A Girl from Pluto Ep. 10

         

This series will contain posts styled as a memoir with memories that I feel like sharing. I first wrote these articles in 2017 when I was suffering from burnout. I may post one or two a month. I hope you enjoy these intimate glimpses into the life of...

Episode 10

Sucker

As a child, I obviously needed a lot of comfort, because on top of having an imaginary friend and a security blanket, I also sucked my thumb. But I mostly sucked my thumb at night, as a way to soothe me to sleep. In school, I hid the fact that I sucked my thumb. Even when a hard patch formed on my thumb’s knuckle with two little indents, I never said it was because I sucked my thumb. I knew that sucking your thumb as a child older than five wasn’t normal. None of my friends did it. Or if they did, they never owned up to it, just like I didn’t. 

Spending the night at my best friend’s house was tough because I knew I couldn’t suck my thumb there. At night, I’d curl my fingers around my thumb, in the center of my fist and would shove my hand under my pillow so I wouldn’t be tempted. It would take me hours to fall asleep. 

Once, when my best friend spent the night at my house, she caught me sucking my thumb. Smarty pants little me played it off, though. I woke up to the feel of my best friend’s hand stroking mine, and I realized my thumb was in my mouth, even though I didn’t do it intentionally. I kept my eyes closed and muttered, “Stop. I’m thirsty.” Then I turned over and put my hand under my pillow. I stayed like that for a few minutes before “waking up.” 

She mentioned that I had my thumb in my mouth, and I played it off like, “Really? That’s weird. I was having a dream that I was drinking soda cuz I was like dying of thirst.” She didn’t question me, and I made sure she never caught me with my thumb in my mouth again.

I sucked my thumb at night all the way through 6th grade. During the summer before 7th grade, I knew I had to “grow up.” For the next two months, I trained myself not to suck my thumb. It was extremely hard at first, but I did it. Before school started, I no longer sucked my thumb. Phew. Just in time for the crazy and judgmental years of middle school. Yay!

You’re probably wondering about my teeth, aren’t you? Do I have buckteeth? Are they extremely spaced out? If not, did I have to suffer through years of braces? 

Nope.

Actually, when I was in first grade, my teeth were badly spaced apart. I remember seeing my school picture and thinking, that’s what my teeth look like? Oh my gosh! From that moment on, I only smiled with my mouth closed. I was embarrassed with my teeth, not even realizing that they eventually corrected themselves.

In 6th grade my PE teacher asked me if I ever had braces. I told her no, which was the truth, but because of my insecurity, her question humiliated me. She quickly explained, probably after seeing my pink face, that she loves my smile. She thought I must’ve had braces because my teeth were perfect, and I had a beautiful smile.

Her words struck me. Really? How could it be? All I could imagine was my 1st grade school picture and my smile. Ugh. Those teeth!

My best friend was there and confirmed what our favorite PE teacher told me. And yet, it took me a long time to actually believe these words. Still in all of my school pictures I smiled with my mouth closed, even when other people complimented my smile. 

Insecurities can sure damage us, can’t thing? Because of one school picture, I developed a dislike for my teeth and couldn’t even see that they weren’t hideous anymore. Insecurities can do this to us. They blind us. If someone compliments you, open your ears and open your eyes. Look in the mirror and repeat their compliment. 

See it. 

Believe it. 

Funny enough, when I was in 10th grade, there was this boy who openly sucked his thumb everywhere, even in class. No one made fun of him, either. He was pretty popular, though, so maybe that’s why? Or could it be because he was a boy and had a great sense of humor? And was even cute, with a baby face? Who knows. But I sure never felt that I would be accepted as a thumb sucker, not like this boy was. Heck, I was bullied for my shoes and eyebrows, so I definitely would’ve been bullied if my classmates had known my secret. 

He chose to be open, and I chose to hide it. We had our reasons and influences that told him it was okay and told me it wouldn’t be a good idea. 

The point is, sucking your thumb is a reflex, a comfort. He could’ve needed that comfort longer than me, and more often. 

Thumb suckers of the past…I am one of you.

Thumb suckers of the present…I see you.

Thumb suckers of the future…I am with you.

A Girl from Pluto Ep. 9

        

This series will contain posts styled as a memoir with memories that I feel like sharing. I first wrote these articles in 2017 when I was suffering from burnout. I may post one or two a month. I hope you enjoy these intimate glimpses into the life of...

Episode 9

Security

Many children need security. Not just a safe home and a caring family. Some children need something a little more, something they can hold and cuddle. For me, this was my blankie, that lavender knitted blanket that I’d put on my head to act like hair. 

