Magic and belonging

Of The Moon Atelier has always existed, but was only born into a tangible concept when I was pushed out for not fitting in, again by people who didn’t understand or chose to not.

Not for a lack of trying: a too large smile, eye contact held too fiercely or not at all, and trying, above all else, to be good, to please, to be the best. Pleasing and pleasing and pleasing. Wasting my money, my time, my creativity, my tears, my body. Throwing everything I had into the forever hungry gaping maw; drool pooling at the corners of it’s mouth as I dropped myself in past the sharp yellow teeth, piece by piece, only to hear the echo of “more”

More, more more. Always more.

“You’re just not what we envisioned” “You’re not a match for the team” “We just don’t see a future with you in it” “You’re too much” “You’re not enough”

Belonging is a difficult subject for me. I’ve only ever felt flickers of belonging, even with the people I considered to be my closest friends, family, lovers. I sanded off my edges to be soft and pliable and good and sweet. A delicious little morsel, a goofy little jester, and good. Above all else I wanted to be good and likeable and loved no matter the consequences; a silly little doe who would still bleat while her neck was crushed under the hunter’s muddy boot. I’ve been under that fucking boot so many times the treads are worn into my neck.

It was pathetic and I hated myself. I tried to leave this plane more times than I’d like to admit, but too scared to take the step off the ledge.

Then I met my husband.

After being kicked back home from my dreams of living in the big city I found him. Or rather, he found me; kicked and whimpering under the table, tears staining my eyes like the pathetic little dog I was.

I sat in the emergency room of the hospital, my head filled with visions of plunging off the bridge near my home or taking every pretty little pill in the cupboard as I texted this goofy Lana Del Rey fan on Tinder; I gave him an out: I might be admitted for suicidal ideation, and this was his polite out.

But he didn’t take the out, the absolute idiot. I must have had something he wanted and I would have given it to him too. But he didn’t take it. He only took my hand and told me this felt right. By the second date I knew I would marry him.

And we did. On November 20th, 2021 during a lull in the covid pandemic we got married. I hated my dress, the venue, the food, the vibe, but it literally didn’t matter. I got to marry the soul of my dreams dressed in plaid with a crutch under his arm and an air boot on his foot. He was perfect and for the first time I was too.

6 years into our relationship we decided to take another plunge, an artistic one. He had the art fear and I had the audacity. It started small, making a few pieces of jewelry here and there, collecting clothes for resell, encouraging each other to create and find the joy.

And for the first time we’ll share it with you.

You’re so lucky.

Melody