Charisma, Zero

I am watching a documentary on Princess Diana and it occurs to me that as magnetic as her personality was…My own personality…is not. I’m not always in hate with myself, don’t get me wrong. Some of my quirks are delightful and the rest of the world sucks for not recognizing that. I am more than my mental health issues and yet I am supposed to stay on topic so my blog is about something and so there’s really not much chance to show that there’s more to me than depression and anxiety and griping about, well, everything.

I never thought myself anything special, I was, by all acounts, just a normal kid, little more mature for my age than others but…Maybe I had a big town mentality even though trapped in small town America, I never had this sense that I was better than or less than or even something that stood out. That all changed when we moved from one small town to an even tinier town (population 144) and it was all denim and flannel and livestock and having an open mind and liking things as I did like Culture Club and Duran made me an outcast. I loved make up, spray in hair color, wearing tons of jewelry and well, clothes not made of denim or flannel.

That began my loss of innocence as a child, finding out just how cruel people can be to anyone who is different. And the adults around me had the stellar advice to ‘just try to blend in’ but that was directly at odds with me simply being who I am. So began name calling, tormenting, being spit on, singled out, excluded. I was ugly, I was weird, I was a freak, I didn’t belong, they wanted me to go back where I came from and were not shy telling me as much.

So that part of my young life was pretty rough but I stayed true to myself and did what I liked. My dad said ‘you bring it on yourself’ and so be it. Because people just shutting the hell up if they dislike something cos it scares them or it’s different would be ridiculous, I should be the one to change. By then, though, I could have worn clothes out of the popular kids’ closets and it wouldn’t have mattered. I’d been labeled an outcast, weirdo, told that I should do drugs so I’d have a legitimate excuse to be such a weirdo.

All these things they found so weird about me were actually quite popular in larger areas. I was different but not like with six inch high fuschia mohawk and assless chaps. But to them, spray painting your hair hot pink was some mortal sin.It would be many years before I was told that many people simply found me intimidating, and they envied me for having the courage to stand out and be who I was rather than blending in.

I am proud to say even as I face my 46th birthday next year…I am still doing my own thing. Two tone hair color, black rubber jelly bracelets, spiked boots, black leggings, and my staggering smart ass T shirt collection peppered with some vivid images of tigers, dragons, Jason Vorhees, Freddy Kruger…Black eyeliner. I may not have the energy to make myself presentable in this fashion often but that part of me remains, they did not quash my spirit even if they did drive me to quit school because otherwise I was going to get a bleeding ulcer and likely kill myself. They didn’t win because I got a GED and I am still me, through it all, even when my kid points out that I don’t look like the other parents. Oh, sweetie, that was never gonna happen. Jeans and flannel ain’t my jam.

But it was this being singled out and bullied for six years of my life when I was so young that gave me a complex, of sorts. When the docs and therapists would throw their little tests at me and ask if I somehow felt special or different than everyone else, my answer was always yes. Because I was programmed daily for six years that I was different in a bad way, that I was special in a bad way, that I wasn’t like everyone else, in a bad way. And so that lead to one doc concluding that I am schizotypal cos I think I am special and different but…

I’m just me. For better or worse. Mood swings, anxieties, days without bathing, days where I sleep more than I am awake, the days where my only comfort comes from my kid being happy and my cats loving me…This is me. I started posting youtube videos which I’ve avoid 15 plus years lest the ‘you’re a fat ugly bitch’ trolls rain on my parade and blow up my floats, but I’m kind of sick of living like that. I survived being spit on and called a prostitute when I was 15, I think I can handle some net trolls. Then again, one mood swing or panic attack and it could be my undoing.

I wish had this ‘thing’ called charisma so my blog would be more popular, so our fundraiser would be more successful, so people would see that I have a plan for the future to support us and I can totally rock it, gieven seed money to get started. But I don’t have that kind of charisma. I’m weird, but not weird enough. I’m mental but not the entertaining kind of mental. I’m a single mom but I’m not thin and pretty so I can’t raise much money for my kid to get things she needs. Whatever ‘it’ is, I don’t have it. Not sure I ever thought I did, but I figured since so many people went out of their way to torment me on a daily basis for no reason other than they didn’t like my spray in hair color that day, I must be onto something that kept me from fading into the background as zero anti personality girl.

There was a time I wanted to be famous and popular. I got a brief taste of that at JobCorps for the six weeks I stayed there and ya know what?Being popular sucked, it’s like I had guys who liked me, but then all the girls saw me as this homewrecking threat (I was 17,ffs) and I was glad to just get back to doing my own thing and not be in demand or a target. And now that’s how I want my life to be. I want my voice to be heard (in written word, of course,as I am a writer) but I’m okay with 5 or 10 people who think I’m cool. I don’t need adored by hundreds. I’m not good with crowds.

Still…I wish I had a little more of this special’it’ charisma when it came to stuff like dating or trying to find work. Alas, one of the toughest things one has to ever do is accepting who they are.

I’m not charismatic, I am not popular, and frankly…I don’t give a fuck if you like the way I color my hair, paint my face, or what clothes I wear. There’s so much more to me than that and those who bother to find that out are the ones worth my while.

The rest is just flotsam and jetson in the day and age where anyone can be an internet sensation.

I’ll happily hang on to the few connections I’ve made on line through this blog and maybe get lucky enough to hit it off with a couple more people who like me just the way I am.

I guess that’s my charisma. Knowing what counts more to me is quality over quantity. Five good friends beats the hell out of a million followers who don’t care if you live or die as long as you’re entertaining them.


3 Responses to “Charisma, Zero”

  1. Could it be you secretly fantasize about blue jeans and flannel shirts for your wardrobe? I mean, if you WANT blue jeans and a flannel shirt I’m pretty sure I could find some somewhere… they’d be hot. No, I mean, if you wore them, they’d feel hot, if your heat is working. You’d probably have to take a cool shower and slip into something more comfortable. Like, pajamas and fort blankie. I want to go there for myself, but sadly, my boss declined my request even though I should have had the whole week off, and insisted I work on Friday. FML. Anyway, inquiring minds want to know ALL the specifics and schematics for your wardrobe wishes and dangerous dreams…

    DM – (Demented Man)

    • I wish I felt comfy in jeans and flannel, really, but I never have. It’s like wearing someone else’s shoes or something, wrong fit, wrong feel, wrong look, just wrong.
      As it gets colder you can start thinking of me in purple footed jammies like some demented version of Tinky Winky. When I get cold, I don’t care how absurd I look. Long as I never wear them in public, it’s okay. If I go out dressed in them, then I’ve officially gone off the deep end.

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