Thoughts

I was a “Mean Girl” too

Mean Girls

(Mean Girls: one of the best chick flicks my mom and I like to watch, it teaches an extremely valuable lesson that should be learned very early on in life.)

I was a mean girl. A bully. A self-righteous hypocrite. A b-word.

Have you ever looked back on parts of your life, or your whole life, and said, “What in the world was wrong with me?

I know I have and, good Lord, I’m only twenty years old. I’ve already messed up my chance at “living life with no regrets”, because I have plenty of regrets. That is terrifying for someone my age especially, because it makes me look at the life ahead of me and think, “What else can I mess up?”

Thankfully I have Jesus now! I did growing up, but there is a big difference between your gracious mother forgiving you and our Lord and Savior forgiving you. My mother was always a fantastic example of God’s love, but I didn’t fully appreciate her example until I realized how much I had strayed from her path.

It wasn’t easy, at all, growing up with divorced parents. A mother can only do so much for her child who had a father that would rather pick up a beer than his child on the weekend. Nothing has ever gone the way my mother and I wanted, but we struggle together now. Before, I kept a lot to myself as far as depression and the things I’m about to discuss until early high school. Keeping those feelings buried inside for so long did a lot of damage.

To this day it’s hard to face those demons. Brace yourself, there are quite a few.

I was definitely a mean girl, especially in elementary school (cliques and bullies develop way before high school, despite what the teen movies display). In first grade I made a classmate cry when we were trying out for parts in our class’s play. I wanted the main role, especially since the two boys I liked and played with were the two other main roles. The teacher calmly spoke with me and the other girl, asking if we could maybe split the role (she does half the play as the main role, I do the other). Well, that wasn’t enough for me. I told her I wanted the role way more than the other girl, and the other girl said she didn’t mind. YIKES. Obviously she did since she walked off, crying. Why was I the girl responsible for that? It was just a play. Why wasn’t I the other girl who was kind-hearted enough to give up the role or to split it? Why was I the mean girl?

Fast-forward to fifth grade when things escalated. We moved around a lot because of work, but in fifth grade I was back at the same school I had been at two years before. During fifth grade it was boys versus girls in our class with crushes and little broken hearts. But, unfortunately, that was not the only drama. This was the year that the cliques truly sparked into existence. My “friends” and I paraded around the playground like we owned the place as we were the oldest grade in the school and seemingly the most popular girls. We also felt the need to let other kids know how they weren’t great like us. Think “Mean Girls” but about three-quarters their height. Yeah, it was as scary as that sounds.

It was bad. I had a very sweet friend that had been picked on for years because of her skin color and personality that could sometimes be overly energetic/friendly. Until fifth grade, I had been one of the only kids that treated her nicely. Well, being around privileged white girls and feeling way too good about myself ruined that. I remember looking at my sweet friend one day in computer class and saying, “I don’t like YOU. I don’t want to play with YOU. You’re DIFFERENT.” (Good Lord, that made me tear up just typing that.)

What. Was. Wrong. With. Me.

That same sweet friend I had hurt approached me in high school, sweet as always. I remember wanting to tell her how sorry I was, but I never did. By the time I had the courage and conviction, she suddenly stopped attending school. I’ll always regret that.

I was a mean girl. A bully.

The middle school years are a whole post on their own, so let’s skip to high school, shall we?

Ah, high school. Now we enter the realm “Mean Girls” takes place in. I hadn’t seen my classmates from fifth grade for years with the exception of a few months in between moves and schools. Now, I was back and had changed. Instead of being the stereotypical mean girl, I had become “little-goody-two-shoes” as they called it. Sounds better, right? Wrong. Let me provide a list of my famous catch phrases:

  1. “I don’t do that, that’s a sin.”
  2. “That’s really weird and wrong, don’t talk about it.”
  3. “No, I would NEVER do that. NEVER.”
  4. “I’m not like that. I’m not that type of person.”
  5. “You really shouldn’t act like that. That’s wrong and stupid.”
  6. “You can go to hell for that, so I wouldn’t recommend it.”
  7. “How do you do stuff like that? I can’t imagine that.”
  8. “Y’all are a bunch of perverts.”
  9. “Y’all are a bunch of idiots.”
  10. “No, I’m a Christian.”

