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"when I was 9, someone dissected the world in front of me
showed me it was a living, wanting thing,
and that I was just a lonely cell, functioning through my dysfunction
I have a headache and not enough time to explain the irony of how
I want to be every pretentious poet making art out of themselves,
cutting open their side and writing in blood and pixie dust;
The future has already been written, and I'm stuck here,
trying to paint unbeautiful things and make poems out of dirt and relapses
understand the significance,
of your insignificance
and separate
from the warmth of human comprehension
Acquire talents for:
narcissism, eloquence,
self-aggrandizement, denial,
and holding my liquor."
"Curing Depression in Seven Easy Steps / honesty isn't a weakness." —*intricately-ordinary
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From the time he was abandoned on the porch of a children's home to the time he exited the bedazzling stage of Broadway, he felt..."other."
—"He's a wonderful actor, but the public doesn't feel like he's the dashing rogue he pretends to be. According to the press, his past is a scandalous one."
Yet not nearly as scandalous as "Us Weekly" would have you believe, I can assure you. He grew up in a kinderheim (1), which was a mind maim that reduced his childhood to the proverbial sob story of a boy who struggled to find his place among three hundred orphans. His group home propagated that it, "provided a safety net for children to experience trusting relationships with peers and adults," but what he, like every unwanted kid experienced, was a trapped existence where life came down to the constant questioning of his worth. In order to deal with that mind maim, he made his own secret little world in the basement, where he could hopefully not be found pressing his thumbs into the pages of used paperback novels with a flashlight above his head, making friends with the bionic heroes in those novels because no real breathing person had ever wanted to be friends with him. Plus, there was just something in those fairy tales ― something in those magical illustrations of dashing swashbucklers, gorgeous sorceresses, lofty castles, and swishing swords ― that made him want to dive between the letters of the word "fearless" and emerge an invincible hero.
A hero who could rescue himself, you might say. Like Peter Pan with his shadow, he spent every single one of his waking hours sewing himself whole with these cerebral adventures, and even managed to take on a lightweight attitude as his best defense against feeling like damaged goods. Unlike other orphans, he wasn't going to be some moping downer who couldn't pull himself up by the bootstraps or fight to write his own ending. Tears be darned, he'd have a hand in his storyline. This marked that metamorphic point where he started to philosophize that all speed bumps in life could be smoothed over if you just edited what didn't suit your ideal plot, so to this little Fitz-boy, there was no need to entertain any crusty corner of depression if he could replace it with white-out.
And for a while, it worked like a charm. Night after night, he brainstormed better plot development for his character like a writer faced with a blank sheet of adventure. Understaffed handlers began housebreaking his little bursts of spontaneity. Younger boys began surrounding his lap of books like swallows in a nest so that he could read to them. The latter chirped about how they liked him because he had the shining eyes of Christmas lights whenever he became a swashbuckler instead of "Eugene Fitzherbert," which was a person whom the older kids called a cowardly hündin (2) with the English surname, "bastard son."
Unfortunately, the outline for his plot got derailed when he was thrown into the foster care system, a page in his life that he'd spend the next twenty years trying to rip out. Fitting in with the suffocating customs of German culture was hard enough, but that inconsistency of never staying in one home repeated the same traumatic separation he had already experienced with his biological family. He came to the conclusion that he didn't belong in the group home or the state-certified foster homes, because when you're an orphan without parents, you're forced to swallow the cold-hard fact that you can't count on anybody except yourself. He chose to act out and run away from foster parents, hoping that by doing so he would ignore the fear of a new family not wanting him, as well as the reality that they didn't ― and never could ― give him a real household to call home. Things went from bad to worse in nothing flat...until one fateful summer changed everything.
On July 19th, an unexpected family presented themselves to the youth office as American authors who wanted to adopt an avid reader. The husband reminded him of a Hamlet character who needed some major TLC, but his loving wife was a conservative Joan of Arc.
Mrs. Joan of Arc even called herself openly gushing, "He reminds me of the best literary character of all time: Huckleberry Finn."
The boy's other foster parents trashed his theatrics, but this new set wanted to water it like a plant. After adopting him into U.S. citizenship, they made outrageous promises to take him to their self-proclaimed titleholder of storybook magic:
"Bergen, Norway! A person can reinvent the stories in the wastelands of their own heart there. It's such an inspiring little place! It will awaken and inspire you to champion your own tale."
