The year was nineteen ninety-seven, on the fifth of February. It was a cold, dark night, at least that's what I have been told, when my troubles first began, also known as the day I was born. I arrived kicking and screaming, armed with an extra set of fingers, lest it be said there was a moment in my life when I was ordinary. I was an unplanned pregnancy, born to two young individuals after a failed abortion attempt. Those said individuals ( whose identity I choose not to disclose, as the only thing they ever gave me was trauma) wanted nothing to do with each other. I grew up between said two warring partners in their thinly held attempt at co-parenting. The only time they agreed on anything was on life-scaring decisions they made on my behalf under the guise of knowing what's best. Needless to say, it was hell being me. I was always left wondering if my life was even worth living. I know how that sounds, but hear me out first. I am not suicidal. If I am being honest, I am way too self-obsessed to off myself and too self-critical to give myself a way out. Do I enjoy living? Absolutely not yet, here I am anyway.
Allow me to introduce myself properly. My name is Melancholy Bright. That is my actual name. The woman who birthed me must have been bitter about my existence to the very end. Most people urge me to change it, but I had long decided against it. I will wear the face I was born with and carry the name I was branded with until I make something of myself. That way, I can rub it in their ugly faces ( my sperm donor and uterine landlord) that I made it in spite of them.
Do I have a multitude of undiagnosed and diagnosed mental issues? Yes.
Do I overanalyse every single mistake I have ever made and overthink? Yes.
Did being fat-shamed as a kid kill whatever budding self-esteem that might have been in me, and even after losing all that weight, still traumatize me? Yes.
Despite having no self-esteem, am I a narcissist who believes she has life all figured out despite evidence to the contrary? Yes.
Am I always engrossed in my make-believe universes, living my best possible lives in a fantasy world while ignoring reality and all its garbage? Yes.
Do I make the goldfish's five-second memory sound impressive in comparison to mine? Yes.
Does knowing all my flaws mean I am actively working towards making amends and manifesting self-growth by overcoming said flaws? No.
I am a paranoid introvert with the social skills of a rattlesnake. I have been known to produce a rattling, hissing sound at people who try to make small talk with me. I have commitment issues and cannot even manage a healthy relationship with myself, not to mention one with someone else. Don't get me wrong, I have been in several entanglements or situationships, as my people like to call them. By my people, I mean my fellow post-millennials who are too old to be called Gen Z and, much like me, are enigmas who would have preferred to live in another Galaxy. I don't like to take all the credit for my failed situationships, I mean, men were involved, so there's that.
Last but not least, I am bisexual. I have mostly only ever dated men and hated it, but there's little I can do to remedy the situation. I turn into a fumbling Phoebe when faced with women. Do I wish to pursue more serious relationships with women? I mean, it's women, so that's definitely yes. I want to ask every woman out, take them on dates, buy them nice things, travel the world with them, and make them my queens. I, however, live in Kenya, a third-world country, which in itself is a disadvantage.
Homophobia is a staple here, homosexuality is a punishable offense, and the worst part is the rate of unemployment. Random, I know, but the reality is, unless you have a winning personality and make it big on TikTok, Instagram, or any other social media platform, it's only a matter of time before you play sheep. By sheep I mean, cook, clean, birth, marry, and retire, in that order, if you are lucky. Some people meet roadblocks like poverty, domestic violence, childlessness, and the worst one, overbearing in-laws. Notice the glaring absence of a successful career, because I sure as hell did not. My reality (which is why I opt for maladaptive daydreaming) as a black bisexual African woman is that no matter how big I dream, unless I can cook, clean, and get a husband and kids, I will always be a failure. The other alternative is to be so wildly successful that anything anyone else says is considered garbage or hate speech.
That's what I am aiming for my dream is to be a billionaire. The how is not as important as the when. I need to be rich before I reach thirty. Laughable, I know. I laugh louder at the idea these days because somehow, someway, I am now twenty-seven. I don't even know how I got here. My life up until now has been a blur of a distressingly disappointing reality and amazingly enchanting fantasies.
Did I also tell you I trauma dump? But I'll save that for some other time. Don't be so surprised, that was a basic introduction. I only told you the light parts; the darkness requires a bit more preparation. I promise, before the book ends, you will be adequately confused, uncomfortable, and maybe a bit inspired to be better than me. The bar on the latter is pretty low, so anyone can do it. There you have it, the origin story of an Aquarius.
However, if anyone asks, I am an alien princess from a planet outside of the Milky Way galaxy. I was materialized on this planet because of its small size and utter inferiority in the grand scale of things, making it the best hiding place.