Bride of Frankenstein, Who Dis?
Submitted for the Approval of the Midnight Society— A Halloween Treat, Les Deux
It’s a perfect night for mystery and horror. The air itself is filled with monsters— returning with the everlasting spookiness within dating, it’s The Misadventures & Perils of Dating III.
I do know that for the sympathy of one living being, I would make peace with all. I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other.
— Frankenstein, Mary Shelley
Being a figurative time traveler, there’s a motley time mix spent looking back in the rearview mirror of retrospection without getting lost in the previous. Particularly more expressly during June, most likely due to the inconsistencies of birthdays— sure, aging is a blessing, still— what a messy bitch nonetheless.
Since heeding Saturn’s returning call and continuously navigating the labyrinth of adulthood— which is a constant influx of feeling powerless or lost as every direction feels like a misstep while others seem to take giant leaps as the societal pressures of adulthood are quite unbearable with many unworthy gambles and attempts toward doing it all, but seemingly nothing well enough. Traversing through many of life’s themes and hidden meanings hasn’t always been clear until much later upon reflection.
Lately, there’s been so much unexpected change that I feel pulled in many directions feeling caught between the woman I want to be and the girl I used to be. Reminiscent of The Cut’s Woman in Retrograde by Isabel Cristo— a fascinating article on basking in girlhood glory for too long. Toggling between is dizzying for anyone trying to assimilate how we can after such life and global events continue to age and destroy. I seemingly understand the Merry-Go-Round of Life that Sophie Hatter experiences in Howl’s Moving Castle feeling like a cursed ninety-year-old girl. There’s that pesky retrospect rearing its fussy head with exploratory themes and secret connotations that were revealed to me eventually. The simultaneous struggle of feeling older while forgetting my actual age is hilariously understood now as the wiser lady I attempt to be.
Obliging in a bit of fancifulness is a fine oscillating line between honoring what we love with childlike wonder and suddenly clawing and grasping for coping mechanisms to avoid or never grow up altogether. Growing up has been a mental self-entrapment for many of my peers— I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by media literacy or cognitive dissonance (tragically, even both) in a land of Fuck Boys, Lost Boys, and collective Peter Pan Syndrome.
Conversely, the association of bows with the preying vulnerability of lacking autonomy or power in girlhood is completely understood— the nuances of life vary, just as experiencing girlhood varies from the beholder. Personally, the sageness I’ve learned through womanhood is utilized in my girlish charm while resourcefully adapting without completely overstaying my welcome. Not to sound incredibly shady, but as a nocturnal lady, it’s bound to happen— no one wants to be the last one at the party, so why extend ourselves to an age that is no longer who we are?
It’s easy to whine and pout about aging, but it’s still a beautifully tormenting blessing as we see each other weather our storms as it shows in our faces or selves. The metaphorical scars I stitched myself may only be gnarly and apparent to me, as I’m dramatically emphasizing the discomforting pain of forgiving and relating— while accepting all past versions of myself to march forward— as life goes on because it always does.
The coincidental irony of my eternal fascination with Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein isn’t lost on me as the echoes of the classic novel interwoven with Gothic horror and romanticism mirrored the broken sentiments. Countless iterations later, I still connect deeply with the Bride of Frankenstein being deprived of agency and assumed inferiorly voiceless. Unaccepting and abandoning who I wholly was, the figurative and cowardly Victor Frankenstein I once knew was equally selfish.
Alternatively, unmasking these cowards as a frenemy competing with you in place of knowing how to be a friend much less anything sparking romance— turns out, they do, they pick and choose whom. They masquerade as a wolf in sheep’s clothing. This kind of bum excuse of a man doesn’t carry protective energy and will never have your back or defend your honor— even if you don’t need him or want him as a conflict resolution kind. No, he’ll leave you to fend for yourself or join in on the jeering. This type of someone will throw you under the bus to save himself, he’ll never stand with you, have your back, or even like you— as before, or even a person.
