I know that you probably assume that all the things I draw are real things that happen to me, but I just have to stress: This particular memory is so true, and still so sad to me.
The little middle school me could just not handle the fact that X-men were not real, and the fact that mutants were made up. It felt like torture that I would never be special like that, and that I would always be normal. I read vociferously as a child, and I think that as much as I loved to be transported into other worlds through books, it almost became like torture. Like a starving person reading menus from across the world.
Sometimes it still feels that way when I work 53 hours a week and haven't played pretend in months. Years.
I wish I could go back in time and tell myself how much being an adult sucks. To hold onto the things I loved and to not grow up so fast. Ignore boys and stop swearing and smoking the butts of Theresa's mom's cigarettes.
Because none of those things are half as fun as the feeling of controlling the wind.
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