Mission Report
here
Mission Report
here
I think my first memory is me misremembering myself. I have a vague memory of a memory of myself as a child, the view of my short arms clutching a potty training toilet - its turquoise-blue - and running to tell my mom I successfully peed in the toilet. I think I must've spilt my own urine everywhere. I think this memory might not be real. I tend to remember things incorrect, or in third person, if at all. I usually remember me remembering something, and each layer of re-memory gets more and more blurry.
My second memory might be of Montessori, when I must've been three or four. I remember warm coloured walls in a semi-hidden corner where a vase with pussywillows sat. I recall another child, a boy. I recall laughter as we touch the soft, fuzzy pussywillow buds and pluck one or two off. I think it must've been him first, him who put a bud in his bellybutton to resounding laughter. I think it must've been I who followed. I don't know why, but I remember this is where my fear - or discomfort - with bellybuttons started. Did the pussywillow get stuck? Did it feel gross? Was I embarrassed once caught? I do not remember.
I don't have this memory, but it was told to me. The first day of kindergarten, I am terrified. I am finally, finally not crying. I am alone, painting with those crappy, water soluble, kid-friendly paints that are the absolute worst. My best friend for years, Claire, who is a stranger at the time approaches. She tells me "Grass isn't purple." I begin to cry. I am sent home, inconsolable.
In games of 'family' in kindergarten, there would be a mom, a dad, a boy, and a girl. Then me, with the role not of sister or aunt or anything else - but family dog. I would yip and pant and play ball. I would not be mother. I guess not much has changed.
I am now realizing a lot of my early childhood memories are bathroom stories. This is only the second one of those. I am in grade one, maybe six years old, bundled in snowpants, jacket, mitts, hat, sweater, pants, socks, and shirt. I am playing in what feels like five feet of snow in the vast schoolyard, though knowing my height, it was likely only two or three. I recall this sudden urgency of needing to use the washroom, and making the long, urgent trek down the hill from the furtherest corner of the yard. The yard-duty volunteer is kind, and gives me a clothespin to let me inside to use the washroom. I am relieved. The feeling is so overwhelming that I have to take quick, short steps or else I feared I would- y'know. And yet, as the warmth of the hallway sinks into my frozen fingers, the piss in my bladder soaks out of me and into my socks. And boots. And pants. And probably snowpants. I am six years old, and there is nothing but shame. I am alone, scared, and soaked in my own urine. But more than that, I am ashamed. I cry - a common through point by now - and eventually, my first grade teacher hears me in the hallway and approaches me. Miss Smith. I remember her being beautiful and kind. I remember being so embarrassed I can barely speak. I don't know how, or when, but I am changing into fresh underwear and pants, and my dad is driving me home with a bag of pissed-logged clothes in a plastic bag. I am ashamed. I resolve I will never, never do this again. I will never lose control in that way. I will never. And I don't.
Apparently, according to my parents, I did not speak for a while. I was late too speaking, but they weren't worried. I was also exceptionally shy. It must've been the combination of these two factors that made them think I was 'normal.' Even when I - allegedly - did not speak to my first grade teacher, the aforementioned Miss Smith, for months. I would pull a friend aside, most likely Claire, whisper to her, and she would then go and relay my message. I have no memory of this.
When I first received Pokemon Mystery Dungeon (explorers of sky or time, i can't recall) i was too young to get through the game in any meaningful way. Aside from misreading the tutorial instructions - the one where you choose your pokemon/get assigned a pokemon - i never really played the game. That was, until I was 10 or so. I was old enough to get through the extremely easy opening scene and tutorial (all i had to do was hold my finger to the screen) and finally get in the groover of playing the game. Not only was I completely absorbed and obsessed with the game, i became engrossed in the community around it. There was a realively small yet potent community of pokemon mystery dungeon fans, and I fell in love with it via tumblr. I recall being in my light yellow room with the fairy wall decos, crying as my playable character returned to the human world and my pokemon partner, John, cried in desperation. Damn.
