The Reflective Property [My Attempts at becoming an author]
"My name is Christine Wyatt, and I never existed."
And by the way, the steps down those lonely stairs weren’t walked by me and the rain never soaked my pale lanky body from head to toe, ruining my perfectly set hair and make-up. The summer sun never felt so good on my cold bones and the winter winds did not give me the worst case of goose bumps that I have ever felt. The unexplained accidents never happened and the arguments could always be ignored for another day. You see, to understand me--this--Christine Wyatt, you have to see the other side, or in other words, understand that everything reflects. Black and White. Yes and No. Up and Down. Hot and Cold. I said, “My name is Christine Wyatt, and I never existed.” But what I chose not to say is what defines me.
Today is the day, the day that I will wake up and continue my same routine. Not looking for something to dwell on or hope in or for something to shake the foundations. Just the same routine, like walking in circles, you never get further out, just more around. Not excelling or succeeding, but gaining experience. But then again. What’s the use of experience if you can never expel it into anything. You only truly need what you can use, anything else is a waste. The mail will run, the coffee will be brewed and consumed, the dog will bark to be let out, the keys will be frantically searched for, the lights will be turned off, and the television left on. The same old routine. I am not ecstatic with it, I am merely complacent. I am not going to lie, I am not going to hold anything back, that’s not who I am. I will tell you, once again, I am Christine Wyatt, and I never existed.
I did not and do not like who I was. My problem was that I was in love with who I wasn’t. Someone who I wished I could be. But I figured that everyone felt the same way. There are always those who wished they were different, at least that is what I told myself everyday when I saw those empty eyes staring into the single and lonely mirror in my constantly over due apartment. The mood was automatically set, thanks to the lighting that seemed to cast a doomsday feeling to the two rooms that my apartment contained. Even the dog looked as if he could have done a better job at success than I. But hold on. What defines success, and what do you do when you get there? For me, it would be being able to trust and love again. But for now, it’s back to the lottery pool. Maybe it will hit me, maybe my lucky number will be drawn and I’ll be able to feel success.
But of course, here comes an average afternoon, another 24 hours of the same shit, the same lofty glances, the same back biting words. Constantly feeling the moments where I am walking by myself, but everyone else around me seems to be at a different pace, causing blurred vision. I quickly ignore these instances, and just continue to walk and wait for something to change. I’m not searching for it any longer, but hoping that change is searching for me. You see, I have realized that I don’t control what happens and so why should I assume that I have the power or the mindset to make the rules, the decisions, to determine the outcome? What’s the use? What happens happens, right? It’s in my blood not to trust in anything but to hope that it trusts in me. Remember, you don’t choose it, it chooses you. Yeah, it may be your life. But your life is not just defined by you or who you are, but also by what you are not, what you are lacking, what you missed out on, the should haves and could haves and almosts. I am not happy and I should have been home that night. I almost made a difference.
This is where I am stuck. Right here. In this very moment. Each moment. I think it all started when I was born. No. That’s too drastic. It all started when I could understand that not everything could be understood and that sometimes there is no rhyme and that everything isn’t rose colored. Just the reflective property. You are most likely reading this thinking. “Who the fuck is this girl, where is she going, what happened?” That’s exactly what I want you to feel. Because in all honesty, I need opinions, viewpoints, answers. You want to know why? Because I am writing this asking, “Who the fuck is this girl, where is she going, what happened?” Someone give me some insight, can you see me? Do I exist?
"I am Christine Wyatt, and I never existed."
That’s what I began to repeat whenever I felt like I was losing myself. This way, whenever I felt myself drifting, I could realize it, say it, and then find my way back. If I never existed then what the fuck am I worrying about all of this for? It must be for shits and giggles, entertainment, pleasure, because when you don’t exist, nothing matters. Forget about the once marginal actions and experiences, they mean nothing. Life is easier when you don’t exist. It just moves along, goes down easily, like the medicine from Mary Poppins. All you need is a spoonful of sugar, right? My sugar is non-existence. I know you’re lost, but it’s okay. So am I. Where is the plot, the conflict, the meaning to this story. Stop searching. It’s me. Figure me out. Because I sure as hell can’t. Most likely because I don’t want to. I’ll continue to brush it off and hope that no one sees me when I trip and when I hear those superior voices harping down on me, I’ll pretend like I am back in my apartment, looking through the pictures that I thought once detailed who I was.
