Everyone feels the need to be a part of something. A piece of a puzzle. An essential being in another being’s existence. But what happens when someone goes so long being a supporting act? A second thought. A whisper in a loud room.
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Losing people became the norm for Molly. For as long as she could remember, she was in a constant cycle of intense relationships with people just for them to – poof. Go away like they were never there. No closing statements, no secondary opinions on the situation. She was just replaceable. It’s a confusing feeling knowing that you are dispensable in this world. We all exist just for a moment in time, a blink in the story. But it’s funny how significant every moment of that time feels.
Molly grew up thinking the best of people. Being kind, respectful, grateful, and agreeable was the correct way to navigate life. Make sure the people around you are happy, and congratulations! You’re a good person and good things will come your way. What a perfect way to think of life. What could possibly go wrong when you treat life like a winning lottery ticket that you are in possession of?
Growing up in the midwest was never something Molly considered as part of her story, but it was all she knew. The way she spoke, she learned it from her parents. The music she listened to, she learned from her brothers. The way she dressed, she learned it from her friends she made at school by complimenting them a few times and suddenly being one of them. She learned at a young age that blending in with others made life, well, easier. Why complicate things with something like an opinion? Just change your opinion. Easy, right?
Matthew, Molly’s oldest brother, told her something once that will always live in the forefront of her mind. No matter how many therapy sessions, or life-changing vacations planned specifically to distract her from the real problems she keeps running from. Molly was in kindergarten and had a brilliant idea to be an artist overnight. She ran around the house like a storm cloud finding glue sticks, crayons, glitter, fabric paint. Anything that was laying around their family’s 600 square foot home that sits right off the busiest, and loudest, highway full of angry 50-something-year-old men swearing their lives away on their commute to a 9-5 job in downtown Chicago. But none of that mattered, because tonight, Molly was an artist. She saw an episode of one of her favorite TV shows where the little girl, who Molly found to be quite annoying and full of herself, decided to give her backpack a makeover. The annoying little girl turned into a magician before Molly’s eyes. The backpack was transformed into a shimmery, golden piece of art. Every kid in her fake school on the fake TV show absolutely loved it. So, of course the kids at Molly’s very real school would love hers, too, right? Then people might start to like her and she could find her purpose in that. Perfect plan.
Molly spent hours on this damn backpack. Love, blood, sweat, tears into it. She wiped her glue covered hands on her jeans. Another addition to the stain-covered denim that she has owned for as long as her 6 year old mind could remember. She doesn’t get new clothes very often, so she’s lucky that she has stayed the same size for so long so can keep wearing pants like these – ones that shaped exactly to her shape and felt like a part of her. Now, this backpack – her first piece of artwork – will always be a part of her, too.
She stared at her work, and knew in that moment what feeling proud of yourself felt like. She did this all by herself. Even at the age of 6, she knew this was a feeling she was going to spend her life chasing. Unfortunately, she was also about to experience a new feeling that would also end up being a feeling she chased after. Humiliation.
She knew it would be Elliott. It’s always Elliott who makes the other girls cry. Elliott, who makes the other boys in her class turn into little brats who pick on other people just to feel an inch taller than them. Well, Molly was already the smallest in her class, so none of that was new to her.
Elliott walked up to Molly and crushed her in just 15 short seconds.
“Look out everyone! Molly rolled around in puke and it’s stuck on her back!”
Suddenly everything started spinning. She heard the laughter around the room. She saw the boys and girls turn their heads and point right at her. She even saw a little twinkle from the golden-tinted glitter glued all over her backpack as it bounced off the light in the corner of the beaten down classroom. She looked down at her hands and saw the leftover glue still flaking off her finger tips from all her work last night. Then, everything went black.
All she remembers is storming home after jumping off the bus so quickly it barely even came to a complete stop. She doesn’t remember how her tiny little shoes, the ones that glow up with each step she took, got her inside her front door and safely in her home. The second the lock turned, she broke down. How could she be so stupid? How could she think that decorating her backpack with random supplies around the house would make her look like someone people would want to be around? All it did was make herself stand out and open for judgment. She quickly realized that being herself was not an option for her. Having that spotlight shining directly in her face like a fugitive under investigation is not something she ever wanted to experience again. Their laughter… she can still hear it in her head. Every laugh is another stab wound, forcing her to bleed out every ounce of who she is, what makes her unique. What makes her, her.
She cried. Loudly sobbing. She couldn’t control it no matter how many horrible, mean things she said to herself to make it stop. It was a gate that could not be closed. Then, Matthew stepped in. Matthew, the perfect one of the family. The most admirable person she knew. Matthew was a light in the darkness of Molly’s world. He did not care what other people might think of him. He did the things he liked – it was just lucky that he tended to like things most others commonly enjoyed as well, such as football, and video games, and action movies that had long titles that had nothing to do with the plot. Everyone loved Matthew, because he didn’t care if they did. He couldn’t care less if someone looked in his direction or not. The way he saw it, everyone has their own life and it’s up to them how they want to live it. He chooses to live his carefree. A feeling that Molly will never have the luxury of knowing.
“What’s wrong?” Matthew asks.
Molly abruptly wipes her tears. Her throat is full of tears caught trying to make their way out. She coughs and wipes her eyes a few more times before looking up at her oldest brother. The one who would never be caught dead weeping like this over someone else’s opinion. His eyes don’t show much. A dark brown that is impossible to decipher. No emotion shows behind his eyes, somehow he can even control that part of him as well. Except this time, Molly can see just a tad bit of something – concern.
“I stayed up all night decorating my backpack like the girl did on that show I like. I thought it looked cool and unique, so I did the same.” Molly says as she slowly pulls my backpack up from the ground.
Matthew picks up the bag. He examines it for a minute, then hands it back to Molly.
“Do you like it?” Matthew asks plainly.
She was confused. She stared at him for a minute then looked back at her “artwork” of a bag. All the gold glitter thrown onto random spots that looked a little empty throughout the patches of jewels and ribbons. Mostly pink and blue – her two favorite colors.
“Yes. I love it.” Molly says, so quietly she’s almost shocked that Matthew even heard it. She figured if she says it quiet enough, maybe he wouldn’t hear it and then he wouldn’t laugh at her for liking the bag, just like the other kids at school.
“Then who cares what anyone else thinks?” Matthew asks so calmly. No change in his demeanor. Just stated so matter of fact.
Molly still thinks of that day and it makes her cry. She just wishes little Molly could listen to that question and really take it in. Really understand the power behind that question. The power that comes with taking control over your life and making it your own. It would take her a very long time – if ever – to start to see that. To start to understand that your life is for you. Not for the pleasure of others.
Instead, she threw the bag on the ground, ran upstairs, and cried in bed until she fell asleep.
She woke up the next morning with the backpack hung up on the back of her bedroom door. A green ribbon added to the middle of the bag – Matthew’s favorite color.