Last post in this online confessional: December 2013. Yep...sounds about right. I am nothing if not consistent in my complete lack of consistency. So what drew me back, Sports Fans? What lured me again into the echo-ing walls of my cozy little blog?
PSYCHOTHERAPY (qu'est-ce que c'est?) fa fa FA fa fa fa fa FA fa
Soon and very soon, Kennedy Kent shall embark on the great American adventure of SSRI's and anti-anxiety meds. Am I crazy? Not in the straight-jacket-iest of ways, but maybe enough that I find it important enough to sort out my feelings on the issue.
I met with a psychiatrist for the first time today. In a clinical setting, of course. Not, like, for coffee and small talk and exchanges of stock tips. The experience was revelatory, terrifying, validating and awkward. I've been thinking about it for the better part of today and I've decided I'd like to document the next few weeks of my life extensively. Because, as the good doctor said just hours ago, "This could be the doorway to a whole new chapter in your life." And despite the twinge of confusion and disappointment I felt for his chosen mix of metaphors, I desperately wanted to believe him. I realize, if this is the beginning of the end of my life as I know it, I should get some things down on internet paper.
So, if you'll allow me.... I present a story -- one probably long-winded and nit-picky and fit for several chapters over several days via several emotional states. A story -- if only to document that I was here, in this space, in these moments, for all (and me) to see. This is the story of a girl.
Chapter 1: It Ain't No Thang, Mom
When I was maybe 8, I discovered Sleeping Beauty. I also discovered that if I pulled gently on my eyelashes, some would come out onto my fingertips. Stay with me now. I swear it's related. My developing mind compared myself to Aurora, the beautiful Disney princess with long brown lashes and gorgeous locks of thick, golden hair. I came to the conclusion that those eyelashes of mine that had been plucked so easily from their homes were inferior to the other, stronger lashes that were steadfast and sturdy. The weaker hairs were horrid deficiencies, mutant follicles and they needed to be removed immediately, separated from rest. Somewhere in my head, I would only be a Disney Princess if my lashes were beautiful. And they'd be beautiful once I had proved their strength.
For what seemed like hours, at least to a prepubescent, I pawed at my eyes until all strands obediently remained in place; no more loose ends, no more weak lashes. The lashes that survived the pulling test deserved to be there, I thought. They would be the beautiful lashes that would grow and stay strong and never weaken at the root, so future hair-icide would be unnecessary. Never again would I see lashes on my fingers. Royalty was within reach.
The next evening, curled up Indian-style* with my favorite white stuffed bunny (her name was Megan), a wandering, almost sentient hand ventured back to my lid. Fingers swept over the lash line. Absently I looked and lo, stray lashes were stuck there to my finger pads. The inferiors had returned. They had infiltrated. They'd spread their unworthiness to the others. They must be eliminated.
After a few evenings of this would-be cathartic ritual, I was appalled to find a small bald spot forming near the outer part of my right eye lid. I had climbed up onto the upstairs bathroom counter and was kneeling reverently in front of the glass. I gasped, fogging up the mirror in front of me. "How could this be?" I panicked and I tried to reason with my brain. "No, no, no. You misunderstand me. I was making myself better, prettier, stronger. The crap lashes are gone! Only the strong remain!" But the proof was in the pudding--I had pulled out enough of my eyelashes to create a void in my once thick lash line. I was horrified. My maybe 8-year old heart let out an audible whimper.
THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP
My mother barreled down the hallway of our two-story house. She wasn't the most light-footed of women. Her petite but hefty frame rattled the floor and walls.
"K? K??" She called with an absolute unneeded level of panic in her voice. She was dramatic like that. "What is it? What's happened?"
She pounded on the bathroom door. I quickly hopped off the counter, wiped the glass clean and put on my happy face. I left the bathroom, skirting past the troubled parent, maimed eye turned away from her. "Just tripped over myself! I'm okay!" I ducked into my room. As if by divine intervention, preventing further inquiry, whatever my mother was cooking downstairs abruptly started to scorch itself and she hurried away to prevent a kitchen fire (the kitchen fire would not happen for another 5 more years).
Alone in my room, I caught my breath. My heart pounded. My face was flush. And I eventually became aware that I could feel my hand traveling, moving cautiously but with purpose, directly toward my left lash line.
Coming soon....Chapter 2: Blondes Have More Fun
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*Shut your PC pie hole
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