I am a Misfit.
I grew up knowing something was eternally and permanantly wrong with me. I didn’t know exactly what that was, but I knew that it was no small thing. Otherwise, why would my parents treat me so badly? and why would the neighbors and kids at school look at me like I grossed them out and they all avoided me like I carried some illness?
I must have done something wrong, or there must be something wrong with me. I had no friends, and the teachers weren’t very nice to me either.
It was a lonely childhood, but it was normal to me.
I hit the 3rd grade, and I became more aware of my surroundings. I developed more of a desire to do something about my situation. Bullying became a problem and I wanted to make some friends. I saw other girls my age getting into grooming, pretty hair clips and accessories and nail polish. I felt a longing for those things too. I wanted to be pretty. To feel pretty like that.
My parents bathed us at home once every other week, maybe once a week. So I began to take showers every day.
I started to try doing my own hair for the first time.
I remember going to school with my first, self-done hair style. I showed up, crooked pony tails hanging off the side of my straggly head and hand-me-down clothes that were worn at the knees.
I got teased and made fun of pretty bad that day.
Nobody noticed that I had showered, and smelled good.
But it made me go home, and sit in front of the mirror for hours until I could do my hair better, and better every day. Soon I was a pro at it!!
The clothes were more difficult. I had to be more selective with the stuff I chose when a neighbor donated something. My parents never took us clothes shopping in my younger years, and I don’t remember wearing a stitch of brand new clothing. To be honest, they really didn’t put much consideration into what we wore at all.
So with me being the only person making the decisions on what I would be wearing, I had to be mature about it.
My wardrobe was small, but I chose quality things that would last, and that fit.
However, the reputation my family had developed, followed me everywhere I went.
I would never be able to live it down.
I would NEVER be a “cool kid”.
I’d always be that awkward outcast.
I’d never quite be able to shake the underlying feeling that something was inherently wrong with me.
But at least I’d eliminated the crazy looks and the tendency to clear the room every time I walked in…
I know what it feels like to be the misfit. The one nobody understands or relates to…
and at the end of the day, the misfits are left alone.
Which leads me to my next entry…