I, amidst my time in the economic crisis, have been morphing.

Not in the physiological sense.

Anyways, tonight was the fall fair and I spent the majority of my time there sleazing about approaching unsuspecting prey to drag back to the face painting station.

“You’re quite the stylish one; Perhaps you could use a lightening bolt, or a mustache.
….JUST FOLLOW ME BACK TO THE FACE PAINTING STAND.”

With white whiskers painted ever-so-neatly on my face, I sat children down and colored their cheeks in with spiders, rainbows, butterflies, peace signs and an occasional goatee. No matter how sloppily done, whenever their new reflection was revealed to them, squeals of delight were received. This was strangely comforting to me, for I had no idea that I really did enjoy children. One little boy in particular was sharing with me his intense love of spider man, and as I showed him his blue cheek-spider, his eyes lit up in a way that I’ve never seen before. He kicked his feet, smiled up at me with big green saucers and ran off chattering in the direction of his mother & hot dogs.

Children don’t judge. They can be vicious, but they are still so open. Even if I had colored a blob on his forehead, he would have still been happy to have something, anything as long as the promise of face painting had been carried through.

There is something so fragile to me about a child.
Something there that needs to be shielded.
The more I grow, the smaller and more delicate they become.

(I suppose this feeling comes from what little subconscious motherly instincts have been lying around my head.)

Many people tonight left the stand enthralled with their new cat noses and whiskers, which served as a strange but fulfilling ego booster.

Deejay also came and visited me, which was nice. (I always find myself thinking that he dislikes me, as little sense as it makes.) We conversed on the outskirts of the fair with Carol, and watched various overweight young individuals get pony rides. It grew dark, and he left. I helped Steven clean up, and as I left I thought of the first time I went there.

It was three years ago to the day.
It was also the first time I ever cut myself (boo-hoo, I know).

I got on the bus from the middle school, hopped off at the high school to meet up with Katie and Paige, who were in the midst of some sort of angsty bitch session. They wandered off towards the playground, slumped into eachother’s arms like little piles of warm dough and cried to one another about their hopes and dreams. Meanwhile, I was left alone with my overtly hormonal self and found comfort as I drew a viciously sharp rock arcoss my inner arm.

I left them there, & I walked.

I walked past the park, across the street, around the wooden gazebo and collapsed onto the prickly grass. It was windy, and I didn’t think to bring a jacket. Nothing crossed my mind then except an incomprehensibly bold sense of apprehension. A giant tidal wave of emotions my mind had never, up until that point, been exposed to in such quantities. I still cannot recall how much time elapsed from the point at which I had curled up on the grass to the point when I peeked my eyes open to the stained, puffy faces that were Katie & Paige.

As they drew me to my knees, I felt the sense that I could not turn back. My anxiety had taken me to new places.

We walked forward across the uneven sidewalks, chatting about things that now seemed irreversibly distant. Had Katie and Paige healed? What did I start with myself? I tried to put these questions aside as we approached the small, bustling high school field.

Each step was one thousand pounds.
My mind soared as we reached the stands.

Dunking tank! Bake sale! Potato sack races!

Throngs of students made their way about, each with white smiles and joyous, real laughter. I wanted to be like that. I wanted to be involved. Everyone seemed so content. Everything seemed so right.

Thoughts began to flood my head in a circle. By that point, I’d say I had officially lost control.

“You don’t belong here. You don’t deserve to be here. You don’t deserve to be amongst these people. You can’t even handle a little bit of anxiety. It’s quite pathetic. You should consider the option of disappearing. You don’t belong here. You don’t deserve to be here. (etc)”

I watched the face painters color hearts onto cheeks, making the children smile.

I made a note of that in my mind.

I left.

So, low and behold, two years later I am running the face painting stand, prancing about with a cat nose and whiskers, gathering up anyone willing to have some piece of flesh colored in. I talked to anyone and everyone who would remotely listen to my spiel.

I’ve come so far since back then. I know no true hate. I am free to say, do and be whatever I so desire after discovering that negative opinions cannot kill me.

I am accepting myself. This is probably the best thing a human being in society can do.