Devil Child

Get the holy water! Pray for mercy! DELIVER US FROM EVIL! Why? Because, dear readers, I’m officially the devil child!

After so many years of trying to get away from my original Golden Child state, I have finally succeeded, and things are as they should be. Everything is right in the world. My sister, who is always feeling guilty about things and is most definitely the nicer one, is finally being recognized by my mother for her efforts. You know where that puts me? As the evil one. And oh, how I love it!

It’s so liberating, really, being the scapegoat. I’m an adult. I’m old enough to realize that my mother is full of shit. So I just don’t care. . . especially now that I have a Prozac prescription to fall back on. I don’t feel guilty. So I’ll drive like a maniac, hate knitting, blare my evil rock music, play my evil video games, wear the black that depresses my aunt, swear like a sailor, watch all the horror movies I want, talk about autopsies at the dinner table, tell people the truth to their faces, flip them the bird, tell every dam joke that enters my head, call little dogs Cat Snacks, belch as much as I want, laugh at dirty jokes, wear tank tops, and snap heads off. It offends my mother and my aunt, but who cares? Auntie Darling hated me even when I tried my hardest to be the Little Angel, so screw her. Done caring. I’ll wear all the black, all the ratty clothes, and all the skulls I want, and I refuse to feel bad about it.

They’re going to complain about me anyway, because that’s how they work. So, I might as well really give the two of them something to complain about! Besides, being evil is my natural state of mind! All my hard work must be recognized!

In the immortal words of the great and terrifying Dark Helmet: “Evil will always triumph—because Good is dumb.”

Effemiphobia: A Fear of Femininity and Weakness

My sister and I (mostly her) have discovered something. Our life is a lot like the TV show Supernatural, if you take away the supernatural elements, and genderflip everyone. Crazy, abusive parent? Check. Older sibling scapegoat who has to be the parent? Check. Younger, golden child sibling who has to be protected? Friggin’ check. Effemiphobia? You bet! Now, I’m not a big fan of the show, so a lot of this is what my sister tells me, but I’ve seen it in the episodes I have watched.

For as long as I can remember, my brain has been split into two parts. I was in middle school when I finally named them after my two male OCs (original characters) who they seemed to represent. There was the quiet, cold-tempered, intelligent chessmaster who despised all weakness (the cynic), and the kind, gentle peacemaker who just wanted everyone to be happy (the sensitive). My two personalities, as I described them. I knew I didn’t have multiple personalities, of course, but that was the best way to explain it. When I was experiencing negative emotion like anger, sadness, hurt, fear, whatever, I tried to emulate the first. Shut down my true feelings, raise an eyebrow and make a snarky remark. When the emotion was positive, I was the second, laughing at myself, making jokes at my own expense, slipping on ice and taking a bow. But sometimes, I fell through the cracks. I’d cry. I’d fly off in a rage. I’d scream when I saw a spider. And the cynic side tried to tear me apart, angrily telling me how stupid and weak I was, while the sensitive side cowered before that rage.

Depressed people have described feeling like they have two voices in their head. One, always berating them for the stupid things they’ve done, and the other, constantly apologizing for living and wondering what they could do to make things better. This was me in a nutshell, for most of my life.

The problem: why were they both male, in my mind?

In the past, I’ve described myself as a tomboy. But maybe that’s not altogether accurate. I’m not really the sporty type. I hate almost any sport that involves a ball, as a matter of fact. No, what I am is terrified of femininity. The trap of masculinity, as I’ve called it in the past.

So, yes, I’m a girl. Yes, I’m friggin’ effemiphobic. Dean Winchester’s line, “No chick flick moments,” might as well be my motto.

