Post by chelebelle on Feb 10, 2012 18:04:24 GMT -5
Most kids want to be super heroes. Usually it's the boys, but not always, I blame the lack of awesome fictional girl role models without their boobs hanging out. Those were probably designed more for adult males anyway. Me? I wanted to be an Argonaut. Just not a dumb one. Random sheep on a strange island you washed up on? Common sense says you don't mess with that sort of thing. Or maybe it's just hindsight on their behalf. Either way. I ran around the house with blankets tied around my neck, pretending it was the Golden Fleece, or slaying evil Set cultist with cardboard tubes.
This was also when I was like. Five. And it's my Mom's fault. I didn't have Barbies, and My Little Ponies. I was busy playing around dig sites and getting all immersed in myths and legends. You ask me, they're far superior to plastic and irrational anyway. Tomboyish yes, but hey, imagination does wonders. I outgrew it eventually. At least the pretend playing part. It turned into actual 'philosophical' interest in the sort of stuff that my Mom did. I think the biggest disappointment was when she settled us down. We quit with the globe trotting, and she took up a job at a museum. It's an awesome job, actually, but sedentary is not as fun for me as what we did before. That part is my fault. Apparently. 'Home' schooling was fine until I'd hit high school, at which point she decided I needed to spend time around kids my own age and learning things like social skills that she was absolutely unequipped to teach me. Truth enough. Mom probably couldn't manuever a social situation any better than a cat can find its way out of a paper bag. But that's fine. She's brilliant. She doesn't have to. She just uses big words and everyone spaces out. Me included.
So where does she enroll me? A *$%-ing all girls school. Complete with little plaid skirts. I don't do skirts. It interferes with well. Everything. Sure, you can wear khaki pants and crap, but then you're subject to the sneers of all the other girls (have I mentioned I don't like girls?) because you are dressed different, and they figure it's because you have horrible deformed legs. My legs are just FINE, thank you.
Back to the subject at hand. Super Heroes and every kid wanting to be one at some point. What you don't prepare for? Is it actually <i>happening</i> to you. Being a teenager is confusing enough. Throw in a collection of weird changes on top of the normal weird body changes and prepare for therapy. I'm not sure if being dumped in a vat of toxic waste and coming out glowing wouldn't have been easier. Like ripping a bandaid off, so to speak. For me, the weird's been slow in coming. Sporadic bouts of suddenly being able to do things that I shouldn't. And odd ass bullies showing up out of the woodworks, with no clear indicator as to why they were picking on me. Like I didn't have enough problems with passing math, and dealing with my peers. Over the last year it's gotten worse, and worse. Like there's some buildup to some great and terrible event on the horizon, and I can't decide if I should be looking forward to it, or dreading.
Trying to explain to a parent why you're coming home with torn clothes and a black eye is bad enough. Ordinarily, I'd imagine anyway, it would go something along the lines of 'Mom, Shannon Roberts is a raging bitch and she tried to claw my eyes out with her giant fake nails.' Mom would call Shannon's Mom. We'd have to agree to hug and make up, and go back to just glaring daggers at one another in the halls. That would be easier. Generally speaking, teenage proclivities and expectations or not, I try to not lie to my Mom. She's all I've got, family wise. Whoever provided section B of my genetic code has been non-present, and for all intents and purposes, non-existant. Mom doesn't talk about him. I dont' ask.
For these 'indicents' though, there'd been no Shannon Roberts. There'd been increasingly unexplainable things. Or at least, unexplainable to your normal person. My brain made immediate connections to what I thought I was dealing with. Which either made me crazy, or crazy. Or right. The fact that I've been getting stronger in spikes, that I actually <i>flew</i> on accident a few times, makes it seem like the latter is probably what's actually happening. But I don't know why. Mom had always frowned majorly on me pretending at being assorted Greek heroes. More severely than you'd think she would have, given what her job is, and all the stuff I'd learned from her around the world about different Mythos. So I'd lied. I wasn't going to tell her that I was pretty sure a Demon Dog had followed me home one day. Or that a creepy guy with sulfur breath had been either hitting on me, or perving. Maybe both.
In the stories, the heroes always know what to do in these instances. Or at least seem to. It makes you think that folks like the real life heroes out and about nowadays just have some sort of instinct for ass kicking. Whatever's causing my issues, apparently didn't see fit to give me that. Don't get me wrong. I've managed so far. Just not very elegantly. Enrolling myself in the kung fu classes that Mom never agreed to seems like it might be overkill. I don't know. I keep hoping it will either go away, or some magic lightbulb will turn on in my head to make this all make sense to me. Actually. Mostly, I just hope that it'll give it a rest on my birthday, and not totally *#&$ up the party I've been planning, and that I can figure it all out after that.