One time I called a boy “Satan” for pity sake. That’s a whole post.

Not one “Jesus loves you.” Not one “Hey, I get it.” Not one “I’m here for you.” Not one “Can I pray for you?” And not ONE “We’ve all messed up, Christian or not, I need saving too. I may not know what you’re going through, but I want to understand. I want to love you, not judge you.”

How. Awful. My classmates thought I was nice, sure, at least compared to how I was in elementary school. I know that because they told me, which was a shock. However, the mean girl had been replaced with a self-righteous, hypocritical Christian. I thought I knew better than anyone and had to tell them the harsh truth. I had to tell them they were horrible sinners during the most vulnerable time of their lives.

Those tears I mentioned earlier are coming out now.

I will forever regret not using that time with my friends and classmates wisely and the way God intended. They needed God’s love, not His wrath through my mouth.

I was a self-righteous hypocrite. A b-word.

My mom taught me better than that, and boy had I failed. During the precious years of my life, I struggled finding myself and took it out on the people who I now miss the most. I let the devil take the reins in my life.

I’m taking those reins back now, and I’m working on handing them to God, who should’ve had them all along.

That mean girl still comes out, along with that self-righteous attitude. However, they’re coming out WAY less than they used to, which I’m grateful to my mom and husband for as they’re the ones that bring me back to earth constantly.

Without God, I was a “Mean Girl”.

With God, I can be His Girl.

It won’t be easy, but with Him all things are possible. My experiences can be used for good, though the devil meant them for evil. I hope they can inspire someone, young or old, to look at themselves and see their demons they’ve been hiding.

It felt…right…to expose mine, maybe now God can truly begin to work in me.

Thank you for letting me take my porcelain mask off.

Make Every Word Count,

Dollfaced Writer

 

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About

Welcome!

cropped-dollfacedwriterlogo.png

(Logo created through logomakr.com/5V4B6C)

Hi there! First, thank you for stopping by and taking time out of your day to read my thoughts or stories. As a hopeful writer, that means the world to me. It takes a lot of courage for someone to share their thoughts or creativity with the world, which is why it has taken me so long to return to this blog.

My name is Destiny, but I prefer to go by my chosen pen name “Dollfaced Writer” or “Dollface” for short. This name is by no means meant to imply that my face is perfect like a doll’s, though my amazing mother implied that when she gave me the nickname during high school (she’s my rock and best friend by the way, I would be so lost without her. I’ll link her blog to the end of this post!). As time went on, I realized the name meant so much more if I allowed it to. In high school I took one of my favorite classes ever: Creative Writing. My teacher showed us the poem “Some Days” by Billy Collins during class one day, and I loved it:

Some days I put the people in their places at the table,
bend their legs at the knees,
if they come with that feature,
and fix them into the tiny wooden chairs.

All afternoon they face one another,
the man in the brown suit,
the woman in the blue dress,
perfectly motionless, perfectly behaved.

But other days, I am the one
who is lifted up by the ribs,
then lowered into the dining room of a dollhouse
to sit with the others at the long table.

Very funny,
but how would you like it
if you never knew from one day to the next
if you were going to spend it

striding around like a vivid god,
your shoulders in the clouds,
or sitting down there amidst the wallpaper,
staring straight ahead with your little plastic face?

This poem truly hit home for me, because as a child I loved the dollhouse my parents built. I could spend hours playing with the dolls and making up stories with them. However, as a teenager that had been through depression, the poem struck a different chord inside of me. Some days it did feel like I was nothing more than a doll, like the silent suffering I felt was unable to get past what seemed like a plastic/porcelain face just trying to keep a smile on.

Honestly, I still have those days, and I think writing like I used to before the depression will help. I thank God and my family for who I am today, despite the struggles from the past that still haunt me. I hope I can encourage you, reader, by sharing and expressing these struggles and overcoming them through my writing.

