Crushing

When I was five I took apart a disposable camera, stripped down: it looked beautiful, I loved taking things apart, I imagined that it would teach me how to put them back together, and maybe it has since every once in a while I’ve been able to figure out how things work, all the same, I don’t always have the attention span for that part.

I brought it to school, the camera, and during recess I said it was from the army, I don’t know why but a raw half constructed disposable camera was the coolest thing I had, and I wanted it to seem even cooler. It didn’t work, it was as effective as me saying there was no way to prove your shoe laces weren’t aliens, I’m not sure what I was going for but what fascinated me was, and maybe still is, largely irrelevant to others.

So I tried another strategy to impress my crush, I scratched myself and I told the teacher I needed to go to the nurse, there I lied saying Anna had done it and Anna was brought there to the nurses office, my word against hers.

It didn’t really go anywhere but I wonder sometimes if that was some lesson, that if I could pretend someone hurt me, I could get them in the same room. Sympathy and vitriol became an MO of a quiet kid who found himself for better or worse on the outside of what made sense to everyone else,

my hurt became my reason for being on the edge looking in, and for moments or years that was attractive for people to join me out there. Sometimes I’m shy and self conscious, I’ve worried about what people think about me. When I sit in a reasonable hurt, others will justify it for me, they will make it ok, make it right, and try to fix me.

I know I’m supposed to step into the middle, forgive forget and not be a victim, that so often I am creating a story of my own hurt, so often blaming to get someone in the room.

What I don’t know is what life on the inside is like. Who will care for me if I’m well adjusted, healthy and taken care of?

Who will visit me in the nurses office when I actually have to go?