OYM Day 73: Unbelievable
I have always loved telling stories, from a very early age. I have many memories of sitting at the dinner table and talking about my day in a way that involved everyone’s attention, the use of both of my hands, and maybe my carrots or mashed potatoes as props.
My dad would often tease that I told tall tales, and he’s right. But to a kid, thinking you saw a vampire in your friends attic when looking for the bins of Christmas decorations isn’t a lie: it actually happened.
As a young child and even as a teen, my imagination was unrivaled. All cylinders firing, almost getting high off the fumes of ideas. I liked creating things and making them feel as real as possible. Looking back now, I can see that I was trying to create a chance for myself…a chance to fit in somewhere, a chance to be noticed by someone, a chance to escape what waited for me at home most nights. Writing and producing a play with all the neighborhood kids, memorizing dances and taping them with my friends, and writing movies starring myself were not going to do any of those things, but to this day, I still get the feeling that anything is possible when I see an idea coming to life.
I wanted my ideas and my stories and my life to be unbelievable. And often, through my retellings, they were. Even now as an adult, I still see people’s eyes narrow and their mouths hitch up in the corner when I’m getting to the punch line. I think it’s in the words I use and the arc of how I talk about a particular event that make people doubt my honesty. But I’m being honest. Even my husband says I frequently embellish on the details, but in reality, it’s just how my mind observes: with a bit more color, focusing in on a few things you likely ignored, and with words you wouldn’t have chosen. To me, it’s my reality.
And when something funny or interesting does happen, and someone is there to witness it with me, nothing gratifies me more than hearing them utter the phrase “Cassie, you tell it… you tell the them what happened.”
When people doubt me or ask if a story is true, it hits a sore spot deep behind my rib cage. I’m taken back to my childhood dinner table and feel my excitement fade into confusion and shame. I didn’t want to be looked at as a liar or even worse, a girl who’s life was so boring she had to make things up to sound interesting. I desperately wanted to be remarkable. And I lived each day as if I were. And I spoke about it from the viewpoint of someone that the Universe had clearly chosen for something really special.
And that hasn’t changed.
