You don’t know me.
There are people- my friends, family- who think they know me.
The fun girl, the bubbly one that never stops talking.
The one who looked so much like her daddy when she was a little girl but has grown into a beautiful woman so similar to her mother.
That girl is not me. I’m not their girl.
I’m not apart of that perfect picture that people tried to create. I’m not the ideal young women that does as she’s told as they’d like to have you believe. I can’t be her.
He called me the black sheep you know. My father I mean. He called me the black sheep and didn’t seem to think that it was a big deal.
Of course it wasn’t a big deal.
No- being the member of your family that doesn’t fit in-the oddball the outcast the misfit- that’s not a big deal. It’s completely in the ordinary right?
Who am I kidding? I don’t want to be the black sheep.
When he said that I felt like he had stomped on my heart and that I was a complete outcast and loner. I felt unloved unwanted and unneeded.
But they don’t know that.
They don’t know how many times I’ve tried to conform to their idea of normal.
To give up my independence, just to do as I’m told, be submissive. Fit in like my brother and sister do. Be like the rest of my family, both immediate and extended.
It’s just not me.
Then I’m left questioning why I should have to change myself for them. Is it so bad that I have my own ideas and opinions?
Why shouldn’t I be allowed to voice them without being shouted down or deemed an outcast and a black sheep for my different ideas?
It isn’t fair.
It isn’t fair that I’m afraid to show my true self to those around me. My family, friends at school, my teachers, anyone.
It’s not fair that I have to wait until late at night when I know everyone else is asleep to let the real me comes out. And let her cry herself to sleep. Praying that tomorrow will bring a better and more accepting day.
That was what was meant to have happened after the war wasn’t it?
Everyone was supposed to accept people for who they were, forget old arguments, remember those lost and think ‘wow actually even though I didn’t really like her because she had ideas I didn’t like, or she was a little out there but they she actually a good person and maybe I should have accepted her for who she was.’
But the war was over 25 years ago and people have forgotten that acceptance.
And they said they’d never forget the acceptance that came after the war. That everyone would remember not to cast people aside just because they are different.
Because being different isn’t always a choice- it can be a part of who you are.
Your whole life.
Sometimes I wonder if it would even be a big deal to anyone if I died.
Wow- that’s sad isn’t it?
Of course it would be a big deal, I mean the death of a young Weasley; it would be front page news. The whole of Britain would mourn.
But not for me. Not really. It wouldn’t be for who I really am. No these people mourn for what would be a ‘great tragedy’. They’d just mourn to be in on the gossip.
I doubt even my ‘friends’ would truly miss me. It’s not like I really fit in with them anyway. As much as I put on the bubbly happy persona- and for the most part they buy it- I know that I’m easily replaceable in the group. All they would need to do would be find another preppy blonde. You get a lot of them.
My family of course would. But they have to. It’s not through choice. You have to cry and be sad when a family member dies. That’s how it is. They would cry for the loss of a daughter, a sister, a cousin, a niece, a granddaughter; but again- not truly me. Just another figure in the family- it’s not like there wouldn’t be another one to fill in where I left off.
I think he would miss me though.
My best friend. The one person who has seen a little part of my real self. Who maybe has scratched the surface of who I am.
I think I could love him you know.
If I died and no one else cared but he did, that would be fine by me.
Sometimes it feels like he is my whole world. He’s my everything; and I’m okay with that. Probably just because he cares enough to actually listen to my opinions; he doesn’t care if they’re a bit out there and different from his own. He’ll take them into account, just listen.
My mother doesn’t approve of Lysander. She thinks that he’s odd. She also likes to think I am ‘out of his league’. I wanted to slap her when she said that. I could have clawed her eyes out.
How dare she insult the one person that I could begin to let in and see the real me? The one boy that I ever managed to have feelings for. The boy that could maybe feel it too.
She didn’t know why I didn’t speak to her for the remainder of that week.
She didn’t know. She probably still doesn’t.
Why doesn’t she know me?
Isn’t your mother meant to be the person that you can go to with anything? Tell her all the gossip from school. Go to when you have boy trouble or friend trouble, or that annoying divination teacher is bullying you by constantly predicting your untimely death and you need a little help with it.
I could never go to Maman with that. My older sister could. She’s always told Maman everything, right down to every detail from the night she was proposed to.
I’m unbelievably jealous of their relationship. That my sister and mother can talk for hours about everything and nothing.
I don’t have that kind of relationship with any girl. Family or otherwise.
That’s why I write it down, I suppose, like I am now.
I don’t think anybody will ever read this. I don’t think I’d want them to.
Nobody would ever guess would they?
That inside the happy and bubbly demeanour there’s a sad and broken little girl only wanting someone to hug her and tell her everything will be okay soon.
That this is only a phase and I’ll fit in soon, that the other side of this stage of my life is close.
I wouldn’t care that it would be a lie. That so long as I am myself I will never fit in around my parents.
But I don’t know why fitting in matters so much!
Why couldn’t I be more like Aunt Luna, Lysander’s Mum? She doesn’t care what people think! She voices her opinions and ideas loud and clear for everyone to hear and doesn’t care if anyone thinks she is weird for it.
I’ll bet she never cried herself to sleep over someone questioning her thoughts, believing that her idea was stupid and ridiculous. But she is Luna Lovegood-Scamander. She never needed people to believe her, she believed enough in herself.
I wish I had her courage. I wish I had any courage at all!
Sometimes- when I’m around Lysander- I feel like I have more courage.
Sometimes I even feel brave and strong. When I don’t have to wear my mask, I get to break down, and I get to be me.
He even likes me you know. The real me. Isn’t that amazing?
Maybe that’s all I really need. One person who likes the real me. He could give me somewhere where I fit it. Aunt Luna listens to my ideas, she never thinks them weird.
Maybe that’s were I fit it.
But then maybe not.
I wish I knew.
Because no one can tell me but me.
Like I said, you don’t know me. Nobody really knows me.
But then do we ever know anyone at all?
You don’t know me but that’s okay. Because I know myself and he knows me and I know him.
I’ll be okay. I don’t need their approval. I don’t need them.
I haven’t really needed them since I was eleven years old.
My name is Dominique Weasley.
I’m independent. I don’t need you.
And I love Lysander Scamander.
Who knew I could admit that?
And now I guess I know its okay to be me.
I was sitting in our living room- remembering my teenage years.
I had been so confused then. I remembered the feeling well- the hopelessness and despair. But I managed to find my light at the end of the tunnel.
The door opened and I felt a pair of strong arms around me.
“What you up to love?” rumbled the deep voice from behind me.
“Hmm? Oh just remembering being sixteen. And the day I realised that I was in love with you.” I smiled at Lysander, my husband, the other half to my whole.
“You really were messed up back then weren’t you?” He whispered mockingly, kissing my neck.
“Yes, yes I was.” I turned to kiss him back.
He was the one. The first one to understand me. The first one to really care. He was all I ever needed.