I went everywhere around the house with this blankie, and no one minded. Thankfully, they never did what Owen’s family did in the children’s book written by Kevin Henkes. Owen had a blankie he lovingly called Fuzzy, but his parents wanted to kick his habit of bringing his blankie everywhere because he was going to enter Kindergarten. They’d steal it a night and soak it in vinegar. All to make Owen want to stop using his blankie. How awful. I’d clutch my blankie tighter when I read this story or had it read to me. 

Thinking about it now, it’s terribly sad that a parent could think they have to “fix” their child and come up with a “remedy” so your child wouldn’t want to have their blankie anymore. And all because they’re going to start Kindergarten. 

I never brought my blankie to school. It stayed in bed until I came home, and then I’d snatch it up and would drape it over my shoulder or around my neck so I could have it if I sat on the couch or wherever I went.

If my mom had cut up my blankie into small squares, I would’ve been devastated. It wouldn’t be the same blankie anymore. I probably wouldn’t have wanted it, which, if you’re like Owen’s parents and wanted this…you win!

My blankie did end up getting a lot of holes because the knitting started to unravel, but I continued to love it.

Even when I was older, a pre-teen, I still slept with it. I just didn’t bring it around the house anymore. If I slept over at my best friend’s house, I’d neatly fold it and slip it into my pillowcase so I could still touch it when I slept.

My blankie was for security.

When my family fought, I’d clutch it to my chest. When I my throat hurt, I’d use it as a scarf. When I didn’t feel good, I’d press it to my tummy. But it wasn’t just for comfort.

It was also a friend. I didn’t talk to it, but because it gave me security, happiness, warmth, and comfort, it very much was a dear friend.

I slept with this blankie until I was eighteen and it had so many holes I was afraid it’d fall apart, so I folded it up and stuck it into a container containing my favorite childhood mementos. It’s still there. If I dig through that container looking for something and come across my blankie, I hug it to my chest, remembering its love and thanking it for all the time we had together. 

If your child has a blankie or woobie, please don’t force your child to give it up. They have it because they need the comfort and security it offers. There’s nothing wrong with this. Maybe your child will grow out of it or do what I did: cherish it. Or maybe your child will still need it as an adult. No judgements!

Yes, even some adults need a woobie. I actually still have one. It’s not my childhood baby blanket but a teddy bear I received when I had spine surgery the day after I turned fifteen. A sweet woman behind the receptionist’s desk called me over and said I looked like I needed something to hug, and then she pulled out a silky, brown bear with a blue ribbon tied in a bow around its neck, and she gave it to me. At the time I thought, “I’m too old for a teddy bear.” But I took it and kindly thanked her for it. That bear was on my hospital bed with me while I was in pain. I didn’t actually hold it then, but it was there. 

Later, it was there in the corner of my bed for the next two years. I was eighteen when I woke up one night with the stomach bug. After getting sick to my stomach, this bear went from being in the corner to being hugged to my tummy beneath my comforter. A few months after this, I stuffed it into my suitcase when I went to Michigan to visit family, and I slept with it hugged to my tummy. 

Now that I think about it, this was around the same time when I stopped using my blankie, so maybe this was a sign that I still needed something, and the teddy bear took my blankie’s place, offering comfort when I most needed it. 

Do you want to know a secret? I still sleep with this teddy bear.

Do you have a woobie? Do you still have the one you loved as a child? Find it and give it a hug.

* FREE EBOOK * Her Nutcracker Boyfriend * OUT NOW *

 

Content Warning: If you're not interested in erotica aka smut, please skip this post. Thank you!

I got the idea for Her Nutcracker Boyfriend after finding a cute juvenile story about a ballerina and a nutcracker at a used bookstore. My inner child was delighted. But then me and my bestie’s minds went the other way. The title of that book didn’t help, which I won’t mention here because I don’t want to put anything negative on that story. Still, the damage was done.

We talked about how Clara and The Nutcracker showed up on quite a few author’s and reader’s origin story posts, which everyone had been creating and sharing on Instagram at that time. Plus, I’d just purchased a smutty story about a door coming to life, so why not a nutcracker? We asked ourselves that. And…I think it was like the very next night…I had a title and a temporary cover for Her Nutcracker Boyfriend. My fate was sealed. 