He never got tired of hearing about Bergen or the landmarked stories that inspired their books, and they never tired of hearing about his fairy tales. Everything was perfect for a while, but that perfection didn't last. As weeks warped into seasons, relatives started to sway their feelings about the adoption by constantly billboarding the boy's flaws whenever he fell short in character, and in return, his adoptive parents started to treat him like a broken teapot that couldn't be fixed. To keep them from refunding him, he tried to shimmy into the costume of the ideal child, sowing on anything stupendous in himself that might win him validation. He wanted to be the type of son whom they could boast about and ― in that way ― love, because having someone boast about you and how perfect you are meant they loved you ― or at least that you, which was a million times better than no part at all. Behind the double-edged sword of not showing them his true self, he steadily wondered whether they really wanted him, but the more his efforts gained positive reception, the more he believed that this was the type of relationship he should be building with everyone he came into contact with.
Whether as the school fencer, acrobat, or impeccable improviser from drama class, he polished his shiniest traits by throwing his down-to-earth personality to the wayside. His gift for flossing his own character made him extraordinary at writing short films and school plays. His most notable work to date was a modern rendition of "Rapunzel," which he squeezed a spot in as "Prince Charming." Through these creative coliseums, he found a marble footing in theatre, emerged a starlet, and conquered the entire face of Broadway in one stint.
...But there's a downside to becoming that famous and loved for an identity that isn't real...
His brain was subjected to inhabiting a cardboard world where the sky couldn't crack and the stage light was the sunlight. Living out his entire existence like an actor made him feel employed by family, friends, and lovers to portray a perfect man who was a pro at everything. People would say that he was a good sport who lightened the room with his big personality and knee-slapping jokes, but he never missed an opportunity to rant about how "special" he was despite the compliments. The guy didn't showboat himself as the greatest art piece since the "Creation of Adam" just because he could, of course. He did it because the behavior was just a relic of the defense mechanism he and his peers had enabled since that "swashbuckling storyteller" era.
Every time the curtains dropped and he had to trudge back to Eugene Fitzherbert, the "bastard" from Krautland (3), he figured that allowing his social life to snowball into a whirlwind of love affairs would offer a break from what was failing in his private life. His normal personality put off every frivolous partner he had, but his stage presence personified a fellow all ladies fantasized about: the charismatic, carefree adventurer who could make their boring lives a lot less boring. Women gave him the very light in their eyes under these false pretenses, and he bathed in it. It was then not so much the faire l'amour (4) that he pined after, but the fleeting touches of someone emphasizing how, for once, he was utterly and unconditionally wanted by them. You know, appreciated, even if it was only for a role in some grand musical.
―"It's sad, but it's easier to remember his stage name than it is his real one..."
And that was when playing the swashbuckling rogue who sailed for gold stopped stopping at curtain call. Over time, he realized that he couldn't form an honest connection with anyone, and fooled himself into believing that he preferred it that way. Losing himself to the materialistic and money-hungry world was his way of associating wealth with an emotional void-filler ― a total safety-net that could bring happiness and self-satisfaction to overcompensate for having nothing and no one as a little boy. Having something ― correction, anything ― was better than nothing. It gave him, and his empty life, a lot more meaning, but it was comparable to being a Ken Doll inside a lonely box with a plastic sheet between himself and the real world.
The plastic world was still the world that he chose for himself, though. Too many people reacted to his true self like customers who'd just bought a beautiful vase...just to realize after the fact that it had cracks, dirt, and spiderwebs at the bottom, and he couldn't handle being refunded to the junkyard. His biological parents already did that.
So what was the point of forming relationships and interacting normally if people couldn't see ― and not to mention didn't like seeing― the real you?
...Especially you?
The answer is none.
―"Have you ever gotten tired of cosplaying as a lie all your life?"
Yes, quite frankly. He had. He told himself for a very long time that he hadn't, but he had. The more his cardboard world threatened to collapse on top of him, the more concerned his adoptive mom became. "Broadway for Charity" was pitched by his agent at her behest the month after his popularity came crashing down like a skyscraper thanks to never-ending scandals.