It’s a hard concept to explain. Effemiphobia is the word commonly used across the Internet (especially Tumblr), though it’s mainly used to describe men, especially gay men. It’s got nothing to do with misogyny. I don’t hate women. I am one. I don’t even hate femininity—forgive my language, but I’m fucking terrified of it. It’s a message I inhaled from my first teacher, Hollywood. Feminine women need a hero to rescue them, while they stand around looking terrified. Masculine women (and guys) are the ones who save the day, and kick the bad guy’s ass. Maybe it was also because I idolized my dad and action heroes, but the only feminine role models I really had were either damsels in distress or my mother and sister (who were both their own brands of crazy). Masculinity, to me, was sane. My dad was masculine. He was sane. He was smart. He was rational. My dad could fix things. My mom and sister knew how to mess them up, and let their feelings get in the way.

And the more masculine I acted, the more my dad acknowledged me. The more he wanted to spend time with me. The more I wanted to be his son, not his daughter. Anything was better than being my mother’s young lady. Because my batshit crazy mother wanted me to wear dresses all the time. She wanted me to be the proper young lady. Her golden child. Her perfect little girl. I rebelled. My sister is far more feminine than I’ll ever be, and that was not the way it started.

I have guilty pleasures in anything remotely romantic or soft. I love fluffy animals. I’m decent at amateur romance scenes. I love analyzing every romantic moment of my favorite movies. Heck, I love a good chick flick, and I’ll occasionally pick up chick lit. Sometimes, I just want to eat a salad and listen to music that’s described as girly.

But all that sucks. Know why? Every time I engage in one of these activities, I hate myself for it. I don’t want to be the romantic. I don’t want to cry when I see a mouse get killed. I want to consume the entire double bacon cheeseburger, and I’d drown it with beer if I drank. I watch horror movies, I read and write the most horrific, gruesome things I can devise. I can burp on queue. I bombard myself with action movies. Because they’re safe. They’re not weak. They’re not feminine. They make me strong.

I have a different perspective than any guy who’s effemiphobic, obviously. I can’t escape femininity completely. I can deny all the aspects of it I want to, but in the end, I’m still a girl, physically and mentally. I’m still attracted to men. I still want them to notice me. To find me attractive. But I’ve been told I’m beautiful more times than I can count. I’ve been told I’m awesome, smart, funny, cute, whatever. I’ve been told I’m soft, and I can’t stand to even think about that. The highest compliment I’ve ever received was being told by a guy that I was more of a man than he was. Because that made me strong. That meant I could protect myself, that I didn’t need anyone else to protect me. I need that assurance as surely as I need to breathe. I need to be strong. I need everyone to see that I’m strong.

But I’m still a girl. I wear flattering clothes and jewelry and makeup and fix my hair. I own a lot of shoes. I like to cook, and I love to dance. But I haven’t worn pink in years. Lace is disgusting.

It’s like constantly being at war with yourself. Wanting so badly to just be a guy, but at the same time, realizing how much that would suck. Wanting to enlist, but knowing you can’t get in because of depression. And even if I could make it in, I’d wash out during basic training due to depression. I know that. And I hate myself for it.

But, oh well. Life goes on. First step to fixing the problem is admitting that there is one, and I’ve come a long way toward fixing it already these past few years, even without having a word for it. I’m pretty happy being the way I am, honestly. Effemiphobia doesn’t control me. . . most of the time. And when it does, I just need to blow metaphorical raspberries at it, because I’m awesome. Right? Of course right!

Thank you for tuning in to the Rantings, Ramblings, Ravings and Musings of Mac. You may now return to your regularly scheduled programming.

To My Dad

Dearest Daddy,

Thanks for being there. It isn’t often I acknowledge you for anything, as I’m too busy with my own life. You’ve put up with so much—you really have the patience of a saint. But, this Father’s Day, looking back, I start to think about all the things you’ve done.

