She is bitter.
She is angry.
She is filled with hate and envy.
She is beautiful.
She is darkness.
She. Is. MINE.
He is there.
He is caring.
He is devastating.
He. Can. NEVER. Be. Mine.
They say love heals all. We say love is toxic.
They say trust is crucial. We say trust doesn’t exist.
They say never judge others. We say judgement is all we know.
They say I should let her go. I say it’s impossible.
They say I should let him in. I say it’s impossible.
I wasn’t always a cynical bitch. There was a time in my life when I loved people and made friends easily. I loved life and lived it as any child would. The thing about being a child is that you aren’t trained to see the harshness of the world. Your little mind cannot comprehend that people are being bad to you. You chalk it up to them being different. You continuously run behind them for a little attention not realizing that they don’t want to give it to you.
I started off just like that.
At eight-years-old I didn’t know that the kids at school were laughing because I was different. I didn’t realize they laughed because they thought I was a smelly old witch with ugly scars on my face and legs. When the blood clung to my white school pants and stuck the material to my opened scabs, I didn’t know that for the rest of the school year they would naturally avoid me, leaving me to sit behind my teacher’s school desk and eat my lunch. I didn’t know why some of my family members would wash their hands after touching me or plaster themselves to the wall whenever I walked down the same hall as they did.
I didn’t realize that having a condition that I couldn’t control was the reason I could never wear the pretty pink Barbie dress but instead I had to wear corduroy pants and polo necks. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t have pretty long dark hair like everyone else, why did mine have to be cut off and always untidy?
But then I understood. I understood the day I went to highschool. I felt hot and took off my jersey only to here an “eew” from the girl next to me and watch her shuffle her chair away. I understood when a guy laughed and pointed to my neck thinking I had a hickey and told the entire school I was thirteen-year-old slut coming to school with love bites. I understood the day I was changing in front of my friend during a sleepover and she gasped at the red angry sores on my body and then asked whether I minded sleeping on the couch in the lounge because she just “couldn’t manage sleeping next to anyone at night.”
I understood the first time a guy slid his hands underneath my shirt and pulled it away immediately saying, “what the fuck.” I understood the day I watched all the girls get ready for prom with their fancy dates, I watched from the crowd as every girl—except for me—who waltzed in with their beautiful ball gowns. I laid in bed that night bawling my eyes out knowing that they were out there having sex or having fun while I cuddled up in my blankets and got comforted by my parents.
I understood the day I had finally found a boyfriend in college. He treated me differently. He never looked at them as scars or ugliness. He said he loved me as I was. So why wasn’t I good enough for him to stay? Why did I find out he was with a perfectly shaped girl behind my back?
It wasn’t always bad. There were a few months in sporadic years where it wouldn’t show up at all. Sometimes I could bask in wearing t-shirts, dresses and shorts. Then there were times when the condition played games with me, never appearing in winter when I had to be bundled up, but appearing in summer when I wanted to dress like any other person out there.
What also didn’t help my cause was the fact that I was so skinny. I was called various names because of my lack of boobs during highschool. I was called an ironing board, a pole, a ruler and a stick. My two big front teeth had everyone calling me bugs bunny and beaver.
I folded into myself by the time I hit twenty-two. I started realizing that people were always going to make fun of me about something or another. Yeah, I still look the same as I did when I was fifteen. The same teeth, the same body and the same condition. The only difference is that now my face is sharper, my grey eyes are dead and full lips will never smile just for the sake of being happy.
That girl who loved too much was gone. She had a few friends that saw her through her day. She had her wonderful parents who made her feel loved and cared for. She had her fuck buddies who never disappointed her with what she wanted and what she received.
Life was good.
And then I saw him and it got fucked all the way to hell.
People have one extraordinary talent. Judgment. Labeling. Assumptions. Hypocrisy. Some do it based on what they have been through. Some do it based on opinions of others. Some do it just because they think they know everything about everyone. It is so easy to judge, every one of us do it daily in our lives. We look at a person and think that our experiences in life give us the right to make calls on their personality or profession.
I’m a DJ.
Your first image is probably a club and me on decks with tons of women at my side. You would never peg me as a guy who would settle down and if I did have a girlfriend, you would probably giggle with your friends about how you give it a few months or weeks for me to cheat on her. After all DJs are just people who play music at events and go home with whatever spreads their legs, right?
We have no background or tortured past. We don’t have feelings. We don’t mind getting cheated on. We don’t look for women that are below average.
That is all I have heard when I got into the profession at nineteen. Would I have backed out because of it? Hell to the no.
I am one of Miami’s hottest DJs right now. I have been invited to play at gigs around the world. I am currently recording a demo to send out to radio stations since my tracks on SoundCloud are picking up a lot of interest. I busted my ass to get where I am. Anything I have done to be at the height of success that I’m riding on right now? It was well worth it.
I didn’t have an ideal life. I had one of the crappiest upbringings. The whole mother-leaves-father-forgets-child-and-becomes-alcoholic thing? Yeah, I’ve been through it. I know what it is like to feel unwanted and wish everyday that you could run away. Music took me away. Whenever there was any yelling or stuff being thrown I turned up my music on my headphones. Whenever I didn’t receive the call I was waiting for, I would play around with the sounds on my audio-mix program on the laptop. Music pulled me away when I had my heart broken. Music surrounded me when I went to bed at night, when I woke up to the hot Miami sun and even when I took an afternoon stroll. Music was all around me.
Even when she punched her way through my life. Literally. She was fierce. A force to be reckoned with. She was dead inside and I wanted to be the man that brought her back to life.
The only question was how do you save someone who is way passed saving? How do you love someone when you don’t know what falling in love is like? How do you teach someone about acceptance when you don’t even know what the hell that means?
Life was good, really good until I saw her, and then? It all went to hell.