According to his mom, the charity was sponsoring an organization called, "Lost Boys." The orphans in this organization apparently loved classics like, "The Neverending Story," "Lord of the Flies," "The Hobbit," and "Narina." He eventually decided to scroll down the webpage of the organization in the darkness of his condo. A gallery of at-risk youth in urban communities stood out to him. Every child he saw was clearly an "unwanted human being" who had missed out on family life, but the staff members didn't try to sell them a "parent replacement" fantasy; they gave them creative outlets instead.
He went through the motions of his rehearsal for a James Cameron set in a sort of trance the next day. His contributions to "Lost Boys" were discreet, but the children replied with letters that expressed how much they idolized him, how often they tuned into his live performances, and how flawlessly they mimicked his scenes. He mustered every last drop of the courage he could find to visit the residential facility after sleepless nights of yes and no ― to experience it, to actually be in the heart of it and check out the way his privileges affected their lives for himself. If there was one thing that could melt his mask like mac and cheese, it was the toothy smiles of trapped Peter Pans. Once he'd had enough of staring at his ceiling alone, he crawled out of bed and faced the mirror to feel his face.
His countenance would always belong to that award-winning star, the irresistible heartthrob whose smile was plastered in over fifty states, but he, as himself, ― and very much like those boys ― had nothing, and...no one. He had accomplished, in so many words, nothing; he'd earned nothing, overcame nothing. Here he was, sitting on the top of the charts with fountains of money at his disposal, and he still felt empty, still felt dirty and lost, with the same childhood void still beating far and wide between his ribs.
―"...Do you ever wonder what it takes to feel whole?"
With a hesitant opening, he introduced himself to the youth center rather humbly, requesting a round of applause for the volunteers and staff members who'd done their best to make a special place for lost boys to feel loved and accepted. The younger boys showered him with affection, and for a reason he couldn't understand, he felt more at home with them than he had with any of the socialites in his life. They became an escape from his facade, from the artificial life he led, and in him, they found a podium for their own voices to be heard on.
―"Do you think everyone deserves to have their story told?"
The more he visited, the more he realized that those grinning little faces were far more deserving of a fairy tale ending than any of the one-dimensional swashbucklers he'd read about as a child. He wanted to make them feel like they could be seen, felt, and acknowledged. He wanted them to know that they mattered, and yes, could rescue themselves from this life. They didn't have to wait for a hero. They could become the hero.
This undeniable need to father their dreams ― and dang near call their lonely faces his family ― almost blotted out his initial desires to stay rich and famous, which were fast becoming unfulfilling. After all, what he really wanted was his own pen and paper to tell a story with...and maybe that's what these kids had wanted, too. He would always exit the group home with goosebumps on his arms as he smiled at his car window, thinking with his thumb between his teeth, 'I could write stories for those boys...'
After he visited those boys for the twentieth time, he sat on the floor with them and read a ten-paged children's book from his own divining. The staff prided him on his ability to create worlds with oral speech because he was so theatrical, and he pledged to use the charming face of his talkative personality to bring awareness to Lost Boys as a public speaker. In his thirtieth visit, his speech was kicked off with a quote from his book, "Life is what you make it. If this life isn't the one you want, then the good part is that you get to find a new dream. You can let go of the life you don't want by turning away and slamming the door."
Okay, so maybe it was a little corny, but the truth was in the pudding. The boys showed an unexpected amount of appreciation for his Instagram-quality quotes, and their appreciation marked the first time he'd ever been told:
"I like you because of your heart and spirit."
The round of applause that ensued shook and warmed his bones, while the burning sting behind his eyelids blinded him from everything he'd done prior to this moment...
This is when you stop loving the mask you can never take off. From the time he abandoned the bedazzling stage of Broadway to the time he entered the doors of the group home, he vowed to pick up his own pen and become whole.
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Cry for the inevitable; the way my family never loved me right
Talk about the emptiness
inside of me and all the things I tried
to fill it up with;
become a writer, instead.
"Before I Can Become a Writer," ―*intricately-ordinary
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GLOSSARY
(1) kinderheim: children's home.
(2) hundin: a female dog.
(3) Krautland: insulting name for "Germany."
(4) faire l'amour: French for "love making."
AUTHOR NOTE
A chapter written in 2015 from "Before Sunrise" on Archive of Our Own. I thought it stood nicely as a Eugene-centric one-shot about "changing" without romance being the reason behind it, which is an arc that I prefer for him.