You’ve stuck with Mom all these years—through every fight, and every little shred of her craziness. You never truly objected to being the walking ATM. Instead of offering stories where you were always the hero, like Mom did, you offered great conversation, teaching us little things about a variety of subjects. Thanks to you, I learned how to build my own desktop computer. How to play an RPG. Poker and Blackjack. I knew the biggest and smallest countries in the world, all the states, and all their capitals long before I ever needed them for school. You taught me to be careful what I pray for. How to mow a lawn. All about having the greatest display of Christmas lights in town. And although as a child I always hated how you teased me (remember that time I broke your foot?), I learned that life is meaningless without a sense of humor, even if the only jokes you can come up with are the stupid ones. Even then, Dad, you could always make someone smile. You always made sure we had fun. Mom would scold you and talk about you behind your back so often, but you still make her laugh, too.

No father is perfect, of course. But all my friends agree: my dad is cool. And this Father’s Day, while they’re all saying they have the best dad ever, I know they’re wrong. In that respect, you could totally beat up their dads.

So, thank you, Dad—from the deepest, darkest pits of my withered black heart—for being exactly the father that I needed. You rock.

Another Time, Another Place, Another Eyeroll

Here’s a rare thing. Mac talking about L-O-V-E! Yes, I may be a month late on the subject. But, hey, that’s how I roll.

Love is in the air!

How ’bout a fight to the death with boffer swords instead?

I’d never admit to anyone that I’m a closet romantic. But I have been for as long as I can remember. I usually don’t like stories in any medium (but especially books) that don’t have a bit of romance in them. Sure, it’s annoying when it’s the main plot, but as a side plot, Mac can die a happy girl. And, of course, almost everything she writes has the dreaded R-word. Sometimes too much.

And it makes me want to scream, which is why I’m a closet romantic. I absolutely loathe that part of myself. That’s the girl who gets twitterpated far too easily—the bubbleheaded bimbo who willingly listens to whatever the current object of her affections has to say and agrees with it all, no matter what an idiot he is. Some giggly little brat I don’t even know. But oh, how she loves the drama of it all! The wind in her hair, the whoosh of a cape. The beauty of a love confession. Stars in her eyes, too much air in her brain.

But it’s one of those things I can’t change, no matter how hard I try.

And, you know, at least I get that Twilight was idiotic. It didn’t appeal to my romantic senses, even at my most obnoxious.

Never mind how that didn’t stop me from breaking up with Boyfriend 1 (who was socially awkward, and came off as obsessive) by inventing another guy, who I really considered myself in love with, and wished so badly was real. He was, of course, the hero of all my stories at the time. Say it with me: Gary Stu.

I eventually got over my Stu, and realized what a stu-pid idea that was. And then, in came Big Crush (and later Boyfriend) 2! So much more aloof than 1. Taller. Classier. A better speller! Of course, I was head-over-heels, and my romantic side went crazy. She took over almost completely for two years, and I became the aforementioned giggling ball of a single-digit IQ whenever he was around. Our “relationship” lasted for a month, before he dumped me for one of my best friends.

1 made me feel good about myself—except how he always had his arm around me, making me feel like his Siamese Twin (we even looked alike! Same hair and eye color, within inches of each other’s heights). 2 made me paranoid, because I was never entirely sure about him. I knew he could be a jerk, so I was half-expecting him to give me a big “April Fool!” any second. He was so attractive and so popular among our crowds (AKA the haunted house workers and the down-to-earth drama geeks), while I felt like an awkward outsider, that I was sure he could do better. So why was he settling for me?

Between 1 and 2, I’ve got my share of problems. When I see guys and chicks holding hands or with their arms around each other, I want to tell them to get a room, at the very least. When a guy tells me I’m pretty or asks me out, my initial reaction is to take it as a joke. And just the thought of going on an actual date (I’ve been on a grand total of 2) is terrifying, because what if my idiot romantic side comes out? And I absolutely loathe common human courtship rituals.

