Self on the Shelf
My mushroom trip started as wholesome as it could have. I was at a farmhouse in the countryside, frolicking in the tall grass in my denim overalls and french braids like the tomboy protagonist in a coming-of-age classic studied in high schools long past its relevance. Two moments stick out in my mind when I think about that mildly psychedelic afternoon. One was when I had a sip of juice and was convinced it was the best taste to ever cross the threshold of my lips. I could write Adele-worthy love ballads about that strawberry lemonade and you'd never be able to walk past the fridge section of a grocery store without welling up. The other was when I started getting scared. I had floated through that summer day like Princess Peach in the blue-skied story setup of a freshly loaded Mario game. Then my invisible controller rumbled ominously and I could hear Bowser's theme music growing louder in the distance. I stopped following my friend and spirit guide—who for the purpose of this story I will call Toad—down the gravel road we were treading to nowhere and said, "Uh oh, I think I'm feeling weird." The atmosphere took on the desaturated hue of Twilight (2008) and suddenly my outfit felt stupid. Toad was quick to validate my fear but assured me that I was in control of how I wanted to feel. He turned his bulbous head to me and with that toothless smile said, "You always have a choice to look at things in a good way or a bad way." It was then that I noticed we had arrived at a fork in the road. I let this moment of clarity wash over me, thanked Toad for the perspective, and asked him where he bought such a tiny, blue vest.
The reason I bring this up isn't to reminisce, it's because I slid my desk in front of the windowsill where a photo of my five-year-old self has sat since I moved in. When I look up from my computer, deep in a blurry memory or activating a mental spellcheck (I always want to put a 'd' on the end of "decrepit"), my gaze and attention wanders to this photo. I initially put it up because several therapists told me that I need to "acknowledge my inner child". I figured a way to be kinder to myself was by honouring this little kid like I would a niece or grandchild I see at holidays. After all, it's not like she doesn't exist anymore. She lives within me like a cute, demonic possessor. I envisioned myself walking by this photo day after day, flicking her a knowing smile that says "I'm proud of you! Are you proud of me?" and I would be charged with the loving exuberance of a million puppies. In reality, I forgot it was there. Now, sitting in front of it everyday I'm starting to think... Is this super weird? Is someone going to come in my room and ask, "Whose kid is this?", and I'll be forced to lie (bad), say "I don't know" (worse), or "It's me—but I'm not a narcissist, I'm just in a constant state of emotional healing" (worst). It was a way to celebrate how far I've come, but I worry that it is pigeonholing me in my past. Stunting me into a regressive mindset. Coagulating my transformation mid-stream—a Teen Wolf freak who is neither human nor animal nor cool enough to play basketball. Nothing terrible happened to me as a child, quite the opposite. I cried thinking about whether I deserved a life so good and how it was bound to get shin-kicked sometime soon because life's not fair and don't convince me otherwise, I saw Terms of Endearment!! (Side note: is one who begs their parents to install a mailbox outside their bedroom a dreamer or a pragmatist?) But we all have problems to overcome and patterns to break as we venture into adulthood, and I wonder if looking at this underdeveloped version of me reinforces all of the things I've told myself I can change? It is beyond valuable to look at the past and try to understand it so that we can make better decisions now, but nostalgia is a slippery slop for anyone—a Cancer star sign especially. What we spend our time thinking about during the day is precious real estate, so I'd like build on that plot of land, not dig for bones. Journalist Michael Pollan, who explores the effects of drugs in This Is Your Mind on Plants, brought up an interesting analogy from neuroscientist Mendel Kaelen, "Think of the brain as a hill covered in snow, and thoughts as sleds gliding down that hill. As one sled after another goes down the hill a small number of main trails will appear in the snow. And every time a new sled goes down, it will be drawn into preexisting trails, almost like a magnet. In time it becomes more and more difficult to glide down the hill on any other path or in a different direction." (Listen to the rest of his interview with Larry Wilmore on Black On The Air.)
Doubling back a few sentences, I realize I am looking at this kid-me with such disdain, equating her with buried skeletons, and completely missing the point of the exercise. It's a huge stretch when you consider the photo I will now describe in detail: I am about to be picked up by my babysitter to attend her sister's ballet recital. From the way I am dressed, this is the social event of the season. My hair is curled and sprayed to retain Shirley Temple ringlets and a pink, fluffy clip just like the pen Elle Woods uses on her first day of Harvard Law (dress for success!). I am in my favourite outfit from this era—a ruched, lavender peplum top with a fuscia, paisley skirt that goes to my knee. (An outfit I wore on vacation in Cuba to ride a donkey when we got caught in a rainstorm. I was so beside myself thinking I wouldn't be able to wear it to dinner that my mother took a blowdryer to it for twenty minutes in our tiny hotel bathroom. You see? I had it good.) My shoes are kitten heels that elevate me to an elegant 3'10", I wear a lace choker and a floral shall draped over my shoulders like I am Lady Grantham at the wedding of two noble houses, and my arms are held daintily in velociraptor position as they clutch a garish purse that can only be made of cotton candy. My mom has put me underneath our vine-covered trellis and beside a hibiscus plant in full bloom to enhance the whimsy that I've pretty much got covered with how much fluff I've got on. The thing that drives it all home is the smile on my face. Kids usually mug obnoxiously or let their expressions falter from impatience, but this is genuine in a very understated way. Composed and confident—which I only say with surprise because a) I was often camera-shy, and b) it juxtaposes my eccentric, unsophisticated outfit. The smile says: this girl is owning the moment, fully in her essence, and on her way to soak up some culture.
That's how I know there must be a point to keeping it around. In some ways she is more grown up than I am. She may have years yet to evolve and learn not to keep quiet when she has something to say, or conversely, use her words instead of biting her brother in frustration. But she is some oddly unfiltered version of everything I still love, want and strive to be. She is a much-needed reminder to enjoy life, not take things so seriously or care what other people think. And she is proof that my fashion taste is just one of many things to have changed for the better—no matter how you look at it.