Those words turned into internal apologies to those around me, in and out of my life. The words shifted into “I’m sorry, I’m not good enough.” I’d like to say that to this day, those thoughts don’t creep up on me, that my laughter doesn’t have a backlash to it. It does, though. These thoughts streamed from years of “You don’t matter”, inadvertently thrown my way, until one year, I faced the people my parents had been spending years defending me from. For the first time in my life, the words “You will never matter.” Left one person’s lips, in an extended, very clear, meaning. “You don’t deserve what you have.”
Still, I stood there, offering a second chance to this person, trying to give them the broken pieces of my trust, the little I had left, and just like that, they walked away. I was, dejected, disheartened, but most of all, suddenly, very, very, alone.
My parents worked hard to keep me away from this targeted negativity, it’s a little bit harder to do when it’s your own family rejecting, and hurting you, though. They were stuck in a cold, hard place- give up their family they had, or, the family they had created. Guilt was my close friend following that decision. I had put someone in a situation unfair to any man on this earth. I hated causing the inner turmoil, I despised the emotions that came with it. I tried to cover up these emotions, though. I had to prove everyone wrong-prove that I meant something. That I did belong. That there was a reason I was here, and those who never had a chance, weren’t. Why I survived, and they had to die. My rejection from those supposed to love me, started long before my birth, at the unfortunate passing of those who were to born only months before me. The question posed to my parents was few words, but the most painful to hear, and answer.”Why does she get to live, and they had to die?” Throughout my childhood, this statement still lingering, I was pushed aside, teased, and overall, I developed a keen eye for the “unintentional” insults thrown my way. Time and time again, thrown into the idea that I never mattered, and never would. I was never worth giving up certain events for or even listening to for ten minutes. I was never worth enough to be concerned when I was very sick. I was, cold-heartedly rejected.
The emotions from such a task played hard on me, but I still fought to strive. During these years of pain and rejection, I played with the idea of proudly being an outcast, or even, a Misfit. The term was something my brother and myself had played with for a while, deeming ourselves the “Misfit Twins”, due to the years spent arguing with people who insisted on us being twins. Of course, the term, “Misfit”, used then, meant very simply, “A Different Kind”, but following, the word took on a whole new meaning for us.
We had always played as the outcast in our family, as mentioned before, rejected, both of us in our own ways, feeling the pain. We searched for a way to embrace this difference we felt toward our family, and eventually, to society. Misfit seemed to fit the idea. We were different, we were unique, never meant to fit the mold, proud to have it broken after our design. More importantly, there was a particular song that played a role. “Welcome to the Island of the Misfit Toys”, a rendition done by KJ-52. The song spoke the powerful words of how God loved everybody, and how, even though we were misfits, outcast by our family and society, God was still there for us, He still cared, and, by some small hope, we believed we actually mattered. Even though my parents pushed reassurance of love, and positivity on us, the pain we both felt meant something.
Following the reclamation of the term, and our proud new use, I had another decline in my views on things, the questions I had asked appearing again, apologizing again. I struggled with the idea of being rejected, of being pushed away, but like the term of Misfit, I wanted to turn it into something positive. I didn’t need their acceptance, and to this day, I couldn’t tell you what good enough, actually was. Maybe, I preferred to be rejected for not being good enough, maybe I preferred to be rejected by them, because, if I was accepted, then did that mean I was like them? Perhaps. I continued to plead with God for my purpose, to give me the peace my heart longed for, to give me the strength to heal, to forgive, to finally rest. In the meantime, I decided that a reject was someone I was, and I wasn’t made to always be accepted. I believe in being a reject, I believe in being a Misfit. I believe that God created my story to be that of a Rejected Misfit, and it isn’t as bad as it sounds. I believe that I am here for a reason, I believe that I am, and always will be, a Rejected Misfit, a term I will proudly proclaim.