Then again, there is hope. Big Crush 3 (who I’m still hung up on) never was even remotely likely to become a boyfriend. He’s six years my senior, and you can very obviously tell—partially because I look about 16. But I got my feelings out of the way and told him, just like a practical, logical, cool-headed chick should. Part of me thinks it was stupid, because things have been awkward between us since, but the other side feels it was the right thing to do. I tied the romantic up in a corner for that one, and pressed on. No heartbreak, no tears. Facing what I fear.

But it’s been over a year since that momentous day. No new Big Crush (the only kind of crushes I really get). And the only guys who want to be around me are buddies from work, my dad, and my male best friend, who is whiny and emotional and very, very annoying (who also claimed he was in love with me). Then again, not many guys ever really wanted to be around me. I have some kind of antisocial vibe going on that drives them away. I have discussed this phenomenon repeatedly with friends.

Still having the romantic side, of course, I do want to fall in love. But it’s terrifying, at the same time. I know it won’t be Happily Ever After. Love takes work, blah blah blah. With me, though, all those little pet peeves about a person (even someone I love) tend to build up—a massive mountain of disappointments that will finally break, leaving me hating those whom I once professed to love. I’ve yet to find a return from that. Time doesn’t fix it.

Worst of all, I’m scared I’d end up like my mother—a crazy woman married to a fantastic guy, but she doesn’t see it, and all she can do is complain about him behind his back—in front of the kids or anyone else who happens to be listening. Taking everything from him, but returning practically nothing.

Between all that, I wonder why I don’t have a boyfriend. And a guy at work bet me I’d be married by this time next year.

Not unless hell freezes over, it would seem.

Homeschooling and How It Is Appropriate For Young Ladies

My mother was born in the fifties, and always taught how to be an appropriate young lady. Me, I’ve always considered the fifties to be a neo-Victorian age. So many rules. Women didn’t leave home without their hats, and their shoes had to match their purses. Family and husbands were the most celebrated things. Boring.

But growing up in the nineties, she was still trying to push these ideals on me and my sister, her two daughters. My half brother, her eldest, had already left home, the angry child of a green beret. So me and my sister were her chance to start anew and do it right. We weren’t girls—we were Young Ladies, and it was her solemn duty to teach us the Appropriate Ways to behave.

My sister, who’s two years older, was lucky. She got to go to public kindergarten. But, when my time came, I was not sent to school. Instead, my mother sat me and my sister down one day, and gave us a spelling test.

I was five years old. I had no idea of the concept of a test, and blinked in confusion as my mother handed us sheets of paper and pencils and started a stop watch. And she named off the first word—the.

Sitting there, frozen, I was still hopelessly confused as the seconds ticked by, and Mom called out another word. Then I noticed that my sister, sitting in the chair next to me, was writing them down, so I looked over at her paper, hoping I could glean the secret of this weird thing called a spelling test from her.

Of course, that’s when Mom yelled at me, thinking I was trying to cheat.

That was only the beginning. Except Mom had this horrible habit of forgetting about our schooling, believing that we should be able to keep a set schedule, ourselves. But how many young kids will willingly sit down and do school work when they’re left unsupervised? No, much of that time was used to develop my creative side, making up games that my sister and I would play, writing the stories before I’d ever thought of being a writer.

But on some awful days, Mom would crack down, forcing our noses into the incredibly boring Pathway Readers (lots of good morals, but lacking an interesting plot)—which were her main focus. Because she didn’t just want us to learn how to read, she wanted us to learn Amish values: girls wear dresses and work in the kitchen and house, boys get to work outside and be rambunctious. Her only other real concern (besides our religious education—we didn’t get enough on Sundays, apparently) was Math, which was only focused on every now and again, with an annoyed explanation of subtraction here, and a yell of “Do the workbook!” there. If we really didn’t get it, she’d send us to our Former Math Major dad—who is good at math, but was never able to teach it.

There was also music. We were started on learning to play a recorder. That didn’t last very long.

