Homecoming…

Not only is the title of this post also the title of the first scary short story I wrote, but it is also a description of the past week of my life. Sadly, there was a loss in my family. A pretty significant one. Libra had to travel back to her town of origin. What an insightful trip it was. You actually can go home again, but nothing will be the same; not even the things that seem to never change.

Aside from short day trips for holidays or family functions, I haven’t been home in fifteen years. Spending more than a few hours there was completely surreal; it’s odd to look at something from your youth with the wisdom of adulthood. Memories flooded back to me, both comical and tragic. So much of who I am is rooted in that town, despite how vehemently I tried to deny that all these years. Without Libraville (just go with it), there would be no Twisted Libra. My connection to the spooky has been part of me since birth, but that connection was fostered in the little southern town I called home for so long.

I used to have trouble admitting that. You see, Libraville is (or, at least, was) always more conservative and steeped in tradition. I was often viewed as an outcast, which simultaneously gave me emotional damage and a determination to be as weird as fucking possible. You want to burn me down? I’ll light the goddamn fire myself and dance in the flames. Judgment made me tough; opinions are like assholes, everybody’s got one. Growing up in that place taught me to break free from caring what other people think.

I wasn’t always so confident. We all start out meek in some way. I wasted most of my youth giving a shit what my peers thought of me, particularly one individual whom I considered family. I hate to admit, a lot of the shenanigans I found myself in were solely to impress this person. If I could go back, I would have done so much differently. Others saw the cracks in the foundation of our friendship, but I refused to listen. I learned too late that I was the butt of many of this person’s jokes, and that they had no qualms about taking what was mine. It’s almost as if they hated to see me succeed at anything. I know now that this says far more about this person than it does about me, but back then it really broke me down.

Why am I telling you this? Well, because of all that happened to me back then in Libraville, both good and bad, I became resilient enough to give no fucks. I embraced my spookiness. Twisted Libra was born. I write scary books and dark poetry. I do cemetery photography. I love who I am. My trip home helped me understand my roots, and finally I am comfortable with the fact that my little hometown played a vital part in me becoming the best version of myself. That shy girl who went along with her friend so she would be thought of as “cool” and never dared to tell people about her dark side has finally learned to love herself. Some girls blossom like roses; I blossomed like deadly nightshade. Still, I did blossom. I’m proud to be from Libraville, and now that I’m gone, I find my mind wandering back. I thought about home often over the years. The only difference is, now it makes me smile.

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Until next time…