Near to the turning point of having a 30th birthday only months away, must confess, in retrospective, I've had some points in my life were I have fallen into the social spiral of wondering myself "What am I supposed to be?" instead of "Who I really am?". **Even I have gotten trapped inside this malign cultural construct. **
You may also know it as an identity crisis. Sorry folks, maybe I am not the cool gal that y'all might think I am, mostly because as a matter of fact I do consider myself a pretty normal-average human being. At least I did hope I was.
Instead, a simple conversation with co-workers a few weeks ago has put the basis of my personality in perspective. In contrast with other women's interests with pretty much the same cultural, economic, and generational stratus than me, I ( not surprisingly) concluded that no, I am not a normal person.
Not that bothers me btw; but as a anomalous representation of my specie I can't help to wonder WHY. Why am I not even nearly close to want to have kids as most of 30 year old women? Why I could care less about pop culture gossiping? Why I found horribly tasteless popular trendings like the 50 Shades of Grey films (dull)? Why I don't like flowers bouquets? Why I'd never ever wear uggs? And most importantly:
Why do I like what I like?
This existentialist exploration it’s a fruit of a very naive comment to my equal fellow co-workers: I told them I loved Marilyn Manson; and one of them replied back he was a creepy character because he collected “human parts”, to which I sentenced: “Weird? But I do the same! I collect teeth... and love bones and skulls”.
Horrified, they stand quietly in awe.. only to shrink shoulders moments later on my account because (and I quote) of how "obvious for me that kind of answer was since they already knew how of a freak I am."
And then it hit me: Why do I like something most people run from and evade due to an evident reminder of death? I should be repeling skulls, not wearing them around my neck, rigth? Why and when a jolly regular little girl grew to be a bone enthusiast (no pun intended). As well, at that very same instant I realized I was an unaware collector of skulls and crossbones… wait! Fake ones, of course. Calm down, friends.
Now, stop frowning. I do not keep animal bones or chicken leftovers in a box under my bed (that'd be a reference to Girl, Interrupted as you know: I'm not crazy, my mother had me tested) an DO NOT hurt little creatures. I haven't even had a cast or a fractured arm! I just like the shape of human bones. Now that I am mentally mapping my possessions I own innoxious skull related bric-a-bracs that go from Jack Skellington plushes to real human teeth.
Somehow I feel attracted to the very symbol of passing, and trust me on this: I am not obsessed with death nor do practice some some of death cult like santería. I´m not even mexican!... because of the Day of the Dead thing; not cuz I think fellow mexicans are evil witches (-facepalm-). And guess who gets all excited about Halloween decorations in a country where we do not celebrate all hallow’s eve? Yep, me! It's like my special Xmas.
Here’s my theory: I just got over exposed to it to the point where it became ordinary and usual. First of all I must clarify my family is not integrated by a bunch a sociopath graverobbers, I didn't attend strangers' funerals as a kid or wondered around cemeteries (how about yuk!)
By overexposure I mean that I just got to see a lot of it on Mtv... I mean, when I was in my pubescent years I was (and still am) a huge fan of rock metal music and everything related… let’s say that Dimmu Borgir music videos are not that shocking anymore. Namely, there's a lot of skulls, bones and screaming in those isn't it?
Also I am a major fan of horror flicks, zombie movies, ghost and ghouls films (watching The Conjuring right now!); I used to say The Crow was my favorite motion picture ever (a living dead avenger, hello?). Subconsciously, I was just giving overdose after overdose of terror to my teen boiling brain. Without knowing I shaped it like clay into the form of a cranium.
Fortunately, I was raised well enough to not become a Satan worshiper. Not that there’s something wrong with that, just skip the human sacrifices, kids.
This is a formula that would have had twitched any parent’s nerves out. But not mine, my mom in fact was very minded to replace a whole wardrobe with black clothing after I was 12 years old. She got me everything she saw that had a skull on it. Maybe my family thought that if they oppose it, I would fervently desire all those odds and ends even more rabidly. But it wasn’t a rebel adolescent phase at all, it never faded away. Actually I was a very quiet champ so there was nothing to get over to.
Almost 20 years later I do still have a lot of skull and bones related trinkets and love then dearly. Aesthetically even yet I keep my skin quite pale, dress in black and have long Morticia’s hair as a reminiscence of a cadaver. It’s silly and found it even embarrassed to say; but my friends have cope with the fact that I (without conscious purpose) like to flaunt myself as a John Carpenter’s vampire -sight-.
Far from renouncing to what I love and distant from coming under the feared 30’s identity crisis, I have embrace the issue that I’ll be a old odd woman with a love for skulls. Maybe you have a more empirical theory that could explain my atypical fondness for bones. Thoughts?
Thanks for reading. Do you have any weird passion? I’d love to hear you up.