Title: Her Nutcracker Boyfriend

Author: Love Fey

Genre: Holiday Erotic Romance

Length: 76

Format: eBook

EBOOK LINKS:

Nook / Kobo / Apple / Fable / Thalia / Smashwords / Amazon

REVIEW LINKS:

The Story Graph / Goodreads

TROPES:

Sex lessons

Kissing lessons

He’s eager

He’s curious

He’s innocently smutty

Golden Retriever MMC

BLURB: As a little girl, Robin danced with her “nutcracker boyfriend” while watching ballet, and she’d fall asleep with him on a special pillow. Years later, that sweet childhood memory resurfaces and pushes her to reconnect with her beloved nutcracker, but it also reinforces how lonely she truly is.

Christmas Eve, she lays the nutcracker on the pillow beside her and uses a very specific gift to give herself some attention. In the morning, her nutcracker is a flesh-and-blood man whose only memories revolve around her. He’s adorably innocent, sweetly obsessed, and incredibly curious. He awakens her body like never before. But he also awakens her heart.

They may not have forever, but they’ll spend whatever time they do have in each other’s arms.

EXCERPT: 

“What is passion?”

“It’s a strong interest in something or someone. It’s like a driving force.”

“I have a passion for you.”

She gawked. “You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t know me.”

“I told you, you’re all I know.”

“But that doesn’t mean you know me.”

His jaw flexed. He gazed at her shoulder as he skimmed his fingers over the curve. “You’re wrong. I remember, Robin. When you were a child, you were so lonely. By yourself. Lost. Looking for…for…”

She could tell he was searching for a word to describe the deep yearning she’d endured as a child, but he didn’t know what that word was. “A friend,” she said as her eyes misted with tears. “I was searching for a friend.”

A Girl from Pluto Ep. 8

       

This series will contain posts styled as a memoir with memories that I feel like sharing. I first wrote these articles in 2017 when I was suffering from burnout. I may post one or two a month. I hope you enjoy these intimate glimpses into the life of...

 

Episode 8

Fake Friend

Before my brother and I became buddies, I had an imaginary friend. I don’t know why I created her or when. She was just there one day. I don’t even remember a beginning. But I can guess why I needed her. When I was born, my oldest sister was already six years old. My other sister and brother were about three years older. Older siblings usually don’t want to play with toddlers. I suspect this was the case for me, so when I was little, I invented a friend who would play with me. 

Ena.

She had long lavender hair. Sometimes, I would put my baby blanket, a lavender knitted blanket that passed down to me when my siblings didn’t want it, over my head, tuck it around my hair, and walk around imitating Ena. My blanket would sway at my ankles, and according to me, this was exactly how Ena looked.

Sitting on my bed, I’d talk to Ena for hours. We’d color together, and whenever I walked through the house, she was there beside me, almost like a bodyguard.

My whole family knew about Ena and asked me about her. I loved having a friend no one else could have. She was all mine.

Then, one day, she was gone.

I didn’t even realize she was gone until someone asked me about her, having noticed I stopped mentioning her. Shortly after, as if summoned, Ena returned. Her pretty, long, lavender hair was gone, though. Now she had short black hair. Apparently, she went to Paris. I had no real idea about Paris, but that’s where she had gone away to. Maybe to be with another little girl who needed her on the other side of the world? I believe so. At that point, we said our goodbyes, without actually saying “goodbye,” and she went back to Paris. I never saw her again, but I never forgot her, my first true friend.

Imaginary friends are powerful beings. If your child has one, don’t laugh. And whatever you do, do NOT tell them they need to grow up or that their friend is fake. Because to your child, this imaginary friend is as real as breath, as real as they are, because this apparition comes from them, their mind, their creativity.

Imagination is not fake. It’s real. It’s the most real thing in this world. In fact, this imaginary friend is helping your child to grow up. So, let your child have this friend, because this friend, even if you can’t see him or her, is helping your son or daughter in a huge way. This friend is giving your child exactly what they need: companionship. They’re learning what it’s like to be social and grow a relationship. When it’s time, their imaginary friend will leave, but only when they are both ready to part. Don’t push it. Just watch and enjoy your child’s happiness.

A Girl from Pluto Ep. 7

      

This series will contain posts styled as a memoir with memories that I feel like sharing. I first wrote these articles in 2017 when I was suffering from burnout. I may post one or two a month. I hope you enjoy these intimate glimpses into the life of...

Episode 7

A Club for Me

My sisters created a club. It consisted of the two of them. If one of my oldest sister’s friends was spending the night, she was immediately inducted into their club, at least for that day. I badly wanted to be part of their club. I was a girl, too, dang it. I should be allowed!