My sister and I played the beginning section of Pokemon: Diamond at least ten different times. We forgot how to save and would just play until the ds battery ran out. We were not the smartest, apparently. But eventually we got the hang of things, albeit poorly. When fighting in trainer battles, we'd chant "die die kill kill you're weak" to encourage the oppositional pokemon to... die, I guess? Flawed logic for sure. I can't begin to imagine how our parents felt hearing two children chant that religiously.
I knew god wasn't real when I got my period. I never wanted to go through puberty. It scared me. I might've disgusted me. I wanted to be me - not a girl or a woman. Funny, how things work out. It started when I was wearing fuschia underwear, so I thought maybe it was a skid mark despite me never having pooped or anything that day. I prayed to god. If he were real, he'd save me from this hell. If he were real, I wouldn't have to do this. If he were real, I wouldn't be a girl. The blood continued to flow. God isn't real, after all.
I think I had a platonic crush on my second grade teacher. She had curly hair and was Portuguese, just like me. She was very kind and treated me very nicely and on the last day of school, she brought us (the class) freezies and her husband brought their dog to play with the kids. I don't remember her name or anything, but I remember thinking she had a nice smile.
when i was in grade four or five i got sent to the hospital or a psych eval or therapy or something. I don't remember much. I remember painted walls (sick!) a strange man (not sick), cool drawings from other patients (sick!), and my parents crying (not sick). I don't know if i understood why i was there. I dont remember saying anything to the stranger / doctor / guy and instead drew the whole time, especially because another patient was a really good furry artist and I, a warrior cats kid, fell in love with their art. Apparently the doctor thought i was spick and span and sent me on my way after a while. I learnt years later I was sent there because i wrote my first suicide note.
I got my first job when i was 21 i think. I can't recall exact dates, though i could check. I think i only got the job because my sister worked there too and they liked her. So a bit of nepotism, if you ask me. I was beyond nervous during my interview - actually, i was beyond nervous all the time. My anxiety was getting better, but with something as new and as important as this - it controlled me. The interview was over zoom, as covid was still prominent and a larger concern. I met my boss at the time, who would go on to change my life. I think i've told her this. I'm not sure she understands.
I think I loved my best friend. I know she never felt the same. I don't know if it was romantic or platonic love, but it was love all the same. We hadn't been in the same class since kindergarten, but we'd always play during recess and talk outside of school. We were close, but we continued to grow distant as time passed. In grade 6 we grew close again. The summer vine came out, we were making stupid (and unfunny) vines and had a joint account and had a rainbow icon. She later told me people thought we were gay because of it, so we changed it. I didn't understand the issue. When she got a boyfriend I was heartbroken. Heartbroken because it meant less time with me, but also it meant she was different than me. She didn't feel the general disinterest to boys the way i did. She didn't find romance boring and sex disgusting like me. She didn't love me, the way i loved her. I knew she'd leave me. For boys, for more popular friends, for high school. But it still hurt.
i dont recall much from my teenage years. Most of it was a blur of sleep, depression, medication, and hospital stays. I recall sleeping 12-16 hours a day because being asleep and plagued with nightmares was still better than being awake and cognizant. I had chronic nightmares for a time. Funny enough, it started the night I saw httyd 3 (which was dogshit) and didn't stop until 5-7 years later. I dont think the movie was bad enough to trigger my chronic nightmares (though it came close) but something in me just broke or whatever. I would talk, scream, kick, and sweat buckets in my sleep. I never felt well rested and was always tired and/or sleepy. Sleep was my coping method for being alive. I cant hurt or kill myself if i sleep. I cant be alive if i sleep. I had to keep sleeping.
In geography class in grade five, a boy was laughing at a map of a section of Africa. A few of them were, I think. I didn't understand why. That boy, my seatmate, later pointed it out to me, too. He pointed at the country 'Niger' and said it was a bad word. I was confused. How can a country be named after a bad word? I think I must've asked 'what word?' and he just... looked at me for a minute. I can't recall if he actually said the N-slur or if he tried to explain it to me. Either way, it completely went over my head. I had never heard the N-slur before, at least, not in a way I could recall. That's just how white my life and school was. I remember just being confused. Why would anyone use a bad word for Black people? That would be mean. I want to laugh at my ignorance. Even if it seems innocent, it is evidence of my privilege and lack of proper education and activism. I think the boy got tired of my confusion and moved on. I remember looking at Niger, and thinking of the map, tracing the borders.
