This is a pit book. It won’t make you feel good. We are going into a pit of trauma (a close cousin of pit of despair, pit of swirling thoughts, and the pit of why).
Beauty Diary is a non-fiction art book based on my first trauma at 13 – being pursued by a 23 year old guy, with my best friend helping him.
I created art that captures the emotions and underlying currents of my experience.
This is the story I had to tell before I could open up and tell other stories.
To look at any of the images closer, right click and select "Open Image in New Tab"
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Making friends was hard.
Girls wanted to fit in.
I couldn’t.
She was different.
She loved standing out.
Being noticed.
She wasn’t nice.
She was the first
to laugh at people.
At me.
Always
the center
of attention.
My first diary; a 13th birthday gift.
Gold lock, for a woman with secrets.
I didn’t write secrets.
I catalogued observations.
What happened. Who was there.
Brief entries; long gaps between.
She’s the star.
Her drama. Her angst.
In my diary.
June 12.
I open with
“I slept over her house! There’s this guy! He’s 23!”
I hate this. I hate my naive enthusiasm. I hate that my first staring role in my own story comes from this.
I’m ashamed of my thrill at the start.
I’m going to cover this ugly page with as many flowers as I can until the words lose their ugly, until I stop feeling ashamed.
Midnight truth or dare.
My first slow dance on a dare.
I pick truth next. He writes what he wants to know.
“I think you dance good. Did you enjoy it?”
I nod. Fingers shredding paper.
Hide my shaking.
The next
day.
He gives me a poem
he wrote about me.
She reads over my shoulder;
I can’t focus. Hand it back.
Feel his eyes on me.
Tells me I look like Demi Moore,
Linda Ronstadt.
Makes excuses to touch me.
We go to his house.
He hands us a book.
She and I start reading.
Naked people. Graphic sex.
I shove it at her, walk away when
the horse gets involved.
She keeps reading.
I go home.
Confused. Excited. Scared.
She tells me he calls her.
They spend 30 minutes talking about me.
She asks a favor – babysit her cousin at her house.
When I walk in,
She gives me
an envelope.
The poem & a note to call him.
Wants to talk privately.
“People could talk, if you know what I mean.”
The poem isn’t beautiful.
But it is the first poem someone
wrote about me.
I tell her I won’t call him.
She huffs. Disappears. Then leaves.
The phone rings.
I answer, because
that’s what you did.
Deep voice.
It’s him.
Saying words that don’t register.
His tone does.
He’s still talking
as I hang the receiver on the wall.
He doesn’t like that.
She doesn’t like that.
She tells me
My perception of his actions...
I misunderstood.
It was nothing.
“He also said that if
he felt anything for you
or you for him,
it would never work out.”
He writes again.
Telling me I’m attractive, I’ll break hearts.
Attaches two pop can tops,
Tells me to keep it a secret if I figure out what they mean.
Every kid knew what these meant. Sex.
I avoid her.
Don’t return her calls.
She writes.
Apologizes.
Claims jealousy.
Wanted his attention.
Promises never again.
I last a week before
she lures me back.
In front of her stuffed animals,
She does my hair and make-up
For fun.
She thinks I look 18 or 19.
I feel grown-up, beautiful.
We walk outside.
He’s walking up the street.
I feel sick.
Squishing down.
Shoving down.
No emotion.
No reaction.
As we play basketball; his hands on me.
As he asks me if I’m sleeping over; his hands on me.
“He said he had a great dream about you.”
“He thinks you’re real smart because
you always have a comeback.”
“He likes you more than a good friend.”
“His mom warned him to be careful of you.”
He’s always there.
holding me
touching me
whispering about sex
She says he’s getting married.
Stories of a fiancé.
Wedding details. Wedding date.
Relief.
If he’s getting married,
I’m safe.
It’s a month
before she tells me,
it’s a lie.
Their private joke on me.
I stuff the betrayal down.
I’ve been studying guys,
Experimenting, toying.
I know what I’m doing.
I’m in control.
I strut back to her house.
I meet a 12 year old boy.
Cute. Funny.
We play, flirt.
I like this boy.
She brings the other around.
He competes for
my attention.
My handwriting gets smaller.
Tighter.
Describing a weekend of
too many moments.
Me & him.
Me & the boy.
Me & random boys she brings me.
The boy is my first kiss.
The moment buried,
brushed aside.
My head swirling from
too many other moments.
Him kissing me.
Him hugging me.
Listening to him
talk dirty to me,
while she and the boy watched.
That’s the end of it in my diary.
No resolution. No examining. No clean wrap up.
Like it never happened.
Like it was a movie I watched and then left the theatre.
Eight weeks from June 12.
The diary entries are different now.
A catalog of encounters and mini conquests with boys.
Emotionless.
Sterile.
Distant.
I’m the star of my stories.
His name doesn’t appear again.
Neither does the boy’s.
I never tell anyone the full story.
I never say I was a fucking child.
I told myself I was more mature, older than what I was. Mentally, physically.
That’s a lie.
A thousand percent, rage-filled, victim-trying-to-justify-her-experience lie.
No one could have mistaken my 13-year-old self as anything but young girl.
I wasn’t older than my years.
I became older than my years after him.
I was a child in June.
I was an adult by August.
30 years later.
I finally have the words, the images to describe
the raw, complicated tumble of an experience.
Being 13 and being pursued by a 23-year-old guy.
My best friend helping him.
Lying to me, manipulating me.
This. Was Not. My. Fault.
I couldn’t have known better.
I learned.
Taking the roots
from that first trauma
keeping myself safe.
I was prey once.
I’d never be prey again.
The events and conversations in this book have been set down to the best of the author’s ability, although some names and details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.
Copyright © 2022 by Marie Cilu All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, submit a contact form at mariecilu.com. First digital edition January 2023 Book design by Marie Cilu www.mariecilu.com