Little Known Fact #2

At one point in fifth grade, my desk was situated right behind my least favorite person in the world--the only person who seemed to be always on my bad side--Jessica. We had never gotten along (seriously, it had lasted since daycare) and after we had rearranged our desks that month, I was not happy that I'd have to deal with her on a daily basis. 

That was about the time that my mother had started teaching me the basics of drawing the human face, and it was something that I was really, really excited about. (Drawing the figure/portraiture is my favorite thing to draw now, and I knew very early on that it was something I was interested in.) It was not anything fancy; the faces I was practicing were straight-on, basic forms, beginning. But I practiced. A lot. 

Jessica turned around in her seat one day and saw me drawing someone else in the class, I forget who. She seemed genuinely interested and asked if I'd draw a portrait of her. I agreed, and gave it to her when I was done. 

The next day, Jessica turned around again, wearing a look that I would recognize and see later, over and over again. She held up a sandwich bag by one corner, dangling it in front of me. 

"I'm sorry, but my dog tore up your drawing," she said. I remember her smirking or trying not to laugh--but that could be something my mind made up later. 

In the bag were the pieces of the now torn-up portrait I drew of her. 

I don't remember what happened immediately after. Sometimes I wonder if my head made this particular memory up, but then I know that it did actually happen. My mind may have exaggerated the memory, but I know in my heart that it did happen. There's always that one voice in the back of my head whenever I draw, the one that says many things. Not perfect, not good enough, are you kidding me? 

I hate being there when someone else is looking at my work. I've hated it since then, and I know I'll hate it for the rest of my life. I don't want to be there to see their reaction. And I don't believe in holding grudges--and I really, really try not to--but the memory of her dangling that baggie in my face, telling me without words that my interests, my passions, meant nothing, knowing how I have internalized it so, is something I am struggling to forget.