Oh, and because we weren’t getting and PE at home, Mother enrolled us in ballet and tap classes, overriding my quiet objections that I’d rather take Tae Kwon Do, because my delicate bone structure would never be able to handle it.

And how could I forget knitting and sewing! Mother, taking us with her to knitting classes. Buying us yarn and needles and all the things a beginning seamstress needs. She’d show us patterns of pioneer dresses and tell us how one day we were going to wear dresses like those every day, complete with aprons.

Our drama classes came every summer, when we participated in the local historical pageant, where Mom took great joy in making us several of the dresses she dreamed about.

If we were lucky, or if we fulfilled Mom’s varying expectations for the day, we got to learn from Dad when he got home from work. He’d teach us about computers, and let us watch him play computer games. He’d quiz us about geography, with a big map of the world on his bedroom wall, until we knew almost all of the countries and their capitals, as well as all fifty states and theirs. We got to watch him fix cars and do yard work, if Mom didn’t want us kept inside. And every Christmas, we got to help him repair and put up Christmas lights. When Mom was away, he was also the music tutor, teaching us the beauty of classic rock.

Before Mom began this insane indoctrination,  I’d been lucky enough to see outside that box. My grandmother was a huge fan of action movies, so when we went to her house, I’d sit in the living room with my parents and grandparents and watch such movies as Speed with a mouth open in awe. Sure, I didn’t understand them, but they were still awesome! On TV, I’d get to watch Spider-Man and Batman taking out bad guys by the dozen. Also, I saw a lot of Xena, Warrior Princess. The action genre, it’s fair to say, was my first teacher. And those values would not be uprooted by Mom’s traditionalist fantasies.

Still, she persisted. My most humiliating experiences as a child were when she would force us to go in public on a regular day in our church clothes. Once, we had to go to the city dressed like this, because we were going, of all places, to a computer store. Another time, at a church activity, I remember arguing with Mom hopelessly how none of the other girls would be wearing dresses. But those pleas fell on deaf ears. My sister embraced the experience with a bubbly smile, telling me it would be fine, and it was fun to get dressed up. In the picture of the three of us they took at that activity, my sister is on one side, beaming. Mom is in the middle, a calm smile on her face, an arm around each of her young ladies. I sat on the right hand, my face a portrait of misery.

But eventually, Mom started to give way, between me, my sister, and my dad—mostly because she couldn’t stop us. She decided that nail polish didn’t make us look trashy. She allowed our normal clothes to be those dingy camping clothes—jeans and t-shirts. And after years and years of rebuffing my sister’s requests, she allowed us to pierce our ears.

It took the persuasion of my overbearing aunt, though, to finally break through the worst of those bars, and get us into public school, where I rejoiced when I discovered that division was possible.

Here is the story of my mom’s failure. She tried to turn me into a lovely young lady of good worth and quality—a treasure for my future husband. Well, I’m not. I’m a half-goth metalhead who spends my summers working at a scout camp, my Octobers at a haunted house, and my winters at a ski resort. I wear men’s clothes unapologetically, and will not lower my eyes from anyone’s gaze. I don’t speak in half-truths and riddles, and I can be very loud. I play violent video games. I watch those evil horror movies. I drive too fast. I rock climb and snowboard. I can burp on queue. I tell my friends to get their minds out of the gutter so mine can float by.

How’s that for ladylike, Mama?

Father Poppa Daddy

I’ve posted repeatedly about three fourths of my family. But, I realized that I’ve never really written much about my dad. I’m too busy complaining about the other two.

My dad is an awesome guy. He’s put up with my mom’s crap for twenty three years. And he managed to make sure that I didn’t go totally insane.

When I was home schooled, he taught me and my sister more than our mother ever did. While Mom had us reading Amish primers, Dad was getting me hooked on DraculaHarry Potter, and Lord of the Rings. All of which my dear mother considered evil. While she neglected our education all day long, Dad would come home and ask us geography questions. It’s thanks to him that I managed to pass my high school geography class with a B+ without doing most of the homework, and get 100% on all the tests without studying.

