Unsolicited Ten Year Affair

Ballet;

 An unsolicited, loathsome ten-year affair my mother inflicted upon me as soon as she knew my gender.

I was fucked on the deal, the bitch had deciced who I was while I was still held up in Utero.

I began at the ballet studio at aprox. age two. 

She began to instill this in me since before I was able to formulate intelligible thought. 

I was gonna be her LeLe Girl! 

Portraying the meaning with

asinine and spastic movements;

Outstretching her arms, turning them inward way above her head, creating a circular shape. Her own imitation of the fifth position of the arms. Then she stood on the tips of her toes (well, she made an attempt) and spun in graceless circles. Then a sing song would commence "Mary Catherine! You're my Le Le Le Le Le Girl!" With a shrill voice erupting with contrived happiness.
I recognized the falsity.God damn, I hated that shit. 

This continued, along with much more intrusive 

and boorish displays of 

totalitarian and provincial thought.

Then Virgin Shirley Temples became 

Virgin Bloody Mary's and 

I learned the word "Assertive".

(look out.)

My pubescent mind's understanding of this new word was performed at every opportunity act, in ways that only make sense to me and psychotherapists.

An example, a typical day, my mother frenzied, pacing and ranting in the kitchen; Somehow managing to accomplish nothing at all but perpetually moving. 

Like I said, the usual, going on and on I hear; Jesus, my soul, the promise ring I refused to wear any longer, the importance of waiting til I found a young man of the Lord, virginity, sin and my absence at 

His Place Ministries on Sunday; youth group Wednesday.

I couldn't bear any longer, not another word of this. 

I walked with intent around the glass coffee table, through the sitting room to my Grandmary's sofa. I climbed on top and chin up, chest out and stood as tall as I could make myself.

Looking like an albino Mowgli.

Legs taut and spread, fists clenched at my side.

Then I began to sing. 

See, my mother was always telling people my voice 

was so beautiful and had such power.

 I would become a true beacon for Our Lord and Savior.

My daddy always said she was "Bat Shit Crazy".

However, I don't think this is what she

 had in mind.

With all my might and all my will, as serious as Marie Callas wailing fucking Habanera;

"Yes, Satan Loves Me! (she stood still in shock) Yes, Satan Loves me. (she looks up and I lock eyes with her and then continued with even more vigor) Yes, Satan Loves me....(she's stomping towards me fast I have to finish it) Hisbibletellsme (shit.) SOOO!!!! AH! 

You Crazy fucking bitch! Get the hell off me!!" 

She's got me good; My betraying hair real tight in her fist and pulls me down. 

I stumble off the sofa and nearly crash into that deadly table, now I'm next to the hallway closer to my isolation chamber(my room). She has her angry thin fingers intertwined with my golden locks and now she's rocking that shit back and forth like a furious hairy ping pong ball. She is screaming some kind of exorcism or it's like, I can't quite make it out.

Finally, she manages to get my flailing gangling body to my confinement. In all her mad fear and rage, she tosses me against the wall storms out the door. Slamming it so that everything that adorns the walls shudders. Locks her possessed daughter in behind her. 

I am left there, leaning against the wall where she tossed me. Breathing heavily, scalp stinging like a thousand pissed fire ants, with a smile that's slowly spreading from ear to ear. A unique satisfaction flowing with my adrenaline. 

I had not felt quite like this until that moment. 

In her brutish attempt to shame me to Christ. In the end, it proved that my point had finally gotten across, creative yet self-defeating as it was

My point was made, the weight of the cross she put on my back was lifted- 

Mary Catherine VS. Fanatical tyrant: 

I Won by a sardonic Satanic improvisation.

If only she had read The Prophet 
rather than the bible, oh well.

I came across Gibran at Nineteen. 

After it was much to late.

I will quote a section for those who are unfamiliar with his works:

Kahlil Gibran's
The Prophet
-On Children-

"Your children are not your children. 

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself. 

They come through you but not from you, 

And though they are with you 
yet they belong not to you. 

You may give them your love but not your thoughts, 

For they have their own thoughts. 

You may house their bodies but not their souls, 

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, 

which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams. 

You may strive to be like them 

but seek not to make them like you. 

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday."

Translation;No le-le girl here.

Vivre

Sa 

Vie

(cue, door slam)

 Bitch.

Mary Catherine, Cowardice Queen