Gothic Goddess: My Alter Ego


Tonight I could not sleep.

There were too many thoughts whirling about in my head – not that I was feeling depressed again, mind you, for after much pondering I have come to the conclusion that, as a person living in a first world country, I have no right to be miserable.

Also I have been put on medication to manage my depression and anxiety: one pill of Prozac a day. We will see how it goes. It is meant to make me smile rather than frown, but so far all it does is make me feel drowsy.

But yes, back to the thoughts. I think an awful lot, and it is horrible. My brain seems determined to think of everything under the sun before it expires. Imaginary conversations often with imaginary people loop like stuck records through my mind in a thousand, blurred infinities.

In addition, a particular fantasy of mine cropped up several times, one which I like to term “Idealised Me”. For not only do I endlessly idealise other people, there exists a perfect version of myself in my head too.

My idealised self is nicknamed the Gothic Goddess. She is someone I have always wanted to be: tough, witty and confident. Much taller than I actually am, with black wavy hair that flows down to her feet, always dressed in severe, black long sleeved gowns, and her only jewelry a black, thin necklace around her throat from which depends a deep, purple jewel like a dark teardrop. For some reason that kind of attire and “Don’t mess with me because I am elegant and beautiful” aura has always appealed to me. Perhaps it is because I feel so inelegant and ugly much of the time. Not only is the Gothic Goddess quite the beauty, she is also extremely clever, and witty, able to spin off wonderful turn of the phrases in typical Gothic-fashion. This, for instance:

(Nameless man who treats women as objects makes lewd remark regarding Gothic Goddess’s body, and therefore women in general)

Gothic Goddess: No, thank you. However perhaps you would be interested in fucking my corpse after I die, like a necrophiliac, as evidently all that matters to you is my body.

Of course this is the kind of thing only the Gothic Goddess version of me would ever dream of saying; in real life, I would sooner cast myself out the window than utter such a brazen, taboo phrase. Who knows, though: when flustered, or especially irritated, things that should not be spoken out loud have habit of slipping out. Perhaps Gothic Goddess is an alter ego of mine, someone who exists inside of me, only never gets a chance to show herself. Thus, as a compromise, she waltzes about in the confines of my head, allowed to have a walk around and stretch like a dog on a leash. No wonder she has been so snappy and irritable lately.

But the Gothic Goddess is not only fantastically daring and witty, she is also extremely kind, and does not put up with anyone she deems mean or cruel. Severe and cold as she may look, like the real me, she has a soft spot for children; they have a tendency to cluster around her like fairies. Each of the children she looks after at the orphanage she refers to as “Darling”, and the children are of all races, and people who have seen her verbally eviscerate men twice her size are often astonished at the change that comes over her when she is around the little creatures; she becomes soft, and crooning, and her dark eyes sparkle, as mine do when I read a book, or gaze upon a beautiful sunset.

And most important of all, cats adore her to bits. Unlike the real me, who is often scorned and treated with contempt by felines because I am too obliging towards the mewling creatures, Gothic Goddess, through her haughtiness, wins the heart of every cat she meets. Big, fat tomcats which practically growl at passers-by grow meek and affectionate when she pets them. And she picks the cats up, something which I am always afraid of doing, and carries them about with as much care as she would a baby, and they love her as only cats can love: with purring delight.

Gothic Goddess, being able to reveal her admirable and intriguing true self in front of others, has quite the set of suitors chasing after her. But of course she spurns every single one, out of pride and a desire to maintain her independence; but eventually one soft-spoken, soft-hearted man captures her heart, and the two of them have a wedding up in a tree house (I’ve always wanted a tree house!), watched upon by at least twenty cats, one of which brings forth the ring box in its mouth like a caught bird.

And then she has a child, and she teaches the child all sorts of things, all the wisdom she has gleaned over the course of her life. For instance:

Gothic Goddess: Delia, do you know why you should share your teddy bear? Because one teddy bear, over the course of its furry life, can bring happiness to many children. That is it’s potential. But if you hold onto it, and never let anyone else play with it, then only you, only one person, gets to feel happy. And it is no fun being happy when the other children around you are miserable through wanting the teddy bear; it tends to put a damper on your mood also. So, give, share, and spread the love, with your teddy bear.

And then Delia nods, eyes wide, looking down at her teddy bear with renewed respect; it now holds the power of giving, and is more valuable than it was a few minutes ago.

The Gothic Goddess also has quite the romantic death, one chosen by herself, of course, wherein she lies down in an open coffin filled with books, and is sent floating out to sea, into the reddish-pink sunset. And months later a sailor might discover it, by which time there is nothing left in the coffin but dried scraps of paper, and bone, and a ragged mass which might have once been a teddy bear.

This is what I get up to when the nights are long and cannot sleep. In a way, it is sad that my life is so dull, and I am so restricted by my anxiety, that I must invent alter egos for myself to live vicariously through and glean some excitement, some power, some romance. Still, our lives are but dreams, after all, so technically I have lived Gothic Goddess’s life, and she is forever a part of me, deep in my heart.

I could also treat her as a costume to put on, like a boy pretending to be Superman in a situation in which he is afraid. I am sure Gothic Goddess would be far better at handling talking to people than I am.

Well. That’s all for now. Goodnight. Goodnight. Make sure you share your teddy bears.


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