I’d knock on my sister’s door, which was locked to keep non-members out, namely me because my brother sure didn’t care about joining their club. They wouldn’t open the door. They’d tell me to go away, giggle, and taunt. I’d beg them to let me join their club.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” I pleaded. “Please.”

The door opened. I thought it meant admittance. I was wrong.

My other sister stuck her head out and told me I should make a club with our brother. Then the door was shut in my face.

I balled my eyes out, still knocking on the door, begging to be let in. Just once? Just today? For at least an hour?

No go. I was not wanted.

I sulked. This was the first bit of rejection I ever experienced, and I was a child, but this would not be the only time I’d be rejected by them.

After my eyes dried, I went to my brother’s room. Since my sisters never wanted to play with me, I always played with our brother.

"Do you want to form a club? Just me and you? We can make a better club than theirs.”

Rival clubs. Yes! I’d show them. I’d have a blast in my exclusive club with our brother and show them. I didn’t need their stupid club, anyway!

I got a sleeve of crackers, the jar of peanut butter, and a knife so my brother and I could make peanut butter crackers, because I saw my sisters do that once when they were holding a “session” for their club in my sister’s room.

My brother and I munched on peanut butter crackers, and I felt better.

A club of my own. Finally.

The rejection still stung. Of course, it did. But because my sisters tossed me to the side then, I ended up having a great friendship with our brother. We rode our bikes all around the block, watched wrestling, and played card games like poker and war with two decks.

My brother became my best friend at home, and I’m eternally grateful for the relationship I had with him then and have with him now. He’s the best big brother I could ever ask for. He didn’t reject me as he easily could have, because, well, I was a girl, but I liked a lot of the same things as he did, and we both needed someone to hang out with, since our oldest brother wasn’t around much and was too old to want to hang out and do kid things.

One of my favorite memories of a game my brother and I played involved paint brushes. This was before our road was paved, and we would take these paint brushes to the end of the driveway and sweep away all the sand as if we were archeologists uncovering fossils, just like in the beginning of Jurassic Park.

When houses were being built in our neighborhood, we’d climb to the top of the piles of dirt and sand and play for hours. Once cement block and a structure started to go up, we’d take our bikes and ride round and round inside the houses being built. This was even more fun when the walls and roof were in place.

Another spot we liked to ride our bikes was a cul-de-sac called See. No houses were there, so we’d race around in circles until we got tired.

We also went to a canal in our neighborhood, road our bikes along the path, and caught guppies. Catching guppies and tadpoles was my favorite thing to do. If a hard rain came and lasted for days, I’d go out with a pail and a strainer and catch tadpoles in my ditch. There were hundreds! I loved them when they were plump, but as soon as they got little legs, they creeped me out and I’d dump them back into the ditch.

Side Note: Frogs give me the willies.

In the end, although I wasn’t allowed to join the club that I initially wanted to be a part of, I ended up finding a much better club. Now, I wouldn’t change that for anything.

A Girl from Pluto Ep. 6

     

This series will contain posts styled as a memoir with memories that I feel like sharing. I first wrote these articles in 2017 when I was suffering from burnout. I may post one or two a month. I hope you enjoy these intimate glimpses into the life of...

Episode 6

Bro...Those Brows

Since I’m on a roll talking about the times I’ve been bullied, here’s another.

(I almost didn't share this one because it especially embarrasses me, but here goes...)

Eyebrows are funny things, aren’t they?

My sister plucked my eyebrows for the first time when I was little because my eyebrows were always wide, not very ladylike, you could say. But she plucked my eyebrows too short, not knowing that you should only pluck from the bottom, not the top and definitely not the front, unless, of course, you have a unibrow, which I never had. Because of this mistake, I ended up having trouble with my eyebrows my entire childhood. I had to learn to tweeze, because once you start plucking you can’t, or shouldn’t, stop. And that’s how my eyebrows ended up getting shorter. And shorter. And even skinnier. My eight grade school pictures are horrendous because of my skinny, short eyebrows.

I hated my eyebrows because they weren’t normal. I did not use brow pencils, knowing that would only make it worse. Pretty much, when I didn’t have thick bangs, which wasn’t in style anymore, I had to hope no one would notice.

But they did notice. They wondered why my brows were so short. I’d shrug. Or I’d blame it on my sister, which wasn’t fair.

