I don’t want to be me anymore. I want to be Jodie Foster’s character in Silence of the Lambs. Henceforth, please refer to me as Clarice.
I want to not cry when the Hannibal Lectors of my life say mean things to me. I will stand there stoically. You will not hear so much as a whimper. I will flash back to happier days with an adoring father (will have to work on that) who thinks I’m swell.
I want to keep my own counsel and not need anyone else to tell me how great and smart I am. I want to quietly walk up and get my graduation diploma with a slight smile on my face and know that I earned it instead of feeling guilty that I fooled the world and don’t deserve what it’s giving me.
I want to be able to quietly, and firmly say things to someone like, “Well, it matters how you treat me. The local police look up to you and you need to set an example,” so that people will respond to my requests for different treatment with, “Point well taken,” instead of, “What the hell are you talking about Christine?”
I want to not run from that which makes me afraid. She was shaking with fear when she went downstairs to get the murderer in the dark. She didn’t make a phone call or two before heading downstairs like I would have done.
“Hey, it’s me, Clarice. I found Buffalo Bill but he ran downstairs. I’ll meet you on the corner and show you the house. Hurry.” Or,
“Hi Sarah, Mom here. I’m heading downstairs to get Buffalo Bill and might not come back. Just want you to know I’m doing it all for you.”
Nope, no more. I will stride into scary situations with shaking hands but determined to overcome the terror.
I want to run through the obstacle course like she did in the beginning of the film with single purpose and physical strength. I have never had a triangle of sweat on my chest from exerting myself with running, climbing ropes, going over fences, and running through car tires. Demi Moore did it in G.I. Jane – maybe even a little better than Jodie Foster did – but she lost her femininity in the process. I am just finding my feminine side. I can’t afford to jeopardize it by attempting to imprint G.I. Jane into my behavior. Besides, I’m pretty sure Demi cried.
I never saw Clarice eat much. She munched on an apple while she was going through the slides of Hannibal’s arrest. It was an afterthought, and I think that’s the way she approaches all food. Food. Afterthought. Hmmm. I’m afraid that will not work for me. There are some things that I just am not willing to give up, even in the interest of being Clarice instead of Christine.
I forgot the cheap bag and shoes. I care about my shoes a lot. And, my bags. But that just makes me a better version of Clarice, so that’s ok.
So, I may not be blogging much moving forward. The physicality of my new life might not give me much time in front of the keyboard.
Best to all of you,
Clarice

The Voice Inside My Head

Becoming Clarice