Life Is Not a Fairy Tale by Fantasia (books for students to read .TXT) 📗

I must have been looking for my gift for years. Even though people were constantly praising me about my voice, I wasn’t listening. I was searching for my gift but didn’t know it was as simple as it being my singing voice. I was like a dog chasing her tail. I knew it was there, but I couldn’t hold it in my hands.

So I made some mistakes in order to find my gift and find myself. They were big mistakes because I was sittin’ in High Point with nothin’ to do, no money, no plans for the future, no role models of people who had left High Point, and only the “borin’ ” reminder that God and church were always the only thing to do for the rest of my life. Like most twelve and thirteen-year-olds, I was restless, and going to church four days a week was wearin’ thin. By now, my brothers had left home and left the singing group and I was lonely in every way.

My heart was empty and seeking somethin’ to do. I cried a lot because I could feel God’s spirit pulling me toward Him and boredom pulling me toward trouble.Trouble won.

It was a feeling too overwhelming to describe. The confusion of curiosity and possible danger mixed with God’s pull on me made me weepy and sad. The heat of being frisky and “grown” just took over me and made me feel like cryin’ even more. Although I had been anointed when I was five, I didn’t realize that my anointing was God’s special gift. I took it for granted. As I got more curious about the world, God’s grip was loosened and His mysterious ways started to kick in. And little by little I could feel myself beginning to change—and not for the better.

Let me go back a little. When I was a child, I was always so skinny and I had big lips. People teased me about it all the time. I used to go home to my mother and cry and tell her that everyone thought I was ugly. It’s lonely when you feel like you’re not good enough. When I got a bit older, I started imitating the girls I admired. I wanted to be like the girls who had it “goin’ on”—the ones with fingernails, makeup, and cell phones. The girls who got their hair done. I thought that if I was like them, I would be happy. Happiness was my gift, I thought.

So, after years of growing up in the church, I went astray. I left the church with the idea that I was going to fit in with all the other girls, the girls who were not in church but seemingly having all the fun. I was going to fit into the world.

By the time I reached the eighth grade and was going to T. Wingate Andrews High School, “sex, sex, sex” was all everyone was talking about at the lunchroom table every day. All the girls were talking about how fun it was and howgood it was. I didn’t have anything to say about it because I wasn’t “doin’ it.” I wasn’t even thinking about how sex would feel or what it would do for me. I started dating the pastor’s son, who I’ll call B. He was sixteen years old and I was fourteen. B. tried to convince me to have sex with him. He talked and I listened. All I was thinking was that if I didn’t have sex with the preacher’s son, he would find someone else who would be willing and he would leave me behind. Finally, he convinced me. I didn’t know nothin’ about nothin’. At best, I was “tryin’ to have sex.”

After we had done it, I was disappointed. It wasn’t anything like I had hoped. I thought sex would make me see fireworks and make my temperature go up. I thought it would change everything for me. And, I guess it did. Sex didn’t feel good at all. It just felt like loneliness. The next day I sat down at lunch and said to my girlfriends, “It was not all you said it was. It isn’tall that. ” I think my main disappointment was that B. really didn’t care anything about me. But I didn’t say that to them. I figured I just needed more practice.

I thought that I was in love. B. had taught meeverything I knew about sex, even how to French kiss. He was two years older than me and more experienced, so I thought he held the world in his hands. I was head over heels in love with him. I thought he couldn’t be bad: he was the preacher’s son.

After a while, I started to feel more independent and rebellious, like I didn’t want to hear anyone’s opinions or thoughts about my life. I didn’t want to hear from my mama about what I was wearin’. I didn’t want to hear from my daddy about what time to come home. I didn’t want to hear from anybody about how I was doin’ in school. The only person I wanted to hear from was B. Anything he said was OK. I wasgone over this guy. I used to follow him around. I was always calling him and going to the mall, where he and his friends were hangin’ out. I would show up just so that he could see me and be reminded that I was there. He never went looking for where I was unless we had planned it. And then he would be late or not show up at all. That should have been a sign to me that our love was one-sided.

I was so busy chasing B. around, I was messin’ up in school. Going to school became inconvenient for the chase. There were too many rules. I felt like an independent woman in the way I was dressing and in my actions. The people at my school just thought I was