Bates - Marni

Marni

Marni Bates

www.hcibooks.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Bates, Marni.

Marni / Marni Bates.

p. cm.

eISBN-13: 978-0-7573-9596-3 eISBN-10: 0-7573-9596-1

1. Family. I. Title.

HQ503.B38 2009

306.85dc22

2009017813

2009 Health Communications, Inc.

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

HCI, its logos, and marks are trademarks of Health Communications, Inc.

Publisher: Health Communications, Inc.
3201 S.W. 15th Street
Deerfield Beach, FL 334428190

Cover photo Simon Dearden/Corbis
Cover design by Larissa Hise Henoch
Interior design and formatting by Lawna Patterson Oldfield

This book is dedicated to
Frank and Dena Bates:
the former for pulling all the strings in heaven
and the latter for all the love and support on earth.
I would also like to thank my fellow hoosfooses
who made me the person I am today.
There wouldve been nothing to write without you.

Contents

WHEN I TOLD MY SIBLINGS I was writing an autobiography at the tender age of nineteen, their laughter blared over the telephone straight into my ear. The general consensus was that I hadnt done enough, experienced enough, to be worthy of the ink. And at first, I agreed with them. In fact, it wasnt until I flipped through my old journals that I realized why I agreed to this endeavor. Buried somewhere in between angst-ridden sentences was a girl with real problems who deserved to be heard. So here it is: my tale of trials and tribulations, awkwardness and awesomeness. My story isnt about when bad things happen to good people. Its about how people grow, adapt, bond, and break apart. More specifically, its about how I became the person I am today. If I had a better sense of who that is, this book would have been much easier to write. Instead, Ill try to leave judgment to you, the reader. Whether I am a freak, an inspiration, a nut case, a survivor, a mess, or a combination of all of the above is for you to decide. All I know for certain is that I am Marni Bates, and this is where my story begins.

I HAVE A TON OF IRRATIONAL FEARS. I refuse to cross streets without a clear sign that it is my turn to walk. I am afraid of driving because I have trouble telling my left from my right. I am scared of snakes, spiders, beef jerky, unnaturally-colored foods (like Jell-O), and technology in its many forms. I also fear spandex. Dont ask me why. What I try really hard not to fear is the truth. I always want to know who should be held responsible, even if its me. And a lot of the time, it is me. Sometimes I dont even realize that until years later, when I wake up and think, Wow, how lame am I for trying to blame someone else for that? Answer: exceedingly lame.

So I dont blame anyone else for my hair pulling. I refuse to bore you by wailing about how if it hadnt been for my dad, or my sister, or our beauty-obsessed consumerist society, my life would have turned out differently. Partly, because it just isnt true. All of those were factors (maybe even large factors), but they dont explain why I have an insistent craving to reach up and pull out my hair. Why I long for the rip and relish the sensation. And I suspect that blaming my love of pulling on other people is just as fruitless as blaming Toll House for my love of raw cookie dough. There are times when people need to stiffen their spine, nod their head, and admit they do it to themselves. For me, thats pulling.

It didnt start out as this big convoluted heap of ugliness in my life. It turned into that, sure, but at the beginning it was something much purer. I wasnt doing it to be mean to myself, or to punish myself, or to abuse myself. It wasnt nearly so dramatic or masochistic. I honestly thought I was beautifying myself. A little part of me even thought that pulling might make my life better. Maybe if my eyebrows were more attractive, people would notice me as being someone special. Maybe then I wouldnt feel like I was always being passed over and slotted in the role of the understudy sidekick who would only be in the play if something happened to someone else. I honestly thought that if I were prettier (and had the self-confidence that goes with it), maybe my life would be better. I thought pulling my eyebrows was one way to get there. It didnt work out that way.

Instead, I found myself clutching long strands of hair I had ripped from my head, unable to stop myself from reaching up and wanting more. My pulling was never supposed to take on a life of its ownit was never supposed to take over mine. I knew it had, though. When I stared at the mirror and tried to recognize the girl without eyebrows, eyelashes, and bangs as myself and failed, I knew something had gone horribly wrong. Its hard to recognize yourself when youve pulled at your eyebrows so consistently that there is almost nothing left. Its hard to believe you could have done something so destructive to your face, and that tomorrow you have to go to school pretending nothing is different.

At some point in my life, I stopped being Marni and instead turned into an addict who ravaged her head when she didnt think anyone was looking. I pulled during breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I pulled at school, in restaurants, in grocery lines, in my room, in the bathroom. If I were in a Dr. Seuss book, I would pull in a box, I would pull with a fox, I would pull here and there, I would pull most everywhere. There was no way to escape it. Hair has a tendency to travel with a person its even more persistent than a shadow that wayand mine came with an incredible temptation to zone out and lose myself in the soothing rhythm of my plucking.

How did I get this way? I still wonder that sometimes. How is it possible that I am so consumed, so obsessed, with something that brings no real comfort to me? Why cant I stop? Why must I make a New Years resolution to kick the habit, only to end up hating myself even more when I am at it again the next day? Why am I so ashamed of something I dont feel I have control over? How did I go from a happy-go-lucky kindergartener who believed in fairies, to a teenager with the urge to yank, pinch, and pull until there is nothing left to grab? Some of these answers I just dont have. To be honest, I dont know if anyone has them. How did I get here, though? Well, that I should be able to tell you. All we have to do is go back to my childhood and my very first lie.

I CANT REMEMBER A TIME when I couldnt read. I took to it so naturally that I never needed an adult to help me sound out the words. Assistance of any kind was quickly deemed completely unnecessary. The librarians readily handed over the more advanced books and wracked their heads for a series that would engross me long enough until they came up with something else. I happily spent the majority of my childhood curled up on the nearest couch, lost to my surroundings. In elementary school, I read during lunch, through recess, while walking home, after school, and before bed. My best friend, Gwyn, would shake her head with a mixture of amusement and disgust when Id nearly walk into parked cars and trees because I was focusing solely on a book. Gwyn let everyone know I was one strange kid, which didnt exactly come as a shockthey knew it already.