What you are about to read is unedited and free. Flowing. Let it out. ~ Misfit
I’m scared of myself. Every damn day.
Because I can do this:
“The crumpled greased-stained bag fell into the trash. Used up and forgotten. A new one would replace it tomorrow. Another lunch would coat the corners. Soaking up the paper with its contents, and a boy would scatter the food on the lunch table. He’d scrunch up the bag, crumple it up as if it never mattered. Because it didn’t matter. They made new ones every day. His mama would fill it full of whatever they had available: Bologna sandwiches smothered in mayonnaise and mustard. French fries picked up on the way to school. She stuffs them into the bag and kisses him goodbye. Wishing him the best day, hoping no one will notice the boy is like her.”
You just read a paragraph about a paper bag lunch. I breathed life into an inanimate object. I made you care about a paper bag lunch. That’s what I can do. I don’t even think about it. It just comes out of my tiny fingertips. And I can do it at will, any given time of the day.
Miss a dose and the words come flowing. I look at the dead trees surrounding me and I see jail bars. I don’t see the chemical imbalances or the need to suppress emotions. I see a town dying and depressed and it’s not a chemical imbalance. It’s a place, smothered in depression. Gray skies cloud waking days. Looking around are people on their way to being used up. Tossed in the trash. They make new people everyday.
A month or so back, a girl called me “batshit” on social media. I wanted to respond, “Honey, you have no idea.” But a person can’t show their shit, not on social media. Don’t let the crazy seep out. Paint your mask on and hide. Pretend you’re like everyone else. Post the pictures where you’re smiling and happy and loving. Make’em laugh. Make them see what they want. Don’t fall down in the cracks. Don’t stay there and become a weed trying to push up and be seen. When you’re seen, they will rip your roots out and spray you with their killing, toss ya in the trash. Because a weed is garbage.
Maybe I’m your little weed. Trash. Forgotten. Not coherent to the current state of reality. Because I’m not a journalist. Never was. I’m the storyteller. I can paint you into a place and make you believe you were there. You felt the sadness. You wanted the joy. You wanted me to climb on top and straddle your lap with my toned legs. You want my kisses on your lips. You want me biting your bottom lip while teasing you. You want to feel those petite powerful fingers around face, holding you still, piercing your eyes. And when I do, it will shake your core. Because I’m really good at two things: writing and fucking.
FREAK FLAG RISING.
Our new president-elect flies his freak flag everyday on Twitter. And people voted for him. Like people went into a voting booth and said “this is my choice. He’s going to make America so fucking great.” Boom! They hit the “Vote” button for an unstable reality television guy. Granted, he didn’t win the popular vote. Let’s have some real talk for a minute: THE DUDE IS TWEETING at all hours. And he takes credit for shit he didn’t do. He’s a narcissist and a fascist. That’s his freak flag. Not cool he’ll run our country. But he just flies his flag, superbly high and extremely proud.
And I’m scared of myself.
I’m scared to write. I censor. Why? Because I fear y’all won’t accept me.
I miss the Misfit.
Just let it out. Let my freak flag fly.
I didn’t drink the Kool-Aid today. I didn’t take the green pill. I don’t want to be muted because I’ve been hurt. And I didn’t keep quiet about it. I didn’t pretend I liked the person who hurt me. I immediately stripped down a happy wedding picture, and handled my emotions like a writer. I fucking wrote. Every pain personified in syllables.
Am I sorry?
HELL NO! Not even a little bit.
Because this is my gift. This is my freak flag. I intend to fly it. HIGH and PROUD.
If I hide it and censor and pretend I don’t enjoy what I am capable of doing, then I should be ashamed of myself. Call it whatever makes you happy: Batshit, Beautiful, Raw, Real. I don’t care what you call me. I named myself a few years ago:
I was never meant to fit your mold. I’m not here to win your vote, or approval. I’m a storyteller and a writer. And tonight, I’m raising my freak flag. I don’t intend on taking it down anytime soon.
Rachel E. Bledsoe is a writer and an Appalachian Misfit Mama. She enjoys swimming, long walks on the beach, and Marie Antoinette biographies. She is the sole voice and writer behind The Misfits of a Mountain Mama. You can visit her on Facebook or on Twitter @MisfitMtMama