I think everyone has a story, they just need to find their voice to tell it. In my senior year of high school, during the same time I was taking Creative Writing, I was also taking an AP Literature class. The teacher I had in that class told me after grading one of my papers later in the year that she was proud of me because I had found my voice. At first, I didn’t know what she meant. She was always a very honest and open teacher, which a lot of my classmates didn’t like. I appreciated her realness in the classroom, especially because she encouraged us to face reality and embrace it by fighting for what we believed was right. Not your typical public high school teacher.

Months and now years later, I finally understood what she meant when she said that. I had silenced myself behind a porcelain image I had created for myself to hide behind. Good student. Christian girl. Happy teenager. No problems. No depression. No daddy issues. Well, the porcelain started cracking around my lips senior year, and my voice came back out. More on that later.

Finding a voice is the inspiration for this blog, because I think too many voices are silenced. We focus too much on what is happening around us rather than what is happening inside us, hence why the logo I created is a woman with no eyes. When you have seen too much, your lips become sealed out of horror. Well, it’s time to take the seal off the stories that desperately need to be told. It’s time to make every word count.

I hope you enjoy reading my blog, the only thing I ask for is your mercy and patience as I don’t consider myself a professional writer by any means. I’m just a girl in her twenties trying to work through the daily struggles in college, marriage to my wonderful husband, family, depression, and consistent writer’s block.

My amazing mother started her own blog this year to share her story. I am so proud of her! She is absolutely incredible and has so much wisdom to share. Please check it out 🙂 https://reluctantpreachersdaughter.wordpress.com/

Make Every Word Count,

Dollfaced Writer

Akira's Story, Stories

Akira’s Story – Chapter One: It Can’t Be

As I open my eyes to the fluorescent lights above me, fear overwhelms me. I sit up and my head is flooded with pain. Bad idea. I lie back down and feel a tug on my arm from an IV. I wince at the sight of it.

Obviously I’m in a hospital, but I don’t remember why. I don’t have recollection of any accidents or mishaps. The last thing I remember was sitting at the table while Mom made breakfast. The boys were still sleeping as usual, and I was running late for my class at the university. Everything about that memory is normal, so what happened? Did I have an accident on my way to class and can’t remember? Mom and Dad are gonna kill me!

I sit up again, slowly this time, as someone who looks like a nurse walks in with her head down to look over something on a clipboard. She happens to look up and gasps at the sight of me. Before I can say a word, she races out of the room calling for a doctor.

Oh no, was the accident that bad? They’re that shocked I’m awake? I bet I totalled the truck. I bury my face into my hands and groan: Dad bought me that little truck. If I had destroyed it in some stupid accident, I wouldn’t forgive myself. As I’m preparing for a dozen lectures and making up a million different apologies, the nurse and the doctor walk in. He nods at her, then stares at me.

“Miss, how do you feel?” she asks softly as she makes her way over to my IV. Before she removes it from my arm, she smiles at me and waits for my answer.

“I feel,” My voice cracks so I clear my throat, “I feel fine, besides my head hurting when I sat up. Why, do I have a bad injury?”

Her smile slowly fades as she removes the IV, “No, you’re in complete health. Your head will clear up, it’s had a lot of trau-”

The doctor clears his throat. She tightens her lips and places a band-aid on my arm after wiping it clean. Once I’m bandaged she seems to try collecting herself while smoothing her blonde hair, “She’s all yours, doctor.” She smiles slightly one last time at me then quickly walks out of the room. The doctor turns his slim body to close the door behind her, then fixes his dark eyes on me once again.

He’s not creepy looking, but he is definitely terrifying. He seems serious and critical as no smile appears as he walks over to my bedside. There’s a million lines on his face but no laugh lines whatsoever around his straight lips, though I’m not surprised because he shows no reassurance whatsoever as I flinch when he touches my head. He simply glances at the clipboard, probably the one the nurse had before, and raises his eyebrows to make a new line on his forehead.