While Mom was always the one restricting us and telling us what we couldn’t do because it wasn’t appropriate, Dad was the laid back one who could be firm if we got out of line, but generally allowed us to be who we wanted to be. He taught me about Christmas lights and computers, geography and science, music and books. That living in a hoarder’s house isn’t normal. Most importantly, he’s taught me that humor is an important part of life.

Every one of my friends who meets my parents share an opinion—my mom is scary and crazy. My dad is really cool. He’s the funny old guy who tells all the jokes, and is unfailingly generous.

Of course, Dad isn’t perfect. He’s terrifying when he’s angry. He’s a highly conservative homophobe. He gets road rage. But I’m incredibly grateful for him.

Without him, I know I wouldn’t have turned out so well. In fact, I’m pretty sure I would have become a sociopath. All seriousness and none of that sarcastic and very witty sense of humor. No androgynous qualities in sight. A proper lady who wears dresses and sits up straight and speaks when spoken to—and becomes a serial killer. Or who, conversely, is a victim all her life.

Thanks to Daddy, I’m better than that.

It’s Not Hard—Just Go Away

Has anybody else ever had that feeling—where you know you’re wrong, and you know you’re hurting someone, but you just don’t care? Where you will not surrender, no matter how childish it makes you look?

I’m supposed to be smarter than my sister. Better than her. I’m supposed to take the higher path, and not emulate her.

But I can’t.

People. They get too close. I have stupid moments, where I say emotionally damning things. The closer they get, the more their flaws pile up, the more easily annoyed I am, the more I hate them. Because they’re just pushing for closer. Closer. Walling me in, leaving me no exit. I can’t move. Can barely breathe.

This, of course, is about one of my best friends, Scott. He’s like my brother. And he’s “in love” with me. No matter how much I tell him I don’t want to hear it, he manages to come around to it. And it brings out my impulse to be as stupid as my sister. Resulting to acting superior by saying I’m more mature than he is. Feeling just as trapped in the argument when he says the same about me.

We’re best friends. We’ve told each other things in strictest confidence. I’ve never brought up the things that he told me. But when I tell him something, he’s sure to bring it up the next time I refuse to make out with him or parade around in spaghetti straps and shorts, or let him kiss my neck, or sleep in my bed.

Is it because you’re afraid of intimacy? Is it because you’re a prude? Is it because it makes you uncomfortable? Is it because of your sister?

Like it’s any of his business why I do the things I do! It wouldn’t even be so bad, if he didn’t say these things within earshot of other people. It feels so nice, to have a friend so innocently putting your inner turmoils on display for the rest of the world.

All the little things he does make me so mad. And he laughs at me when I try to seriously mention these things. Because the vast array of things I get pissed off about are hilarious. His wording.

When he said that, I was ready to kill him. Then he got mad at me for saying that I didn’t want to talk about it that night. No, I don’t want to get all weepy with him while we talk about our feelings.

He’s done things like this to set me off several times. He apologizes. I never do. I refuse to. Sure, I’ve got excuses. With my sister, it was the other way around, and I’m sick of apologizing, etc. Poor little me. Sure, I know I’m screwed up, but it’s none of his business, and I don’t want his input. He doesn’t need another opportunity to show how he thinks he knows everything.

But why do I do all this? If he’s like family, why push him away?

Simple. I don’t want him to be in love with me. If I’m horrible enough to him, maybe he’ll stop. Maybe he’ll go away. Maybe he’ll hardly ever talk to me, just like my two exes. Or maybe he’ll forget all about me! Whatever, just as long as it stops. I don’t care. I just want him out of my life.

I know that’s wrong. I know I’m just being spiteful and childish. But that’s not going to make me change my mind. I can’t just flip a switch and be more logical and mature. But that doesn’t stop me from wishing for it every single day.