When I was 13 years old, John Green’s books were very popular. So much so that it was notable how hard girls were trying to be Alaska Young. I remember feeling uneasy watching them perform, I wasn’t judgmental, but I was scared for them, I guess. I hated her. I hated Alaska Young. I despised the canonical female love interest that would be digging her own grave and dragging everyone else along for the ride. She came in different forms, in books, in movies, Tumblr wouldn’t even exist without them. They drank and smoked and self-sabotaged, but that wasn’t my problem with them, I empathized with that. My problem was how they’d hurt everybody else in the process and continue to do it again and again. I could never understand why the male lead loved her and why everybody else wanted to be her. I would read books hoping they’d find their way by the end, and they never did, after all, they were written by men, so it goes. I wished the best for her, but she didn’t want it.
At 15, I perfectly recall reading the end of a very long text message: “You’re a hurricane.” and it set me off like nothing else could. I think that was the first time I truly felt self-hatred in my bones. It was ironic, as it always is. “If people were rain, I was drizzle, and she was a hurricane”. For context, if you are lucky enough to never have been a 14-year-old girl, it’s the most famous quote from the book Looking for Alaska. I remember knowing I was at a divide. I hoped the feeling was just passing by, but I knew better. By 17, I knew the ropes: I’d drink, I’d find a problem no one could see but me, I’d ruin the night for the people I loved the most, I’d cry myself to sleep, I’d wake up feeling like scum, I’d pick up the pieces, I’d spend days or weeks making amends, and I’d never quite forgive myself for any of it. I wish I could talk it down, say I’m being melodramatic by claiming I’d ruin everyone’s night, but unfortunately, I’m not. I remember, most of all, scaring people. I remember people being genuinely scared of me and not knowing how to help them. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever felt, perhaps because I felt like I’d become something far worse than Alaska Young. In the end, everyone was right about me, I’m a big old cliché: my father’s daughter.
I said cruel things and heard them back, heard from multiple people that I was unrecognizable, crazy, etcetera. At a certain point, it hardened me enough that I learned that I had to be alone when I felt that way, since I couldn’t risk asking for help or support or I’d end up hurting someone. So I’d disappear from places, go home to cry, and scream and break things and write and write and write. Later on, there were a few occurrences here and there, but they became less severe as I became less angry, less misguided, learned to pacify myself. I worked very hard on not being a mess, basically. It still hurts me that the person who showed me that it was possible for someone to love me and genuinely want to be there for me in my psycho spirals probably hates me nowadays, and they’re in their own right, I’d hate me if I were them. At a few points over the last 3 years, I became a bit obsessed with getting better. On growing and leaving the past in the past. When I first heard Noah Kahan sing “I thought that if I piled something good on all my bad, maybe I’d cancel out the darkness I inherited from dad”, I laughed it off, amused at how predictable I am. I didn’t take it to heart, though, because somewhere in my mind it seemed like it wasn’t my case, like piling something good on all my bad worked for me. But here I am again. These feelings waiting like a dog at my feet.
I can’t imagine myself living a fulfilled life and that freaks me out because it’s very honest. I always end up convincing myself that I want the things I knew I could never have, probably because it’s the path society lays out for all of us. Married, or having a family. Funny that I’d think of that, since I hated the idea when I was younger. I learned to love myself and I try to forgive the parts of me that I’m ashamed of. I can see how much I’ve grown. But it’s still in there, and I can honestly say it always will be. It comes too naturally. And I don’t expect anyone to put up with me, I’ve always been genuinely fine with the path I walk and its faults. I’ve come a long way and I’m mostly proud of how I take care of myself and others, and that’s enough. I can see myself older, but always alone, taking care of plants and dogs, having an occasional cigarette, being the godmother to my friends’ children and spending time with their families on Sundays. Beautiful, if a bit sorrowful, but it does feel like me. “Sou sozinha, eu e minha liberdade”. She comes from somewhere, and I’ve learned to take her as she is.
Sorry for all the self-pity. but oh well, this is me, after all. what did you expect?
unpleasant conversations 