In My Own Skin

We come into this world in blood and sometimes, we leave it in blood. Children skin their knees, their elbows. We comfort them, bandage them, give them a kiss to make it better. As a woman, I bled when I lost my virginity. I bled every month for most of my life until I didn’t anymore. We bleed from deep wounds, physically and emotionally. Hunters mark their faces, an indication of a kill. As a writer, I bleed metaphorically onto the blank page. Blood. It’s a symbol. It brings life, death. It purges, transforms. And sometimes it’s a sign of conquering, of winning.

In my mind, I see the girl at the end of the movie, like in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, circa 1974. Escaping the killer, she is the final girl. She won. But at what price? There’s a thing called memories. Flash backs. Nightmares. Sally. She has a name. But she represents us all. She’s crazed. She’s been to hell and back. Sally has lived through something traumatic. She is transformed, changed. Sally will never be the same.

Horrific experiences alter us. A synonym for the word trauma is disturbed. Seems trite but bear with me. Sally is disturbed. She is no longer the Sally 1.0. Maybe she’ll go back to her old self, presenting to the world the mask, the persona she spent years crafting. It’s unlikely. We grow from life’s experiences, big and little. And sometimes you get to a point when you ask yourself, “Who am I or who do I want to be?”

Today’s women call it “having no more fucks,” and that’s a good way to describe it. It looks different on everyone. I know men can go through this too. I see other versions of the men in my life. The person they are at home. At work, the “salesman” that is damn glad to meet ya. But since I am a woman, I’ll speak to that. Who am I and who do I want to be? Years ago, I was taking aerial yoga classes. I loved working with the silks, taking risks. Sometimes I’d end up bruised getting myself twisted up in the fabric, a veritable milky way printed across my thighs, the purples, the blues, blood trapped beneath the skin. I worked hard. Bruises felt like badges. It took strength and flexibility. I’d contort myself, using my upper body, legs spread, hanging upside down. After class one day, a woman, less than 40 years of age, referred to the class as “not very lady like.” I was very surprised by this remark. We were living in the 21st century. You could be anyone you wanted to be and forget the mold or picture of the past, the old blueprint.

There are days when I present as sexy, the woman who wants to be noticed. It feels like putting on armor to me, lipstick, clothes, sparkly jewelry, getting ready for an event. I put on the mask, the old one I worked so hard to create in my younger years. Then, there are days when I have the “I’ve given up look.” The mom in a lop-sided top knot and stained yoga pants. Not a stitch of makeup. I stay at home. I walk the dog. And I’ve run to the grocery like this too. These are the days I’ve gone feral likening myself to the mother in Rachel Yoder’s Night Bitch. I don’t give a shit what people think. I don’t care if someone compliments me. I’m comfortable, taking care of business. Stay back, six feet please. I may bite.

And then, there’s going home again. You can’t. You’re different. Or you want to be. We live life. We change. Events and the way we react to events shape us. Some of us feel like Sally, like we’ve been to hell and back. We have survived. But people want to put you in a box. They want to have you figured out. It makes them comfortable.

I’m a big fan of Rachel Harrison. There are hidden gems in all of her books, sentences that stick with you. In The Return, four old friends get together but one had really changed. I’d say she’s gone feral. The others want her to be the same, but we just don’t stay the same.

Harrison writes, “You can’t erase your past when there are pieces of it scattered inside other people.”

This right here is why I don’t like going to my hometown, why I also hate reunions. I know everyone is different, but I do not want to be that old version of me. I’ve been through some shit. I escaped. I survived. And somedays I feel like I’m baptized by the blood. I wear my pain like a shield, like armor, a well-earned honor.

Maybe as I get older, I’ll drop the sexy me. I don’t know why I still need her. It is fun, the dressing up. But looking inside will help you figure out why you’re doing what you’re doing. If this version is fun, that’s ok. If this you need, this version, well, that’s something else. It’s like that “when I’m an old woman, I shall wear purple.” The gumption, the no more fucks at all.

For now, I practice self-examination, searching. I write. I purge my soul, vomiting the hurt into my stories, using my pain. Most of us will die alone, perhaps going out in the blood. Death. It’s final. At my funeral I won’t have any control over what people say, or how I’m remembered. I want to be cremated, my last transformation. If not, they’ll wash off the blood, fix me up, dress me, put lipstick on my corpse to make everyone comfortable. It won’t matter at all how I look in that box though. Who knows what happens after the final credits. Will I get my wings, become a beautiful angel, sitting on a fluffy white cloud? Will I haunt houses like a ghoul, crazed, taking my revenge on those who have wronged me? Maybe, just maybe, I’ll return to the earth, roll around in the dirt like a dog, digging up bones, living my best afterlife. Woof.

*

Batty forever,

Greta

* no book rec on writing or personal growth, or guilty pleasure this month. Lots of words in this blog. I’ve said it all.