I gather up the courage and ask, “The nurse was about to say trauma, wasn’t she? What happened to my head?”

He bites his cheek and says with a surprisingly younger voice than his grey hair lets on, “I can answer that question in two ways if you’ll simply rephrase it. Many things happened to your head. Inside and out.”

“I’m assuming it got bruised from the accident, so what happened inside? Is it bad? Why aren’t my parents here?” I ask anxiously, trying to ignore the little game he’s playing.

He hangs the clipboard up on the end of my bed and says, “As I said, many things happened, especially inside. Many things are going to happen as well. Whether it’s bad or not is up to you. About having visitors, it’s best to wait until you’re ready.”

I can’t stand these cryptic replies, “I’d like some answers. If it is that bad to where I shouldn’t have visitors, why don’t I still have an IV? Shouldn’t I be surrounded by equipment?”

I’m shocked when he smiles and says, “Why? Did you think this was a hospital?”

My jaw drops as he seems to waltz out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The metal on the clipboard shines and catches my eye. I need answers, and that clipboard has them. Despite how badly my head hurts as I do it, I crawl to the edge of my bed and snatch it. As I skim through the pages, I find that I don’t understand anything. It has to be a mistake. These papers must be someone else’s because the information isn’t true.

I throw the board on the floor in frustration as I read the last page that has a list of updates since what I guess was my first examination here…two years ago. I continue reading the updates, trying to get over the shock, but it doesn’t help. I keep reading now and can’t stop. The updates get worse and worse because they aren’t about my condition at all.

These papers have nothing to do with my injury, if I even had one to begin with, or an accident I probably never had. They’re about my family, my past, and my hopeless future. After the last update, I feel like I can’t breathe.

They say you don’t understand what you have until it’s gone.

I understand now.

Thoughts

What Now Exactly?

Stories are amazing, I love them to pieces. But sometimes, inspiration comes from other places like our own world and our own hearts. Before running off into the sunset of make believe, I would like to start off with something I feel is important to share with you. As you read this you may wonder why I found this important to bring up, but to be honest I believe I found my purpose and find it my responsibility to encourage you to find yours.

You’ll never understand your purpose in life until you accept that you’re not supposed to understand everything. If you spend your entire life analyzing things and making things more complicated than they really are, then you’ll never discover why you’re alive in the first place.

If only we were born with a personal manuscript telling us how to live our life. If only it told us exactly what to say, do, and think every second of every day. If only it laid out every day of our lives for us, so we wouldn’t have to really struggle to live on our own instinct!

Wait, what?

The only thing close to that is the Bible, but even The Word doesn’t lay out our entire lives for us. It may lay out our eternal life for us and give us instruction on how we should strive to live to the fullest by being Christ-like, but it doesn’t list every single one of us and give each of us a direct plan. Though God has a plan for us, we have the unfortunate job of trying to find His voice to tell us where to go next.

But, is it really unfortunate?

I think not. Hear me out. A few paragraphs ago I said, “If only it laid out every day of our lives for us, so we wouldn’t have to really struggle to live on our own instinct!” Is that really what we want? Do we really want to have the “luxury” of never giving anything a second thought? To actually live life problem and crisis free?

We shouldn’t, because why would we need God? Or even less than Him, a purpose to actually make the journey of life worth while?

We need to stumble and fall while searching for our purpose. If we don’t, then why would it be so important? No decent tale, parable, or story was ever without conflict. No life is more interesting than one with hardship that turned out to be worth every tear or drop of blood. Remember Jesus? He knew it was worth it. He knew we were worth the hardship, because saving us was His purpose. Good things are worth fighting for, aren’t they? Then let’s fight, every day, for something we can’t quite see but are strong enough to put our faith into. Let’s honor Him by finding our purpose. If you don’t believe in Him, at least be encouraged by what I’m saying, because it comes from a place of love.

I encourage you to ask yourself, “what now exactly?” It’s the best question you can ask yourself, because you hold the answer God has placed inside of you.

Your Fellow Dreamer,

Dollfaced Writer