Once wanting to understand this Victor Frankenstein led me to realize it doesn’t matter the lack of compassion or emotions, it all helped me discern his nefarious energy that conspired against me. Despite all the accumulative deeper cuts he caused— he’s truly either a sociopath, psychopath, or engineering humanoid. Either way, it’s someone who will suppress you. Someone who isn’t comfortable seeing your fully luminous self and having you fold yourself to whichever conforming shape is smaller than he. This type will resent you for dazzling despite it’s what captivated their attention. His insecurities about manhood will fester and project onto you to dim your light, rather than adding to it. His inability to emotionally fulfill is inevitable as he selfishly looks for what’s missing in his life while blaming you, or society, for not understanding— a manipulation tactic to absolve accountability, this type will target buttons to push and boundaries to cross with supposed thoughtless yet very pronounced even inherently wicked choices for someone who supposedly loved me. Past calamity aside, I sink deeper into a metaphorical bath of unapologetic realness and earnestness, comprehending that we can never force love as the elders say— do not squeeze or milk any semblance of loving emotions as if trying to convince them. Love comes brazenly from an open heart.— so, unless given freely, please don’t do the hard work for bitter results.
Perhaps I am that monster I was scarlet-emblazed as. Maybe I am sourly stitched together by my past. However, I’m healing with better intentions, new possibilities, and better experiences. So far, the universe continues showing the carefree je ne sais quoi finding delight in things I once did— it turns out, it’s easy when I’m not as serious or intimidating as I was perceived to believe while jointly having to put up with draining vampiric energy of a narcissus. Joy and humor were found despite the constant hermit mode or self-assumed Frankenstein-like fragmented pieces. As it turns out, that carefree cool girl has always fucking existed and continues still, now she’s an ever-evolving woman who just didn’t have the right person or something thoughtfully beautiful that playfully brings out life’s joie de vivre in me.
In honor of the weird or misunderstood girls before me— many options previously mentioned (minus Poor Things, for a reason) in film lists already— below are a few of my favorite and timeless ghouls.
Bride of Frankenstein (1935)
Carnival of the Souls (1962)
Frankenhooker (1990)
Spider Baby (1967)
Burn, Witch, Burn (1962)
I Married a Witch (1942)
Sunset Boulevard (1950)
House (1977)
Raw (2016)
To Die For (1995)
Thirst (2009)
The Shape of Water (2017)
Three Women (1977)
Sorry to Bother You (2018)
Wolf Girl (2006)
Gothika (2003)
Weird Science (1985)
Us (2019)
A manipulator isn’t binary, but rather nuanced and adheres to three core structures— fear, guilt, and obligation. This is the intricate web of traits that manipulators lay to entrap with their emotional instability and egotism. Ever-so-charming masked strangers or familiar people throughout our lives cunningly hide their insecurity and emotional immaturity yet those more aware see it radiate from their pores. Below is the anatomy of a manipulator.
Compulsive, pathological liars.
A chameleon with many adapting faces.
Calculatingly charming— relies heavily on charm because there’s no substance.
Passive aggressive and petty.
Discounting of your feelings.
Controlling.
Self-obsessed.
Never remorseful.
Mock and judge you, your emotions or interests— openly after time.
Silent treatment to get their way.
Sharply make you feel guilty.
Play naive or plain dumb.
Questions your sanity.
Isolating.
Being a strict girl-turned-woman has served me throughout the years. Knowing and trusting my inner voice against the odds reveals what I’ll never settle for—empty words are as hollow as the heart that speaks effortlessly without actual intention. While never immune from heartache or betrayal, painstaking life shows how love is worthy against whatever chaos or imperfections in our lives. We’re enough not seeking someone to fulfill a desolation within— we may be fractured, but we’re still whole. Through the challenging paradox of aging, I’ve had to wise up as I have less time to apply— nevertheless, it will be until the end of time.
Certainly, learning and adapting also includes extending and passing this sageness and grace toward others, even if youth tends to cloud assumed knowledge— I didn’t know shit when I thought I did, life showed me its morbid sense of humor through the experience of living and certainly learning. We’ll never live long enough to make or learn from every mistake ourselves— sometimes we learn from others and re-parenting myself in my thirties has been exactly that.
Fortunately, and completely unaware, that new hopeful and admiring beginnings can occur while healing from being intricately stitched. A chaotic and imperfect imbalance of processing the past without self-sabotaging our future by facing the parts of ourselves we thought were healed. Finding essential people who are good for us surely helps— even better when they’ve unexpectedly come into your life like a wonderful thrilling surprise gift in human form.
Formally being burned, I’ve met someone who aids me in finding the light within the darkness— thoughtfully making me feel special, as they are special and lovely in return. In dedication to the ever-so-lovely C.C. Baxter and Bill Smith in my life, thank you for providing safety as I reacclimate from anything prior. Life always happens and goes on, beautifully and agonizingly— it’s the peculiarity of growing older.
Con Amor,
Naomi x