Complacent

1

When my parents died when I was 9, a piece of me died also. I forgot how it felt to be happy and more often I found myself alone, casting myself away from groups of people and the loud sound of laughter and general chatter; placing myself in a space of solitude and quietness. At first my friends begged and would often follow me, asking me multiple questions – what was wrong and if they could help me, but after my constant refusal of help, slowly but surely they each faded away one by one, until I was alone. I was always a loud and bubbly kid – talkative and always playing the clown. My mum always told me that when I was younger I would randomly start conversations with people on the bus or train and how I always wanted to perform my little songs that I wrote and when I started learning about poems I was constantly writing them and reciting them after dinner and desert, but of course…writing and singing stopped. I became a shell of my former child self and began to grow into a melancholy and somewhat gloomy teenager – my mood or presence seeming to change the atmosphere of a room once I walked in, as if strangers could read my life story just by looking into my eyes. As my body grew my confidence didn’t, weakening as I grew older and found myself surrounded with ‘perfect girls’. My boobs and bum were too big in my mind and my big brown doe like eyes always made me feel like I seemed constantly surprised to others, although Claudette, my sister constantly told me otherwise. I was average height but had legs the length of a football pitch, making me feel gawky and gangly throughout my early teenager years, when image was everything. My saving grace – my hair – was also a pain, with so much hair it was a pain to straighten and a struggle to comb, so the constant battle was real and in effect every morning, hence why I was constantly getting box braids or Senegalese twists put in my hair. My low confidence about my body was what teachers at school would explain to my sister as to why I had difficulty fitting in, but they were wrong. My difficulty of fitting in was why I had no body confidence.

 I don’t have a big family, but when my parents died the option of being put into care wasn’t an option my sister was ever open too so instead I stayed with her. My older sister Claudette took on the mother role and head of the family, which only consisted of us two and being 18 at the time, she dropped out of university, her dreams of being an artist thrown aside, and took on two jobs, one in a retail shop and the other as a training nurse, working the night shifts in order to keep the electricity, water and gas bills in check – my parents life insurance had covered the mortgage on the house, and also left a bit of money for each of us, but by the time I was twelve I’m pretty sure Claudette’s share was gone. It was hard, just the two of us living in such a big four bedroom house, and I think that Claudette got lonely too. With her busy work schedule and with her looking after me, she never really got to meet someone and start a relationship that would be able to bring her something that was more than sex. It was when I turned 14, I realised that the different men she had managed to bring home in between her two jobs weren’t guys that wanted to stick around and help her raise her withdrawn little sister – they were guys who wanted to use her for her body and looks. From Claudette’s honey blonde dyed hair that seemed to cascade down her back in effortless waves and her bright hazel almond shaped eyes to her massive breasts and seemingly impossible surfboard flat stomach, Claudette commanded attention wherever she went despite wearing her nurses uniform, and she knew it.  I was always scared that Claudette would end up pregnant, even though now that I’m older, I’m pretty sure she had her share of mistaken pregnancies that she had gotten rid of, but it’s not something I would ever bring up to her. Claudette – despite her flaws – was someone who was dedicated in making sure I was as happy as I could be, despite the growing depression I was accumulating as puberty hit me.

 When I started secondary school was when I made a friend; Renee a young black girl of Jamaican decent who would soon grow to be a fake nail wearing, weave fanatic and makeup guru young lady…and also my best friend. At first, taken aback by my quietness and my passion for solitude, Renee, like 99.9% of the girls in my secondary school steered clear of me, wondering if there was something mentally wrong with me. It wasn’t until we were paired together in science for a project, that she began to warm to me and she began to appreciate my silence, taking this as a cue to tell me everything about her life, from her mum and dad divorcing to her and her older brother Tyrese’s arguments, to who she thought would end up being pregnant by the age of 16 amongst the pupils in our all girl school. Her constant chatter at first annoyed me – Claudette didn’t even speak this much to me - and her laughter, loud and bubbly, made me uncomfortable; but her kindness and sincerity soon made it impossible for my annoyance to pursue, and her funny nature and warm personality, eventually broke down my barrier and I found myself laughing, talking and discussing things with her, something I thought I would never do. I ended up opening up to her and as soon as I started, I found I couldn’t stop; I told her about my parents death by car crash, how Claudette was looking after me, which girl I thought would become pregnant by college and how I had constantly felt alone for a long while. At first she said nothing and then, she hugged me, wailing into my shoulder, vowing to protect me from any bullies that may come my way – needless to say none ever did – and the rest…well the rest is history.