My level of attraction
There is a stereotype that women who get into bad relationship have daddy issues. This may or not be true. For myself, I am constantly led astray by the aesthetic. There is a certain type that I go for that looks absolutely nothing like my father.
I was what some may consider a late in life bloomer. I was very, very VERY interested in boys and catalogues there comings and goings in great detail in journals that I found in the house after the passing of my mother. I had different symbols to characterize if a person was somehow nice to me, said hello to me, generally acknowledged my existence. In retrospect, this was a sad tome, a reflection of my lack of social interaction. If someone had been interested in me, I surely would have folded into their arms with absolutely no boundaries. I was spared that challenge into my teen years.
I had both a diary and a notebook. The notebook was of the spiral variety. I had my key in the front the reader, namely myself, could use to decipher my desperate attempts to catalogue any kindness. I was meticulous about this journal. I had every day entered into these pages as well as the scores from all the sports events I attended from sixth to eighth grades. I suppose from a modern perspective, I near the level of a stalker. Gladly, there was no facebook back then so no one had the glee of declining me as a friend or placing painful comments on my wall.
The transformation from layer hair, well scrubbed yuppie lover to supporter of all types of parolees seems a long journey. I would spend my entire summers watching television. We got cable television in 1982. This is the place where I learned everything I knew at the time about music and sex. This was long before the age of parental controls. On the weekends, I would stay up long after my parents went to bed and watch movies on the
network. They had a program called night flight. My tastes in music and in men were transformed with every movie, every scene, every song. I saw movies such as “Decline of Western Civilization”, “ USA Times Square”, “Ladies and Gentlemen the Fabulous Stains”, and “Breaking Glass”. My taste in young men went from button up shirts to closely cropped hair, leather jackets, and tattoos. I was not longer attracted to athletes. I wanted pale and angry. Soon, I found my place among people who felt as if they did not fit it. Always the asthetic that drove me.
There is an expression that water seeks the lowest level. I was at the low point of my life. Years and years of being alone and isolated had started to take their toll. If I would not have found punk rock and Oi music, I probably would have killed myself. I used to cut and burn myself to relieve my stress. I had lost 40 pounds between my junior and senior year of high school. For the first time in my life as a teenager, people started to notice me as more than someone who you can use to get answers for a test or write your term paper for a fee. I wanted OUT. Out of my skin. Food was not working, tv was not working, I had no friends. When I started going to punk rock shows, for the first time in my life, I felt ALIVE. And the boys seemed interested in me. I was in the spotlight for the first time. I was out of my shadow. I wanted OUT in a totally different way. I wanted OUT of my house so I could go to the city and evolve into my true self.