Good Little Girl

In five hours time I will be flying to my "hometown" in Germany to visit my family for a few weeks. I have spent the past two hours packing my bags, an activity that I have mastered like no other. If packing suitcases were a national sport I would hold at least as many trophies as I have houseplants (over 100 at the moment). Nonetheless, this round of packing has left me troubled and distressed. The reason for this is because the Julia that I truly am will not be getting off the plane that she soon will board. Where will she go, you might ask? Excellent question! She will likely be stifled and stuffed into the deepest, most hidden crevice of my suitcase while the Julia that everyone thinks I am will entertain and mingle and be the good little girl everyone ever wanted.

Time and distance have a funny way of blurring our memories and perceptions of people. Between the age of 7 and 18 I had very sparse contact with my family in Germany. Our communication between when I was of age 7 and 11 consisted of weekly, court-mandated phone calls, Christmas and Birthday cards and the occasional package of goodies. After I turned 12 I disappeared from their world and they never heard a word from me until I showed up again on their doorstep at the age of 18. The imprint of little 7-year-old Julia as well as a handful of more recent photographs was the last image of me anyone had to hold on to. The personal development that occurs between the ages of 7 and 18 is enormous and the Julia that showed up on the doorstep at 18 was just not the same little girl that waved goodbye from a car at the age of 7. Unfortunately there will never be a way to win back those lost years and although we have worked hard to regain a relationship, there will always be something missing.

Sometimes I feel that they still view me as that same, innocent, little girl. She just grew a bit taller, cut off her pigtails and suddenly has a few plans and ideas of her own. Though that little girl will always live on inside me and sometimes really loves coming out to play, she shares a body with a much older version of herself. That older version of Julia has unfortunately been terrified of being judged for being different than the 7-year-old version of herself. She hides behind many masks and veils, or doesn't even bother to come out of the suitcase when she's there visiting them. It's really a shame that I haven't been able to open up to them, but I have been through enough in my life to be both a master suitcase-packer and a master wall-builder. Every time I go to visit, a huge part of me hides in a stone fortress that I carry around in my chest. It's starting to grow pretty heavy, because the more time that passes, the longer the list of things that my family doesn't know about me gets.

Packing my bags, I choose my clothing carefully and adhere to the obscenely strict dress code of my highschool years. That means that 80% of my closet isn't coming with me. Not my favorite funky, shiny Alice-in-wonderland-tights that my mom gave me, not my favorite summer skirts or slightly ripped shorts, none of the shirts that show my belly, not my tight dresses or any of my funny pants. Nothing lacy or strappy or too short or too black or too see-through or too something else that might be considered weird or offensive. Only my most boringly appropriate shirts, a real bra, pants that I could wear in church and dresses that God would approve of are in my suitcase. It would be a totally different story if I were traveling on a work conference or to a job interview, but I'm going to see my family. Aren't family the kind of people that are supposed to love and accept you for however you are, no matter what?  The kind of people that you can be open and honest with about your life?

It's strenuous to be traveling to a place where my persona needs to change so drastically to please a handful of people I see once or twice a year. To a place where I need to reel in the strings of my own marionette doll and pretend to be that innocent little 7-year-old in girl that lives a perfectly "normal," heterosexual, monogamous and substance free life like good little girls do. What might they say if I told them I spent my past weekend quite intoxicated at party I threw in my own home, with my head between another girl's thighs, surrounded by 8 or 9 or 10, or was it 11 other half-naked people making love in my bed? Only people on the "wrong path" would ever indulge in something like that right? I don't see it like that but I am so afraid that they will. Perhaps my weekend was a bit decadent, but that doesn't make me a bad girl... I know I'm not a bad girl. But somehow in my head I see myself as one when I imagine things through their eyes. But that leads me to ask myself, how much of this is in my head? How harshly would they actually judge me if they knew about the quirkier details of my life? Would they be disappointed in me? Would they stop talking to me? Would they stop loving me? And if they did, well then wouldn't I be better off not wasting my time with people who can't accept me for who I am? But is it worth the risk, tainting this delicate relationship that we are desperately trying to patch up with details that actually aren't so important? Maybe it's okay to let them see me as that 7-year-old-girl and live my life the way I want to when I am not with them... they don't need to know these things about me, but at the same time I hate lying... 

My bags are packed and soon I will put on my goody-two-shoes and make my way to the town I was born in. Tomorrow morning I will sit on their terrace in the sunshine, drink coffee and update them about my life. I will swallow carefully, not just the warming drink but also that little voice that so badly wants to be expressed, to be known, to be honest, to be open, just like I always do. Deep breath, Julia. You will survive your suitcase-fortress for two weeks. You have been surviving secrecy your whole life. You'll manage again. Go on now, be a good little girl.