Clowny Clowny

This I only just recently realized: I am obsessed with my childhood. And for this I feel ashamed and stupid. It basically took something hitting me over the head with a baseball bat to tell me how sick I have become.

Recently I wrote about the man who sells various junk close to my home who I am getting close with, and that has not changed, but this week I bought the most bizarre lot from him yet: An old Barbie doll with a hole bore through its stomach and its head, yet another speculum, a clapper (but one from the 1970s, and I got the guy to sing the "clapper song" which was worth 20 dollars alone), and two music boxes.

One music box has a butterfly that flies around with the music. The other one features butterflies but they were plucked out of the foliage in the box and do not move. I played them both. But the second one, the one with the butterflies that were plucked away and do not fly, plays the most haunting melody. I recognized it immediately. It was the melody from my old music box I had when I was a kid. It was either from my favorite teddy bear or from my jewelry box. Either way, when I put it on I started bawling and could not stop.

Why the fuck, I wondered, was this affecting me so much? I could not stop thinking about it, and at my house now I have only two stuffed dolls from when I was a kid and I grabbed both of them and held onto them so tightly until I was able to gain composure. It was so fucking weird. Then I started looking at stuff. I looked at the walls of my room, which are covered with clown paintings. I looked at the art that I made, all dolls and kid’s stuff.

I listened to the songs that I wrote, all about my dad and childhood, but nonetheless all with an extremely twisted edge. I realized that no doubt I was ABSOLUTELY OBSESSED with my childhood. And in a completely warped way.

My ex-boyfriend told me that he had known this about me for quite some time, and I asked him why he had never pointed it out to me, but he just said he thought that I knew. He also pointed out my love of theme parks, water slides, and the like. And then he started to use some kind of scientific jargon on me and said "when you are exposed to certain stimuli, it's obvious by the way you would act and that you never really grew up." I asked him for examples of such "stimuli" and he named some, but I was still confused. But it was all becoming clearer to me now. Especially if it was so clear to someone I knew, who decided never to talk to me about it, I knew that it was true.

After going through college, I can think of two possible reasons for this sort of behavior. One is that I grew up with parents who were constantly fighting, so instead of being a child I was forced to be a mediator. So now, at 25, I am still an immature retard with clowns on my wall.

Another theory is that when something terrible happens to someone (for example, when a girl gets violently raped), she might want to live out the violent rape over and over in various sexual situations with her boyfriends to be able to better deal with the trauma.

Since I had such a shitty bizarre childhood, I think that maybe I want to constantly live it out, acting and living like a child, making childish art and songs, decorating my room like a child's room, collecting fucked up old dolls, being enraptured by Disney World and the like.

Maybe neither of the theories is true. I don't know. But this fucking TERRIBLE music box got me going this week. It hurts to hear it. It brings back all sorts of memories that I thought would never surface.

Let this be a warning. I thought repressed memories were bullshit. Now I know that they are not. I also now wonder if the weirdo who sold me this music box might be supernatural. I am scared of him but more obsessed with him now. But everyone beware this man . . . perhaps he holds the truth. And the truth is scary.

The past is even scarier. Often we want to forget it all. I know I want to.

This music box brought back a lot for me. I simultaneously want to destroy it forever and just sit in my room in a completely cathartic state and listen to it for 48 hours without leaving to do anything, even piss or shit. It is so weird. It just sits there and stares at me now. And I want to turn on the song. I know what will happen though. I will be shot immediately back into the past, into my childhood. It's like the big red button that you're not supposed to press but you do.

I am also dealing with the fact that I am afraid that this man selling items on the corner could be a serial killer or some kind of otherworldly creature sent here to fuck with me. Or maybe I'm just going nuts.

As I've revealed before, I have always assigned personalities to inanimate objects. If there were two apples in front of me and I took a bite out of one apple, I would have to take a bite out of the other apple or else it would feel sad. And I still act that way.

I just hope I don't turn into some kind of fucking Michael Jackson/Peter Pan creepy-ass pedophile mess, even though MJ is one of my idols and I adore him soooooo much, I don't want to be Peter Fucking Pan (maybe Shirley Temple, but not Peter Pan).

I don't climb fucking trees. But I bet if I somehow got famous and had unlimited access to money I would create some sort of fucked up amalgamation of Michael Jackson's Neverland and Andy Warhol's Factory--except no kids allowed.

I don't want what happened to poor MJ to happen to me. I don't know. At least I don't have vitiligo and have to walk around draped in black clothes and carry a black umbrella. All of this because of this damned music box. Repressed memories. Michael Jackson. OCD. Speculums. The clapper. A Barbie with a fucking hole bore through the top of her head and through her stomach, serial killers, weird sales, supernatural demon men, childhood obsession, never never land . . . I think I will need that lobotomy soon, doctor.