I had a red car seat as a child. I think at one point my sister had a blue one, too. I remember it's texture - like a jersey. That's all I can remember though. I wonder if I stayed in a car seat longer than other kids because I was so short and relatively skinny. I wonder how long my identity has been tied to being small. Being short and skinny and dainty and cute and all the things I wish I was still.
i cant remember how i met my best friend, Jordan. I think we had assigned seats with each other in grade 9 or 10? but back then I rarely spoke. I recall a trip to the library where I just started talking with her. About what, I do not know. But after that, it was every lunch together (when I was there) and every class together (if we could). I still love her. She is my dear friend and though we have been in different cities for almost 6 years, we still are close. I think she helped save my life, too.
I've been thinking about death a lot lately. I do not understand why - I'm doing well and, frankly, better than I ever have. However, I have this creeping feeling I will lose something. Maybe it is because I am unfamiliar with happiness and struggle to allow myself to feel good. Probably that. But... I can't help but mourn. For the first time, I am able to think of the future. But the future contains the inevitability of death of my loved ones. I cannot withstand such thoughts. Lately, it's been about my dog, Kai. He is about ten years old now and it's starting to show. If I lose him I will lose myself. But even worse, I fear I am attempting to memorialize my mother before she's even gone. I find myself reflecting on her life and her impact on mine. Keeping scraps of her - I just found an old grocery list of hers tucked in a notebook I use. I fear if I don't hold on tight, I will forget things about her. Even something as simple as her curly, flowing writing. I cannot bear the thought of an existence without her. But I know, I know I will continuously lose her as her Parkinson's progresses. I know she will want to die and I will have to grant her wish. I know I cannot live without her. I do not know to how live with this pain. I do not know a life without her.
When I was young, maybe in grade 1 or so, I always struggled to remember how to spell 'because.' There was a spelling test coming up and I couldn't get it right for the life of me. My older sister helped me by making a small jingle, or rather, pattern of speech for 'because.' B-e-c-a-u-s-e. I remember exactly how she said it because i still use it all these years later. It's funny how the little things stick with you.
It is weird to stay alive. to be alive. It never came easy to me. My body worked fine enough - if you ignored the asthma and allergies. But it was everything else that was difficult. Existing in a body, existing within my own brain, existence as a whole. I never wanted it. I never asked for it. And yet, now that I am doing well, better than I ever have before, i am trying to reconcile this. This core belief that I should be dead. That the one power I have in life is the ability to take my own. I am still working on this. I still cannot imagine life beyond a few weeks, maybe a few months. I cannot imagine a life. But existing comes easier now. I hope i continue to grow and heal.
in grade 3, when boys and girls were still kids but not quite, we - my friends and classmates - played this game of almost pretend. We were playing pretend in the way that older kids lie; crafting stories and lies more grandiose than the last. Stories of witches, werewolves, vampires, and monsters. I don't recall much about the crafted stories, but i remember not believing it and, at the same time, not not believing in the fun. There was a time where I thought I had a crush on a boy, but i think i was envious of him. I think I wanted to be him. Popular, outgoing, scrappy, a boy. He once called me a 'spazz.' The envy and belief i had crush quickly died out. But not for the others. Never for the others. The stories became those of secret weddings in the magical realm; of forbidden love between werewolf and vampire; of midnight rendezvous. I did not have such fantasies.
my guidance counselor was my saviour. She showed me so much love, patience, and kindness for a child that was a stranger to her. She became my guiding light. I came in to discuss switching to gifted programs. I started sobbing uncontrollably halfway through. I don't remember what happened or what lead to what, but it became almost daily visits to her office. Looking back, I kinda feel bad. She became more than a therapist. She became my hope. That is NOT in her job description. But she did it anyway. Marci, you changed my life. You saved my life multiple times. I am sorry for all the trouble I caused. I am sorry we are no longer in touch. I love you greatly. Words will never capture what you did for me. I hope you know.
