My Dark Side

Now that the new Mortified documentary is out,  I want to share my daughter Serra Sewitch Posey's post with you from last year about re-reading her teen diaries in preparation for the live show, and her new respect for her teen self, and for all teens "constantly pitting impulsive natures against common sense."

Respond to this post by replying above this line New post on theblanketworld My Dark Side by theblanketworld A few days ago I applied to be a part of Mortified, a performance where people read out of their teen diaries. Since then I've been slightly obsessed with researching my teenage self. Reading my teen journals is something I mostly avoid, due to the fact that they are so detailed and so emotional that it's almost like time traveling. After immersing myself in a few pages I look up dazed, disoriented, craving nameless things. I was so restless and yearning that my only comfort was writing, and write I did. Everything is recorded: outfits, conversations, meals, smells, dreams, thoughts, outings, songs, desires, anger, and lots of nonsensical ramblings that are a window to my subconscious. I've gained a new respect for my teen self since really surrendering to these journals. Yes, I was selfish and whiny and immature in a lot of ways but something I had forgotten was the transformative journey that I lived from age 12 to 18. Every day, the world changed. Every day I got a clearer idea of who I was and the life I wanted to live. Every day was a battle I had to face, and my armor was pink hair and plaid pants. Yes, I was a spoiled American suburban girl who never knew real pain or hunger, but I believe that I did suffer- I suffered as a person transforming from child to adult and truly grappling with big questions about identity, integrity, and love. I was constantly pitting my impulsive nature against my common sense. It's an intense time for any teenager, and I vow to have more respect for teenagers from now on, and the difficult path they're on. Here is a strange but powerful poem I wrote when I was 17: And here comes the West, rolling in like an old shoe It smiles with a gummy grin It warms my heart with its ashen odor I welcome it inside and it picks its nails with my clean silverware. Here comes the South, lurching and scraping Exposing ugly flesh and I turn away Rough clothes, symmetrical holes planned poverty, pre-wrinkled. Pocks in my face churn They lick the weather and cry out “Where is the comfort!” The East is lonely and makes its lonely way down the lonely road A single tear falls down burnt skin to lay in the center of a silver platter. Third course is served. Bloody scratches covering my arms like zebra stripes, sigh. Weary with love they fall, listless. Agreeing with the pocks, they chant: “Where is the comfort! Give us the comfort!” They moan with hunger They call for the North. The North cries with them, wrenching and heaving until all that's left is a wrinkled bag quivering in the wind, punctured with arrows and 3 silver swords. The swords smile slyly and wrap lanky bodies through and around the entire situation piercing flesh and singing sharply, soft sad songs of hearts ripped by vicious zebras and swords with good intentions. “We are your comfort,” they sigh. Inside the cave echoes loss, the stoned walls weep, the vast blue hums with electricity. Horse teeth bared, foaming thighs and rolling eyes, screaming, break through each slice. Inside the darkness whales of flesh hover, eyes glimmer Harmless bodies glide. The swords skewer each sniffling direction of the compass and dive deep down, shorting out their neon lights and dripping grins, hopeful hooves crash through clean round teeth. There is no more. There is no where. Everything lies in half- free but confused. Where is the rest of me? They bleed to death, still baffled.