It wasn’t that hard, comparatively. I had it pretty good for a while. It was the late 70’s into the early 80’s. Dad worked at Chrysler making plenty to keep a family of five comfortable. They were different times.
There were kids at school on the free lunch program. They were looked down on. Not by me, but by the school culture, the social hierarchy. We never had to count ourselves among them. Even when Dad got laid off and had to take a job paying less than half what he was making before, Mom started an in-home babysitting business to keep us afloat. She didn’t want her kids to know we were struggling financially. She’d grown up being told the family couldn’t afford anything, and she never wanted to say that to her children.
But I’ll get the that later. Right now I want to talk about what was hard for me as a child, what is still hard for me now: Social interaction, or simply existing in a public place. I went through a period of my life starting in my late teens where I was capable of social interaction, it didn’t make me uncomfortable, I was confident and charming. That all gradually left me, and now, about to turn 42, I find myself right back where I started.
I feel the judgement of others.
I don’t know that in most cases the judgement I feel radiating off of others is even present in reality. In fact, I’m fairly certain it’s all in my head. When I break it down logically, in all likeliness, most other people barely notice I’m even there, they’re so wrapped up in themselves and what’s going on in their own heads. And knowing that just feeds my overwhelming feeling that I’m completely alone and nobody truly gives a fuck about me. But that’s a whole different issue I’ll explore later.
So, in an attempt to avoid any judgement, I attempt to blend in, to just act normal, mimicking what I think normal looks like. But it feels awkward. I know everyone can tell I’m an imposter. And if someone speaks to me, the jig might be up. Depending on how well I’m doing on any given day. On a good day I may be able to hold a conversation for a few minutes without seeming too strange. But on a bad day I may nod, smile, mumble something incoherent, or just walk away muttering to myself.
I was shy, awkward, overweight, a late bloomer, and had a pornographic last name. My school life was not pleasant. I didn’t get beat up, but I was mocked mercilessly. For some reason I flush red really easily. I’m not easily embarrassed, I mean, I don’t feel embarrassed, but I sure as hell look embarrassed. Some group of assholes would decide to start asking me stupid questions, and I’d do my best to ignore them, but I’d turn bright red. And then they’d make fun of that. They would begin insisting I was about to cry. I was so far from wanting to cry at those moments. What I wanted to do was stand up and plant my knee in their face.
Sometimes, by myself, I’d wonder why people couldn’t just leave me alone. I just wanted to be alone. What, exactly, was me not wanting to participate hurting? At those times, sometimes I’d cry.
I wonder how I got back here. I wonder why I often feel like I did in school, because I thought I had overcome that unpleasantness. These are things I must explore.
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