Life. It’s child’s play. It is what you aren’t living that haunts you. What you didn’t do. The opportunities that you missed out on that could have made your life--that could have been a part of it, that should have been a part of it, that was almost a part of it. I have lived my life regretting and what I haven’t is what I regret. It’s confusing, I know. But then again it’s easier for me because I have learned not to ask questions. But to take things at face value. To understand that the mind can’t possibly know everything, it’s not supposed to. But what makes me sleep easier, is the thought of knowing that I am not the only one. I mean, some people take pills for this kind of shit, right? Coincidentally, I am the one who got the short end of the stick and just missed out on the meds. I’m sure you are wondering what happened--I’m sure you are trying to figure me out--then again, I asked you to. But, to save you the effort, let me tell you--let me take you there. May 21, 1999, I was twelve and a half years old and I was completely obsessed with Polly Pocket and Rugrats. I was the innocent angel that mommy always knew would be there for her. My dad wasn’t much of a father, but at this point, it didn’t really matter. I mean, I was twelve and a half, what could he do to me? My thinking quickly began to redirect itself at around 7:30 pm that night when I walked into the awkwardly silent house and I saw my mother, lying on the living rooms floor, with a gunshot to her head. All I could think of was, “I was supposed to be home, I was supposed to be here.” There was blood everywhere and all I saw other than that, was my father with a self-satisfied look on his face and his hands rested on his hips. I began to tremble in fear, besides, I was only twelve and a half. What couldn’t he do to me?
So, naturally, after that experience, life just seemed to be out of control for me. I was diagnosed with post traumatic stress syndrome and was sent to a shrink a few times. That didn’t help. My shrink didn’t understand me. No one could. She couldn’t know how it felt to see my mother, the woman who carried me for nine months--the woman who devoted her whole life to me, made me PB&J sandwiches and wrote little notes and stuck them in my lunch box, the woman who taught me to be brave and independent, she couldn’t know how it felt to lose her forever. Especially by the hands of someone that was trusted--that is what makes me sick, even to this day. I don’t trust anymore. I just can’t.
You think that a girl with all these problems and crazy experiences and thoughts would at least be an alcoholic, hooked on drugs, in a cult, or be part of some weird ass shit, but that’s it again. I am not. I have nothing to focus my racing thoughts on or to distract me. I guess you can say I have an acute case of over thinking, or over analyzing, wait--not even that---over estimating. But can you blame me?
Like I said, I don’t trust, because that puts me at a disadvantage, and angle where I can get hurt. And when one trusts, too much credit is given, too much faith--people begin to overestimate. Instead, think the lowest of people, so they can surprise you, earn your faith and better judgment. This is where the sifting process begins, where you pick out the weeds from the flowers, the rotten from the ripe.
Life is now awkward for me. Well, I actually can’t remember a time when it wasn’t. I have even gotten to the point where when people ask me how I am, I will reply with, “Well, let me tell you what I am not feeling today.” The reason is because the unspoken is what torments people, because everyone wants to know everything. This is all caused by fear. We think that if we know everything then we know what to prepare for, what to expect. It is always more pleasant and comfortable to assume that someone is doing well than to not know that they are breaking down inside and that they have secrets just waiting to be exploited. They don’t know my secret. They don’t know me. They can’t know me.
So when I say, “My name is Christine Wyatt, and I never existed.” I am really saying, “My name is Christine Wyatt, and did I or do I even exist enough to be recognized or move anything, or to change a circumstance, or to excel and move on? Were the steps down those stairs worth it? Did the inhaled oxygen go to waste? And is there a reason why my heart keeps on pumping and lungs expanding? Only God knows. But hopefully, one day, I’ll know too. Hopefully, one day, I’ll exist.
