I’m Beautiful And Ugly And Misunderstood

My Grandmother is a gifted writer. A career she should have pursued, but instead went into law after divorcing. I’m confident that if she were to write a novel, it would be on the New York Times Best Sellers list immediately. Her words flow effortlessly, one letter connecting to the next. Her perfect penmanship helps too. She uses her pen as if it were a paintbrush. Her writing is so beautiful! It’s as if the ink lifts itself from the stationary and dances before my eyes. A writer’s waltz. It twirls. It swirls. It swoops and swings. Its art and it’s simply breathtaking to inhale.

I’ve been close with her since the day I was born. As a newborn, she held me in her arms and told me stories, but it wouldn’t be until I was knee-high that I would begin to remember her tales. She is a gifted story teller as well. Silver shimmers in her hair and I can’t help but stare. The scent of her perfume and how her hands feel like paper. Details I remember. Details that hold true to this day. She still tells me stories, but not of fictitious characters with make-believe settings. Today, her stories are made-up of family and theatrical memories that she carries in her heart. So why does she seem to know so little of me when I know so much of her? Is it the lack of my story telling? Is it my failure to openly share every aspect of my soul? Or is it the lack of her wanting to know me? Truly know me. I don’t remember how it came up, but Easter weekend I am sitting beside her on the couch when she asks …

“What is your favorite color?”
“You know my favorite color, Gram. It’s red.”
"Red? Really?"
“Yes, really. It’s red. I’ve always loved red. You knew that, right?”

I wait for her to feel silly and say it slipped her mind and of course she knew, but I don’t get that reaction. Instead I get an “Oh, never knew that. Here all these years I thought it was yellow.” It was never yellow. She wanted me to like yellow, so in her head she made my favorite color be yellow. She did this for both of my sisters too, decided our favorite colors for us. I never understood it, but I accepted it. I pretended to love getting a ridiculous amount of yellow clothing every birthday and Christmas. She made me a walking Big Bird.

It’s not just about my favorite color. It’s about everything. I’m misunderstood. I’m improperly interpreted. I’m wrongly judged. I feel the depth of me is unappreciated. I feel it is my fault because the depth of me has yet to be seen. I fail to show the many layers that lie beneath my skin. Everyone knows my outer shell. Hardly anyone knows my inner core. Sometimes it’s dark and depressing, and for that reason, I burry it down. I keep that part hidden and shielded from outside eyes because nobody likes to view ugly. No one wants to see anger or pain or frustration. Or is that no one wants to see those things in me because they in turn would see those same things in themselves? That would be too overwhelming of a burden for them to bear. So I keep those things to myself, which is where the burden then lies, within me. I permit them to close their eyes, turn their head and walk away. It’s simpler that way. It’s less ugly.

To even my family and closest friends, I sometimes feel that my true identity is obscured. Even the beautiful qualities and talents embedded within me are often overlooked. People don’t even know these parts of me exist because when they are brought to the surface, my eyes are the only windows open to witness.

I feel if I were to share some of the dark and depressing things inside me, that I would hurt my family and friends beyond repair. They would go into denial and lockdown. It’s easier to ignore what you don’t want to see. The pain would be too great and would change the tight unity that we’ve grown into. They wouldn’t look at me the same way. They would question, they would wonder, but they would never ask. They would never approach the subject due to the uncertainty and fear they would feel simply by seeking out the truth. Seeking out what lies deep inside me, by unraveling me down to my inner core. Sadness I won’t even admit to myself, let alone anyone else. It’s not healthy. I know this.

So I do my best to tear down any guarded walls I’ve built around me. Removing one brick at a time, I ease out into the open. I’ll ease them into the reality that is me. To be open. To be understood. To be who I truly am. Beautiful and ugly rolled into one. I’m beautiful and ugly and misunderstood. I’m complex, intriguing and mysterious. I’m probably nothing like you…and at the same time, I’m probably much like you. Or at least I hope someone can identify and relate because it's incredibly lonely being misunderstood.