At one point, because I hated plucking and I had to tweeze so no one could see the little bristles where I should have an eyebrow, I started to use a shaver between my brows Not a good idea. The skin in front of my eyebrows would turn a pale shade of green, almost like a man’s jaw and cheeks can turn after shaving. I tried to cover this with makeup, but it was still visible. Eventually, someone asked about it. A boy, of course. He asked why it was green and even poked me between my brows. I shrugged, said I didn’t know, and looked away so he’d leave me alone. He claimed he wasn’t picking on me, and he generally was a nice person, but he had pointed out something I knew and disliked, so I ignored him.

Years later, not having to worry about school or looking cool, I cut my bangs and let my eyebrows grow in underneath their hair shield. They were not pretty. If the wind blew my bangs to the side as I walked through a parking lot, I’d duck and quickly sweep my bangs back, even held them in place.

It took many years for my eyebrows to look normal. They’re not perfect, but I no longer hide them. Except, my glasses now conceal them a bit.

If I ever have a daughter, I’ll make sure she doesn’t touch her eyebrows. I’ll tell her this story. If need be, her brows can be touched up but never plucked or reshaped from their natural form. Natural is better. Bold is beautiful. Embrace the brows you’ve got!

A Girl from Pluto Ep. 5

     

This series will contain posts styled as a memoir with memories that I feel like sharing. I first wrote these articles in 2017 when I was suffering from burnout. I may post one or two a month. I hope you enjoy these intimate glimpses into the life of...

Episode 5

Is She Anorexic?

I have always been skinny...too skinny...boney. I knew it, even at a young age, but I was never made aware of it, or made to think it was “wrong,” until I heard my best friend’s grandmother say to her mom, “Is she anorexic?” I was standing right behind her, and she didn’t even try to whisper it. I stared at the back of her dark, curly head in shock. Did she really just say that? About an eleven-year-old girl?? And right in front of her???

I peered at my best friend’s mom to see what she’d do. She caught my eye, knowing I heard. She gave a little laugh and said, “No she is not anorexic.”

The grandmother looked over her shoulder at me with her face scrunched up. She clearly didn’t believe her.

Let’s just make it clear that I have never been anorexic or bulimic. I have never gone on a diet to lose weight or done anything drastic to be thin.

I know there were people who looked at me then, and may even look at me now, and thought, “Get that girl a sandwich.”

In case you’re wondering, I love food. I eat a lot. I love chocolate, donuts, bread, pasta, pizza, tacos. Enchiladas! When I’m hungry, I eat. Period.

Let’s make another thing clear…I never liked being the skinniest girl in class. I didn’t like being called “flat” in 6th grade when other girls were developing. I didn’t like being called boney or twiggy. Never. Not once.

As a matter of fact, when I was in 6th grade, I weighed myself a lot to see if I gained anymore weight because I desperately wanted to reach 100 pounds. I made my way ounce by ounce, but it seemed to hover at 98 forever. No. I want to be 100! I want to be normal. If I can get to 100, then I can get to where my best friend is, and no one will look at me and think I’m anorexic.

Talking about weight is damaging for anyone, child or adult.

I lost 15 pounds after my spine surgery. That was a lot! I was even bonier.

In 10th grade, after my surgery, I fought to gain that weight back. By the end of the year, I was around 130 pounds. My friends noticed and were proud of me. Proud? Really? But then again, I had wanted to gain weight, and they knew that.

***

Years later, on social media, something that bothered me was how my friends would share photos with quotes that talked about how women without curves were like roads without bends.

Really? So we’re comparing ourselves to roads now? Who came up with that?

There were sayings worse than this, like: Bones are for dogs, meat is for men.

This one offended me the most.

So, you’re saying I’m a bone that a dog should chew on? You’re making me less of a woman, less of a person. You’re saying I’m a fucking chew toy. And you’re insinuating that no man could ever love me for me because I don’t have “meat on my bones?” No one can love a thin woman?

There’s one more: “Where do men put their hands on skinny girls?” 

Do I not have all the same body parts? Just because a woman is thin doesn’t mean a man can’t find a place to put his hands. 

***

Picking on a woman for her size is wrong in every which way.

If you’ve got curves, go ahead and flaunt them, but don’t say nasty things about women who don’t have them. The same is true for the reverse.

And while it’s true that women get bullied for having curves, it’s not a one-way street. Women who are skinny/flat/narrow get picked on, too. 

We need to STOP being mean to each other and realize we’re in this together. We're all beautiful, and the more we knock each other down for how much we weigh, the more we are giving each other insecurities and traumas that will only continue down our lines to the next generations. Sadly, I don't see us stopping this practice, but it's a nice thought.