The life of a “Blonde”

There’s a reason I tell people I’m “blonde.”
I mean the blonde beyond the hair color,
the one that goes with the average stereotype-
Bubbly, dumb and without a care in the world.
A pretty face.
I tell people this for a reason.
I don’t have a memory of a goldfish,
I just don’t remember 7 years of my life.
Although,
it’s a lot easier to say–
“I’m blonde.”
Then it is to say,
“My brain shuts off from trauma.”
It’s a lot easier for people to think,
“She’s just a pretty face,
just an airhead.”
Expectations are a lot lower.
No one expects you to be Valedictorian.
No one expects you to be a sports team captain.
No,
You’re just a blonde.
People talk as if you’re
Neither here, nor there.
Just because
you’re a blonde.
It opens your eyes really.
Helps you see what people think,
really think of you.
One day,
I told someone
the thoughts in my head.
The years I don’t recollect.
How I can barely get out of bed.
How living came to be something I dread.
You know what they said?
I was too blonde.
Too blonde, too white, too girly,
To not want to be on this earth.
Girls like me,
Girls like me don’t get suicidal.
Girls like me,
Girls like me don’t want to die.
Girls like me,
Girls like me can’t even think.
“Stop playing the victim.”
I was told.
“Stop pretending you are quirky.”
I was told.
“It’s all in your head.”
Yes,
I know it’s in my head.
It never stops.
It never stops playing in my head.
That was the one time,
I wish I didn’t play the role of a blonde.
After that,
It showed,
stereotypes are real.
Stereotypes,
will make your decisions for you.
For someone who can’t remember
Who they are,
Who looks back
in the mirror.
It’s easy to see
the exterior.
The Blonde hair.
When people ask,
all you have to do is point.
Point at the hair, the head, the skull.
Maybe they will take it as
“Oh, a blonde.”
Or maybe someone will see,
Finally see,
I’m not pointing at my hair.
I’m pointing at the pain.
The kind no one sees,
The kind embedded so deep.
The kind,
Possibly,
embedded in my brain.
Or
intertwined through my golden strands.
The kind I’m scared,
God forbid,
I tell someone else about.
And the years I neglect to remember,
the pain I hear every morning,
Is too dark to hinder the sunshine on my head.
No demon would ever think to touch
that smiling, golden, airhead.
No,
life is easier when you are blonde.
Too dumb,
Too pretty,
Too white,
To have any expectations.
Any fears,
any demons.
This moment,
It plays,
like a broken record in my mind.
In my blonde little head.
It’s one I can’t forget,
and I don’t want to.
I want to remember the day
I set boundaries.
The day
I had to remind myself,
people will judge you,
hate you
loathe you even,
but the most pain,
That comes from those you trust.
Or rather,
trusted.
You can give someone only
too many chances
before you have to realize
maybe,
just maybe,
they aren’t good for you.
Because,
that day
I realized I was worth,
More than an exterior.
More than my thoughts.
More than your thoughts.
I am so much more,
Than a blonde.
My head tells me otherwise
most days,
If not
everyday.
I do not,
I do not,
need you,
nor anyone else to tell me
Who I am.
I am a blonde.
Yet,
My mind tells me more sinister words.
I am on my knees most days,
with my golden head bowed.
Praying.
For a little reprieve.
I can’t run from what’s inside,
but I can let go
what doesn’t serve me.
This moment in time
showed me,
and still replays,
like a broken record
In my sunshine globe.
Although knowledge comes from pain
often,
because now I know,
I’m worth so much.
I don’t need anyone,
To tell me anything,
Different.
Just because
I’m too white,
Too basic,
Too blonde,
And apparently not,
Different.

Chapter 19

Like all chapters,
They close.
And,
another opens.

Like all chapters,
you start at the beginning.
Until,
you reach the end.

You can’t skip pages,
you dare not skip over words.
You might miss something,
something that changes the whole,
plot, timeline, ending.

You yell at the main character,
“Don’t do that!”
“Can’t you see?”

You cry with the sidekicks.
You laugh over the comedic relief.
You hope for the star crossed lovers.

But never,
Never,
do you skip chapters.
This chapter of mine,
Sometimes, I wish I could skip.
It’s not glamorous,
Nor funny.
It’s actually quite,
dare I say,
depressing?

This chapter,
Chapter 19,
Healing.
It’s a long one,
but a necessary one.

It’s a chapter where
you find the main character
crying,
on the kitchen floor.
You find them driving
with no destination.
It’s a chapter
of tears in the shower
so at least they can pretend
they aren’t real,
They aren’t in pain.
they can forget,
just for a moment,
the title of this Chapter.

It’s a chapter where you scream
at the main character,
for using the same old habits.
For reminding them,
all stories have happy endings.
They will get through this.

It’s a chapter of lots of dots and dashes,
no climax.
A silent wait,
Minus the occasional tear.
But,
every so often,
the character smiles.

And every so often
you see,
the growth.
You follow this character
through the ups and downs.
And yes,
this chapter isn’t pretty,
Glamorous,
Exciting,
Even worth reading sometimes.
Yet,
It’s a chapter that you know
without it,
the character wouldn’t be who they are.

This chapter,
Chapter 19.
I call it healing.
This chapter,
Chapter 19.
Is quite boring
in the eyes of the beholder.
Yet,
scattered tears on the kitchen floor
and missed smiles.
It’s a beautiful chapter,
and the next chapter
would be entirely different
If I didn’t read this one.