She was always misunderstood, even as a child. Her parents thought she was just a little over-sensitive, always so affected by the natural ebb and flow of sibling rivalry. Her sister didn’t have the vocabulary to understand her, so she just told her she was stupid. She learned how to be on the outside looking in most of the time, never quite feeling like she fit. Some might disagree, I think she slipped through the cracks and nobody really wanted to admit that. But she was always on the outside, even if only by a foot or two.
She felt things deeper than a child should, and this stuck with her through the years. Any heightened emotion elicited tears, much to her embarrassment. It was yet another reason others didn’t bother to understand her, being different was not something children embraced. Fitting in was the name of the game in those formative years, no easy feat for any pubescent rat in the race, but possibly more damaging for her than most.
She was a pretty little thing, living in a town riddled with money and judgment, overrun by kids who spewed their parents’ hatred and ideals without a thought of their own making. Her family was somewhere in between back then; far from poor but not nearly rich, politics hung in the background like grandma’s afghan hung across the back of the couch. They weren’t racist folks, maybe even liberal for the time, but still had some lessons to learn in being open-minded.
She wrote everything down, all of her thoughts and feelings; she let her tears turn into letters and drip down the pages, she turned her pain and rejection into words that ripped bullet holes through her journals, leaving her heart bleeding on the pages. She learned the hard way (always the hard way) that her words, when written on paper, could be stolen and abused and used as weapons against her.
It was then, in the depths of her teen angst, she realized that her words were her only salvation and may very well be the death of her.