In grade seven my class had a new student - a transfer - who was very nice, outgoing, and popular with my crowd (and above). I quickly fell in love with her as friends. Her name was something I can't remember anymore. She had blue or brown eyes and bleached her hair blonde. She and I got along great and spent most of our days together. I pretended to like one direction just to get close with her, and i think i actually did enjoy it to a degree. Mostly because i cared about her so of course i cared about the things she liked. Anyways, it was around the end of grade seven that my depression started to get really bad and more noticeable. Near the end of June, for the school trip, she stopped talking to me entirely. Cold shoulder, non-verbal to me alone. I was heart broken. I didn't understand what was happening or why. I felt so hurt and betrayed and it hurt so fucking bad. She later told me it was because "I was too sad." At the time, I was undiagnosed. At the time, I was already experimenting with self-harm. I don't think I ever recovered from this. I wonder if she even remembers.
Apparently, I really loved Teletubbies. Lala, the yellow one, was my favourite, of course. I don't recall much of the show aside from the baby in the sun and nunu the vacuum cleaner and something about pancakes? But i genuinely wonder where my love of yellow came from. It's been my favourite colour from as far back as I can remember. Yellow room, yellow characters, yellow objects, etc. I can't recall when or why.
My backyard has changed over the years to the point where I do not know if I could recognize what it used to be. There was a tree, a skinny, small thing, that was later taken down. I cannot recall why. Later the trampoline my parents got for my sisters birthday was there. There was an extremely tall blue spruce, I used to build forts under it's lower branches. It sheltered from the cold in the right-hand corner of the yard. It had to be cut down due to rot or the bug infection-thing. My grandfather's maple, the tree I used to climb by hanging upside-down and pulling myself up, lost some branches. It is over 25 years old. Maybe 30 or 35. He planted it when he and my grandma bought the house. I never met him. The tree still stands. There was a bench, a short, black thing that I would crawl under and take shelter under when I was small. It's no longer there. My mother redid the gardens and used woodchips instead of lava rocks. We added a huge back section to the edge of the yard. The tricoloured beech continues to grow. My memory fades.
I thought, ignorantly, that if I pretended puberty didn't exist it wouldn't happen to me. If I remained ignorant, remained in bliss, I'd be set free from the carceral system of pubescence. It did not work. My body changed against my will. I became visibly female against my will. For the longest time, I refused to wear skirts or 'girl shirts' for the uniform, not because i didn't like girls, but because i didn't want to identify as one. Then my body distorted. It warped. It became this monstrous thing going against my will and hurting me and changing and people noticing and if i just tried not to maybe they wouldn't see maybe i wouldn't see. But i failed that, too. My body became something else. Someone else. And I was left behind.
I really got into marvel in high school, specifically Captain America stuff. This was mostly due to The Winter Solider movie and, of course, the Winter Solider character. I really enjoyed Bucky and his story and arc and all the potential he had. Too bad marvel sucks ass and did none of that. But hey, that's what fanfiction is for, right? I read a lot (when I was awake) and there was something healing about reading about a different guy struggling, healing, and learning to love. I mean, obviously Bucky and Steve are gay. They are literally so bisexual that they had to break the laws of time and space to make Steve straight. Which, in retrospect, is really fucking funny. Too bad every subsequent product Bucky has been in is pure character assassination. Oh well, at least I'm not an MCU fan anymore
I am trying to swim again. I haven't in years. Like actually do lane swimming, not just in backyard pools but at a fitness centre. I think - I know - I am terrified. Terrified of remembering. Terrified at how out of shape I am. Terrified I am no longer that 12 year old girl who swam fast and hard. Terrified I am grown. But I am taking steps, making plans, to try anyway. To be brave is to be afraid and do it anyway, or however the saying goes. I am going to check out the community centre soon. I am going to buy goggles and a swim cap - i already bought a swim suit or two. I am setting dates to attempt to go. It terrifies me. But I will try to try.