The evolution of Corie:

I was raised in a tight-knit, (from what I knew) upstanding, (from what I heard) model (from what they saw) Catholic family. There were two boys and two girls. There was a mother and a father. The mother and the father were extremely active in the local Catholic church. Growing up, church functions made up about 70% of my life. My father was the man in charge. With a well known background as a law enforcement officer, he directed the religious education programs at our church with a sense of authority that was both intimidating and effective. But it was also surprisingly approachable, to many of the teenagers both he and my mother dealt with over the years. They all thought my father was so funny. And that my mom was so sweet. And not that either of those aren’t true at all. They are.

They had these four children, who all had rather enviable qualities. They were either smart, or funny, or charismatic, or good-looking….or….all of the above. They began to marry and reproduce. And their spouses were all lovely additions to the family. And of course their children were beautiful as well. They were the kids that everyone went over to see after the church service was over. I remember, every Saturday that we went to evening mass, it was a good twenty minutes or so before we could even leave, because of the people that would come over and almost seem to….pay their respects…or something. To my family. And I would wait impatiently. Or chase my nephews around. With my long dark hair. That I was never allowed to cut.

“If you cut it all off, you’re no longer going to be that beautiful little girl with the beautiful long hair,” I remember my mother telling me once.

“You’re just going to be a regular girl.”

Once I cut my hair, I never looked back. It remained above shoulder length until just a few years ago. It was like I resented that long hair. And now…that it’s long and thick and most people want it…I can’t even bring myself to part with it again. And I don’t know what THAT means….

When I was younger I remember always doing things to get a REACTION out of people. That seemed to be my biggest motivator. I wanted people to notice me and to laugh at something that I did. I was usually willing to do whatever it took to get a laugh. To give myself some reputation of….the funny little clown. I wasn’t afraid to be downright obnoxious. If SOMEone thought it was funny.

My insatiable desire to get reactions out of people spilled over into high school. I acted the same way, just in the way that a high schooler would act. I did ridiculous things just to be funny. Said ridiculous things just to get reactions. Wrote ridiculous things just to get people reading. Or talking. Or whatever. I was never afraid to stand up and fight for what I believed. I jumped at the opportunity.

And now, when a situation like that arises, I almost cringe.

At some point, I grew tired.

I grew tired of putting on a show. So I dug down deep into myself and began to analyze things to no end. I developed a side of me that people could never see from the surface, but became undeniable to those that were able to break the seal.

That family, that I was talking about, dissolved, more or less. I sometimes look back at my childhood and think about how lucky I was to have what I had. Maybe I took it for granted. I can’t ever decide if I would’ve rather had my family the way it was then, or have it the way it was then–NOW. That I’m an adult. And could…appreciate it more.

The illusion that we were all putting on for all of those people that would watch us sitting in the front pew of church every week began to fade away as well. And I often wonder how much of that had to do with what my life is today. Because I can personally attest to the fact that….reality isn’t always what meets the eye.

I used to go to sleep with curlers in my hair, so that I would have the most beautiful, curly hair in the morning–on special occasions. Holidays, first communions, etc. My father used to wear a suit and tie nearly every day. My mother, always had on pretty earrings and pretty necklaces and smelled like the perfume that my father always got her. My sister was pretty. She still is pretty. She didn’t know it maybe, or didn’t think it….but she was. And I always hoped she thought I was pretty too. My brothers wore polos or sweaters and khakis. And always looked like nice, young men.

Now…nothing is the same. I wonder, if I went back to that church, what they would think of me? I have tattoos all over myself. I have nothing really to show for myself. I have a lot of mistakes I’ve made. I have a past….that has birthed an evil twin as a future.

Now I stay quiet, much more than I used to even…in the last few months. I’ve been told I argue back a lot less. And…I do. Because, I’m just tired of it.

Just today I was thinking, “I really wish I could write down some of the internal conversations I have with myself. Because they are good.”

Isn’t that what writing is all about?

Or is it the ability to RECOGNIZE those internal conversations. To actually listen to them. Take part in them. Look for meaning in them. Because…sometimes I feel like I do that too much. Maybe I spend too much time in my head.

But I don’t really want to be spending much time anywhere outside of it either.

So, a blanket of silence falls.

And I put my head down.

And I do what I am told.

Most of the time.

And I just try to prove that it’ll be okay.