On Being a TCK: Memories and Interpretations

I am lying on a rock, firm, solid, strong

The water around me crashes and swirls, exploding over rocks, roaring in my ears as it races down the mountain.

I can’t hear anything, except for the surging water all around me.

I am looking up, my vision is filled with the deep blue of the endless sky and slow clouds stretching up, floating by. Even though my ears are pulsing with the sound of the river, I feel safe, cradled on the sun-baked rock.

My emotions are a raging torrent; that matches the turmoil of the river around me. They rush around bumping into each other, crashing, spraying out everywhere and filling me with dread that keeps me pressed to my rock haven.

I am sixteen and my life is about to be flipped upside down and bashed inside out.

At home, it’s chaos, piles of things to pack, to give away, to leave, to sell. My life reduced to little scattered mounds of stuff, my history packed up and shipped off to other people.

I’ve said goodbye to my other family. We didn’t just go to school together, I lived with them everyday, 24/7. That’s what happens when you go to boarding school and live insulated in a small community.

Tomorrow, I’ll get my last glimpse of the mountains of my childhood, farewell my holiday friends, close the door on my family home—a home I would come to on the semester breaks, a sanctuary from the busy, outgoing persona I donned for survival while at school. Here I am, me, introverted, part-time loner, able to go all week and not see anyone outside of my family and be content. I can breathe.

Who will I be where we are going?

Will I have a choice?

Next week, I’ll have my last meal at my favourite restaurant, I’ll wave goodbye out of the aeroplane window and watch my world drop beneath me, the lake, the mountain, the jungle, gradually growing smaller until it disappears forever.

Who will I be without my past?

I’m going to a country with strange customs, strange accents, strange foods, big cities filled with millions of people, concrete stretching as far as the eye can see and houses piled upon houses. I will be lost in it all.

How will I ever find myself there?

I press my body into the rock, willing it to swallow me so that I can be forever in this solitary place, this place of comfort and security. This place where I know the rules, I know who I am or at least who I am expected to be.

Who will people expect me to be in my next world?

I slam the door on my thoughts, hold it shut with all my strength and let the firm foundation beneath and the eternal blue above saturate my soul.

Under Her Hair

I recently posted a picture of myself on facebook. It was a gorgeous picture and I was very proud of the way I looked in it, which is exactly why I posted it. The photo was taken on a date with my husband. Of course, it being a date I wore my favourite dress, which happens to look fabulous on me, thanks to a lovely friend who helped me pick it out. And I took particular care with my make up.

I got lots of lovely, encouraging comments and I thought to myself, “Is that why I posted it? So that people will tell me how gorgeous I look?” If I am honest with myself— of course that it why I posted it. I was proud of the way I looked in that photo and I wanted everyone to see it, to know that I can look beautiful.

Like most women I struggle with my appearance. I’m dissatisfied what I see in the mirror most of the time. I poke my tongue out at my reflection, scrunch up my nose and sigh dramatically to myself, “This is as good as it’s going to get.”

One of my particular problems is that I have a condition called alopecia, which has rendered me ‘hairless.’ I have no hair on my head, except annoying little white ones, no eyebrows, no eyelashes, no hair on my arms or legs (this one I’m not that annoyed about). I have felt quite inadequate in the looks department for a long time.

Lately, I’m beginning to realise that I am not the only one. For some reason we seem hardwired to want what we do not have.

I’m slowly coming to appreciate my two very distinctive looks. I can wear a scarf which is so much cooler, now that Cairns is starting to become somewhat unbearably hot. Or, I can wear my gorgeous wig that I finally had the courage to get and now wear comfortably. I still look like I’m on chemo at times but that’s not so worrying to me anymore. I’m incredibly grateful for wonderful friends who have encouraged me in my makeover and have been so excited for me as I’ve slowly made the transition from looking like I have a life-threatening disease to trying out make-up, getting tattoos and now a wig.

Having alopecia is not something that I am ashamed of and it’s not something that I bring up as I introduce myself to people. “Hi, my name is Linsey and I have alopecia,” is not the usual way of introducing ones self. Though sometimes I wish I would have the courage to do so. Usually it can be a bit of an awkwardly broached subject with people I haven’t known my whole life.

I don't quite have the guts to go out in public without anything on my head yet, maybe one day. That is something that I've also decided is okay. We are not all hard wired the same way, just as we do not all look the same (thank goodness).

As I posted the photo of me in my lovely wig on facebook part of me wanted to declare to the world that while I may look gorgeous in the photo, it’s not what I look like all the time and I am okay with that.

Beauty, as they say is in the eye of the beholder and I am so blessed to have a crowd of people around me who tell me that I look beautiful whether I wear a wig or not.

If you want to know more about alopecia there's a good description of it in wikipedia.