The Girl Can't Talk

2021 taught me how to be present with myself, to really sit still and acknowledge the inauthentic distractions that I’d adopted as “me”.

I had a lifetime of layers built from fallacies and other people’s opinions that I was forced to tear away—layers upon layers of skin that I had grown comfortable drowning in. I’ve never been closer to the most authentic version of who I am than right now, at this very moment, but to get here I had to unbecome someone that I’d hid inside for years.

It might sound strange, but I’ve always had a hard time remembering that I’m a person.

I’ve always had a severe discomfort when it came to my own reflection, I would avoid any reflective surface at all costs, and look away completely if I had to wash my hands in front of a bathroom mirror; I was compulsively avoidant of my own presence in this world, I even felt uncomfortable hearing my own name, and when I did accidentally see myself, it was jarring, like suddenly remembering that, oh yeah, I am here, aren’t I?

I didn’t know what was wrong with me, I only knew that I didn’t quite feel present. I knew that I was around people, but when attention was suddenly brought on me, it would startle me, it would force me to acknowledge that I’m not just a floating pile of strange thoughts.

The abrupt realness of my presence was perpetuated when I had to speak. Hearing my own voice bothered me, and I tried my damnedest to stay utterly invisible so that I would never have to say a word to anybody. In essence, I was completely disassociated from my own existence. And through all of this, or possibly due to this, I’ve always wondered, why the hell am I here?

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a strange sense of urgency. Like I just never had enough time, but I had no idea what I was supposed to be spending my time doing. I only knew that I needed to be doing something. Can you imagine how disorienting that can be? I was still a child, not even old enough to fully grasp the concept of old age, I was supposed to waste time. I was supposed to have a childhood full of ignorant screw-ups. But I never felt completely ignorant. I was supposed to have a lack of direction so that I’d be compelled to explore the world and discover my purpose, and yet I already felt like I had a purpose—my only issue was that I’d forgotten it. I knew something was there, I wanted to know what it was, but I didn’t know why. I felt stuck, constantly stumbling over myself as I tried my best to pretend like I was the same as everyone else, lost and youthful.

It was all a lie, though more to myself than anyone else, because somewhere in the hidden recesses of my mind, I knew I was keeping myself in a lie; I kept getting little nudges, like my thoughts sat on a fence and there was something behind me that was trying to push me off, snapping go, get a move-on, GO! What the hell are you doing? Get off already!

It seemed like no matter what I did, I couldn’t act right. I was already quiet on top of quiet. I was quieted even further by a traumatic event during my very early childhood; what was worse, the pervert lived next to my grandparents’ house. Consequently, every holiday, every birthday, or any other random family event, I was forced to revisit that horrifying event. I had to see his house, I had to see his truck, I had to see him. Over and over and over. What anyone else would consider mundane family events, to me, they were my worst nightmare.

Strangely perceptive that I was at such a young age, I had a heightened sense of my mother’s wildly fluctuating emotions, especially around other family members. In order to counterbalance her sensitivity, the only way that I felt I could coexist with her safely was to teach myself to appear completely numb.

How could I possibly tell her that I was hurting and scared to be at my grandparents’ house when any offhanded remark made towards her, she perceived as an attack? I was too scared to be honest, so I became trapped in a lie.

With no way out, this little ghost girl calcified, becoming as silent and still as the moon. In a room full of people, I felt as if I was sitting alone in the dark. The only thing that could soften me was the sun. That person for me was my older cousin.

You couldn’t convince me otherwise that he couldn’t brighten the whole damn planet with his personality alone, given the opportunity and resources. Whenever he showed up, I was getting to that point of mental necrosis, the dark was eating me alive, and just as the walls were starting to swell around me and I felt like I might suffocate, I would hear his goofy laughter, and everything would instantly explode backwards. I could see the house and the people surrounding me. I could finally breathe. Most importantly, he was big and loud and strong, and I felt safe.

This is what I thought was my foundation, but this year proved to me that it was a faulty one, built on lies and a false sense of happiness, because the day I nearly lost this cousin in an attempted suicide, that sense of stability and safety which I had so tightly cocooned myself in completely crumbled in an instant.

Near the end of 2020, I was losing my drive to be an author, I was in a terribly dark place and highly suicidal. I didn’t see a point in trying anymore. Only seven months later, I saw these same struggles mirrored in my cousin—the one person in my life that I considered indomitable had completely broken.

It was a sharp catalyst that cracked me wide open and forced me to question why I perceived him that way to begin with, which led me to take a closer look at myself.

Looking was the most painful thing I’ve ever done. Nobody wants to face their own shadows, nobody wants to admit that they’ve become a people pleaser, which is manipulation, you are trying to force people to like you by always saying “yes” or “everything’s fine, I’m okay”. That’s exactly what I’d become. Take it out of the shadow and see it for what it is. I was a manipulator; I was never confident or content with my own presence, so I sought the validation of others because alone, I felt worthless. I felt like a misshapen bean who was cast out of the farmers hand, but in the presence of my sunlit cousin, there was a sense of validation.

What I understand now that I didn’t growing up was that, although he made me feel strong and protected, he did nothing special for me. The sun merely did what he always does, radiate exhaustive energy without direction or meaning—it was my perception of his power that was, as I understand it now, wholly misplaced. Because what I know now what that, yes, he had power, but so did I. He gave away his strength, and I received.

People seem to undermine the power of simply receiving something. It means you are receptive to the universe’s eternal desire to expand within every single one of us; we are all our own individual vehicle, but if we choose to shut out the hand reaching down to guide us, it can’t possibly help drive us forward, and in the end, far too many of us struggle needlessly.

Even though I may have been subconsciously taking this light from him, it was still my own inner strength of wanting a much more bombastic, outer strength that proved that I was already capable of it.

I was not worthless. If I wanted to grow, I didn’t need the validation of the farmer, and I didn’t need the validation of the sun. I had it in me to validate myself, to prove to myself that by merely wanting more, by wanting to grow, I was expelling the energy needed to balance the energy it would take to aid in my growth—I was proving that I was worth the soil it took to nurture me. I was capable of transformation, all it took was for me to remember just how much power I had, and that was when I could truly blossom.

I discovered the strength to say “no”, to admit when I’m not okay or when I just can’t do something.

Now I’m much healthier, both physically and mentally, I’ve applied and earned a spot in a master’s creative writing program, and now I’m even putting myself out here by entering these nerve-wracking competitions! I learned how to be authentic not only with other people, but with myself, and it's brought me so much farther from where I was a year ago.

There’s a lot I still need to rebuild, my inner world may be sitting in the aftermath of devastation, but at least the foundation, my true foundation, has been beautifully illuminated: I’m an awkward person who has a hard time looking at people, I catcall the moon like a horny construction worker, and I consider Helga Pataki to be my spirit animal.

And I can talk. Oh, absolutely I can talk! It may come out in a nervous tumble of words, but there isn’t anything wrong with me. Nothing about me is flawed, because there is no such thing as “flaws”, there are only pieces of yourself that you have the potential to flourish from.

This is the authentic me.