren’t important. Who needs feeling to function? That was my motive. The more I “un-feel”, the more invincible I am. But I was lying to myself. I was deluded. Mother, religion, and the teachers…everything was annoying, everything was frustrating and futile. Nothing cared or mattered, certainly not me. To care for monster like me? Only in Hell, if I was lucky.

Before I knew it, I was creating a Kill List, and was siding with serial killers because I understood them. They aren’t ‘evil’. Serial killers don’t ask to be serial killers. Though they portray themselves to be a rock, they’re boiling with emotion underneath that cold skin… like me. I felt a connection with serial killers, especially Ted Bundy. I truly believed that Ted Bundy—despite his “active time”—was a decent man (I still do).

Then there was Anne Boleyn… lovely, gracious, intelligent Anne Boleyn, who had been cooked with black pepper as the centuries passed. Authors write her as, and teachers teach her as: seducing, promiscuous, mean, vile, jealous and impulsive, but she wasn’t. In truth, she was very modest, giving, caring, and loving. The first Protestant queen, and a strong supporter of the New Learning.

Fyodor Dostoevsky (favoring Crime and Punishment) was not an author my mother preferred me reading, after the books on King Henry VIII and his six wives, and the three books justifying Anne Boleyn’s dignity, sprinkled with Alexandre Dumas and Thomas Hardy. Books filled with secret treaties, fabricated scandals, excelling murders, and guile vengeance. Not books a fourteen-year-old should be educating herself with. According to mother, a girl my age should be reading high school drama with substantial Queen Bees and the hot jock. Definitely not books filling the soul, because they don’t help you move on in life.

Everything I did was wrong. Did not matter what I was doing, it was wrong. Consequently, my ipod, books, sports, the computer, ever privileged you can think of, was taken away. The mere friends I had slowly disregarded me. Either way you looked it, I was isolated. But I deserved it; I had it coming. In fact, I thrived on it as punishment for my cursed existence.

Some people keep journals. Others play sports. And some rant long catharsis to their friends. Others cry in the closet. Doesn’t matter how you animate the action; it is still releasing emotion. But I didn’t have a journal, I was lousy with team sports, and I didn’t have any friends to rant to. But I did have pen, paper, and my imagination. I took the emptiness inside me, and substituted it to paper. I brought the human I didn’t have nor didn’t want, and gave it to my characters. Excess emotions I had saved when peeling it off my skin, my characters—people I had created—now ruled them. My characters were different images of myself, with given reason to act like they do. It was a renaissance for me. Things I wished I had, places I wanted to be, friends I relied on… it was my world. The power to rewrite time was in my keeping.

There was the belligerent and deep Seth Calli, who was very sensitive and bottled, but didn’t want to accept it himself. People saw Seth Calli as mean, distant, impulsive, paranoid, and lacking sympathy (remind you of anyone?). However, under that Samurai armor, was a boy who had lost his way, who didn’t know about life, and who didn’t know how to release his emotions. He was deluded by his fabricated hatred.

And then there was simple, innocent, gullible little Haley, who had been bought and abused by a drug dealer. She trusted everybody, and attached herself to everything. She was shy and friendly, a genuine girl just beginning to see the truths in life. The core feature was her innocence, an undeniable, irrefutable safety weapon.

Writing, writing, writing, writing, writing. I wasn’t aloud to read, so I’d write what I wanted to read. My writing was ponderous, dark and raw. And it worked. I grew more powerful everyday. My writing was an armor of my own; it was my venting tool. It was the one thing that prevented me from true madness. I had already lost the human inside me, there was no way my sanity was going to escape me.

My mother arranged a home exchange for Paris, France. Annually, I had been going Europe, but I never actually “lived “there. We would visit for the average 2 weeks, touring one country, then leave. This time, I “lived” in a flat in Paris. I “lived “ there. I sat back, and admired the beautiful Montmatre, watched the lights flicker from the Eiffel Tower, and contemplated in the impacting Notre Dame. I saw threw new eyes. Paris had changed me. I was…happy?

Ninth grade surely changed me…I had completely changed. In my speech class, there were four seniors who had inspired me to engage myself in politics. Naturally I am a negative, complaining person, so it was a perfect fit for me. The entire year I portrayed myself as educated, centered, intelligent and very worldly. My voice mattered and people respected me. Politics was a new edge for me. I broached it with every person I mingled with, despite the cautions sewn with the haughty topic. The most enthralling part about being informed and opinionated was: I had evidence, and reason to justify my beliefs (mostly about why I am the Devil’s upbringing, Socialist). By reading The New York Times, The Washington Post, and Le Monde, I grew more confident. I knew what was happening in other countries, as well as my own. The entire ninth grade, I was…happy?

Happy yet empty. I would familiarize myself with a laugh l forgot I had, but I would stop and punish myself for it. After a day of merriness, I would trade it for ten minutes head-dunking into a toilet, penalizing myself of the fake joy. No matter how much I laughed, no matter how frequent I’d outwit people, I was amazingly empty. In the middle of a happy moment, I would stop and think, why are you so happy? You don’t deserve to be happy. And, let’s face it, you aren’t. Stop lying to yourself again.

But happiness didn’t only come with feeling vacant and self-punishments, it came with loosing my power to write. That is when I understood that, too frequent, the best actors are drunks, and the most pensive and deep authors are tortured souls. The life’s meaning of true happiness doesn’t come with a denotation, because there is none. People can’t point fingers at the cutters and self-mutilators, and say, “(s)he’s an unhappy person”. A life’s true happiness is when a person is fully and utterly pleased with his or her current situation, whether it means suffering in darkness, or laughing in the open sky.

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Kresint50401 said...
Oct. 7, 2010 at 10:51 am
I guess I just don't completely get the point of this piece. You write well and obviously have a way with words, but it seemed like there was no essence. It felt more like the beginning to a memoir.
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