Or work up the courage to actually bring it up to my Mom. Who knows everything. Just ask her.
This was also when I was like. Five. And it's my Mom's fault. I didn't have Barbies, and My Little Ponies. I was busy playing around dig sites and getting all immersed in myths and legends. You ask me, they're far superior to plastic and irrational anyway. Tomboyish yes, but hey, imagination does wonders. I outgrew it eventually. At least the pretend playing part. It turned into actual 'philosophical' interest in the sort of stuff that my Mom did. I think the biggest disappointment was when she settled us down. We quit with the globe trotting, and she took up a job at a museum. It's an awesome job, actually, but sedentary is not as fun for me as what we did before. That part is my fault. Apparently. 'Home' schooling was fine until I'd hit high school, at which point she decided I needed to spend time around kids my own age and learning things like social skills that she was absolutely unequipped to teach me. Truth enough. Mom probably couldn't manuever a social situation any better than a cat can find its way out of a paper bag. But that's fine. She's brilliant. She doesn't have to. She just uses big words and everyone spaces out. Me included.
So where does she enroll me? A *$%-ing all girls school. Complete with little plaid skirts. I don't do skirts. It interferes with well. Everything. Sure, you can wear khaki pants and crap, but then you're subject to the sneers of all the other girls (have I mentioned I don't like girls?) because you are dressed different, and they figure it's because you have horrible deformed legs. My legs are just FINE, thank you.
Back to the subject at hand. Super Heroes and every kid wanting to be one at some point. What you don't prepare for? Is it actually <i>happening</i> to you. Being a teenager is confusing enough. Throw in a collection of weird changes on top of the normal weird body changes and prepare for therapy. I'm not sure if being dumped in a vat of toxic waste and coming out glowing wouldn't have been easier. Like ripping a bandaid off, so to speak. For me, the weird's been slow in coming. Sporadic bouts of suddenly being able to do things that I shouldn't. And odd ass bullies showing up out of the woodworks, with no clear indicator as to why they were picking on me. Like I didn't have enough problems with passing math, and dealing with my peers. Over the last year it's gotten worse, and worse. Like there's some buildup to some great and terrible event on the horizon, and I can't decide if I should be looking forward to it, or dreading.
Trying to explain to a parent why you're coming home with torn clothes and a black eye is bad enough. Ordinarily, I'd imagine anyway, it would go something along the lines of 'Mom, Shannon Roberts is a raging bitch and she tried to claw my eyes out with her giant fake nails.' Mom would call Shannon's Mom. We'd have to agree to hug and make up, and go back to just glaring daggers at one another in the halls. That would be easier. Generally speaking, teenage proclivities and expectations or not, I try to not lie to my Mom. She's all I've got, family wise. Whoever provided section B of my genetic code has been non-present, and for all intents and purposes, non-existant. Mom doesn't talk about him. I dont' ask.
For these 'indicents' though, there'd been no Shannon Roberts. There'd been increasingly unexplainable things. Or at least, unexplainable to your normal person. My brain made immediate connections to what I thought I was dealing with. Which either made me crazy, or crazy. Or right. The fact that I've been getting stronger in spikes, that I actually <i>flew</i> on accident a few times, makes it seem like the latter is probably what's actually happening. But I don't know why. Mom had always frowned majorly on me pretending at being assorted Greek heroes. More severely than you'd think she would have, given what her job is, and all the stuff I'd learned from her around the world about different Mythos. So I'd lied. I wasn't going to tell her that I was pretty sure a Demon Dog had followed me home one day. Or that a creepy guy with sulfur breath had been either hitting on me, or perving. Maybe both.
In the stories, the heroes always know what to do in these instances. Or at least seem to. It makes you think that folks like the real life heroes out and about nowadays just have some sort of instinct for ass kicking. Whatever's causing my issues, apparently didn't see fit to give me that. Don't get me wrong. I've managed so far. Just not very elegantly. Enrolling myself in the kung fu classes that Mom never agreed to seems like it might be overkill. I don't know. I keep hoping it will either go away, or some magic lightbulb will turn on in my head to make this all make sense to me. Actually. Mostly, I just hope that it'll give it a rest on my birthday, and not totally *#&$ up the party I've been planning, and that I can figure it all out after that.
Or work up the courage to actually bring it up to my Mom. Who knows everything. Just ask her.