I originally wrote this in 2012 to help a friend with a blog she was starting. Going through some things today, I found it and decided to share it here. I updated it a little, but it's pretty much unchanged.
This is basically the story of what made me the person I am today.
You know how everyone wants to be friends with a
fictional character? They want to go to Hogwarts with Harry, Ron and Hermione;
or hang out with Rachel, Monica and the gang for a cup of coffee at Central Perk? Because these characters-
who are real people to us, that we talk about in our daily lives and only get
to catch up with once a week (if in a TV show, that is), have these most
amazing friendships.
They are always there for one another, love and
support one another unconditionally and are unbelievably loyal and supportive.
Some of them have been friends since childhood, and are pretty much family,
they know each other better than they know themselves. They have a history and
they never fail to make their friends feel good about themselves.
For me, having a friendship like the ones I used to
read about or see in movies or on TV were something I never thought truly
existed.
Don’t get me wrong, I thought I was going to have
the whole childhood-friend, BFF’s for life type thing. I had a wonderful best
friend in primary school who I made in the early days of kindergarten. And for
3 years, we were inseparable. Some of my
earliest memories are of countless afternoons at her house, making up dance
routines to the Spice Girls or Aqua (hey, it was the 90’s); playing make
believe in her backyard pretending to be the girls from the Baby-Sitter’s Club books; and she
introduced me to the Wizard of Oz (for
which I am forever grateful for… despite now having seen and love Wicked).
I always was friendly to everyone and everyone was
friendly to me, but every afternoon when my mum picked me up from school and
said “who did you play with today?” it was always
the same answer- my best friend (who I shall leave nameless, although the
chances of her finding this are unlikely).
And then in third grade, thanks to a seating plan,
my best friend was placed next to the popular girl in our grade- who did not like me. And eventually, I began
noticing that more and more, my friend would not wait for me at recess and
lunch, but go off with this other girl and her friends. Eventually, I got up
the courage to ask if we were okay (that was a big deal for me. I did and still
do loathe confrontation). She said we were still friends, she just wanted to
play with the other girls for a while.
She also added that the popular girl didn’t really
like me (nothing I hadn’t already guessed).
And I accepted that. After all, there were people in
our grade I didn’t especially like (although I was always nice to them- I can’t
say I was too fond of the popular girl), and I felt like it would be mean not
to let her make new friends- she was perfectly entitled to that.
Except by third grade, everyone had already formed
their friendship groups, and I didn’t feel right intruding. So, I started
bringing a book (well, several usually- I was a fast reader) to school, and
that was how I’d spend my recess and lunch.
But every day, when mum picked me up and asked “who
did you play with today?” I’d still give her the same answer I always had
before. To this day, I’m not sure why. Maybe I just didn’t want to admit that
although I got along with everyone, I really only had one friend… and maybe I
didn’t even have her anymore.
I think she must have noticed something eventually…
when we stopped playing together at least once a week after school. But I was
able to hide it for a while.
I have a memory… I must have confessed to her what
was going on eventually and mum convinced me call her and find out what was
going on. And as soon as my friend got on the phone, I burst into tears and
held the phone out to mum. Mum spoke to my friend’s mum and it went from there.
It seemed to get better for a while, but we still didn’t hang out together at
school or after.
In fourth grade, we were in different classes. My
friend was with her new friends, and I was alone. I remember one day, seeing
her alone on the playground, alone. That was weird, because as I said, she was
now in the popular group. I asked her (because I always made a point of saying
‘Hi’ when I saw her- we had been best
friends for three years) if everything was okay. She said that her parents
might be getting divorced, and I didn’t know what to say. I said something, said goodbye and left.
I wished for years after I had said something,
because I never saw her again. She stopped coming to school. I asked her
brother once if she was okay, but whatever he said I didn’t catch (he was
playing handball at the time, so I kind of interrupted), and I felt rude asking
him to repeat it. But I’m pretty sure the gist was that she’d moved away with
her mum.
The rest of primary school was me trying to find new
friends. Several times I thought I had. There was a girl in my class in fourth
grade who we were good friends for a few months… until she moved away. And we
kept in touch for a while after she left, but eventually, that stopped. When a
new girl came to our school (from England of all places, which is one of my
favourite countries), I was asked to buddy with her and show her around.
We were on and off friends from fourth grade all
through sixth grade (where primary school ends in Australia). After a few
months, she’d decide she didn’t like me and she’d begin not talking to me,
cutting me out of conversations and with our other friend who we hung out with.
And now the part I don’t usually tell people. I was
quiet, enjoyed school, loved my teachers and loved reading and writing (this
isn’t the part I keep quiet). And to the kids I went to school with, it was a
bit odd. Especially in fifth grade, when Harry
Potter and the Goblet of fire came out, mum saw an interview with JK
Rowling, thought I’d like it and she and dad bought me the first two books. (I still say this was fate. My parents were not in the habit of just buying me books. Usually if I wanted a particular book, I had to hope I got it for Christmas or my birthday- whichever was closest). And
I fell in love with it- as anyone who knows me today can attest to.
Again, it was odd. I remember a kid (from another
grade so I had no clue who he was) literally
stopping one day as he walked past the spot where I was sitting and reading one
morning before the bell and asking me “you’re the girl who likes to read,
aren’t you? The bookworm?” And my awkward reply of “Yeah…”
So, you have a little girl who loves reading,
writing, Harry Potter, and school is not the bane of her existence (well, maths
and sport weren’t fun; and I had no friends, but I liked learning). And then-
because I clearly wasn’t enough of an outcast already (this is the secret part), I got head lice.
In hindsight, that isn’t so terrible. It sucks, and
it wasn’t fun, but it’s a perfectly normal part of childhood. Everyone usually
gets them at some stage, right? And it’s actually a sign you have good hair
hygiene, because they only like clean hair. It didn’t help either probably,
that I had siblings who were at the time I think 5 and 4, which is right in
that age group where it’s common to get them- and they spread.
But at the time, it was the most horrifying thing
that had ever happened to me. And once it got out… people whispered, pointed,
avoided me at all costs and were just horrible. I was 10. And trying to get rid
of head lice in a house with small children and at a school with many small
children, is a war. A very long war. They’d get better, then come back. I hated
them.
So, this on and off “friend” of mine, was… not
thrilled with the prospect of hanging around me and possibly getting head lice.
I also had dandruff and eczema on my scalp. I remember once, when I said about
the eczema, this girl accused me of lying because it was “impossible” to get
eczema there… (FYI, it’s not).
This went on for until we finished school. I’m not
going to rehash every moment, but in the midst of all this, there was another
girl I had become friends with (we bonded over our love of books) until she
too, moved away. We kept in touch for a while (through letters) and then one
day, one of the girls in our group (yes, this was during an on-phase) told me
that my friend had been calling me names behind my back before she’d moved.
I naively believed her, and wrote to my friend
asking if that was true. That was all. No accusation, just wondering if it was
true. A few days later, her mother (who opened and read all her mail) rang me,
and told me to stay away from her daughter and if I contacted them again, she’d
call the police. To this day, I have no idea what I did or said that was worthy
of that.
And so, I was alone again. And I was 11. I had a few
teachers who tried to help at times, but because I never said anything, never
acted like anything was wrong if I could help it; and when a teacher did ask what was going on, I never gave
the full story.
Partly because it felt like dobbing, but partly
because I really wasn’t sure what was going on myself. One day, these girls had
liked me and then they didn’t. And occasionally, they would like me again.
I was both excited and terrified to start high
school. Because of where I lived, I was going to a different high school, where
I knew no one. This was both a good thing and a bad thing. I was still me (Harry Potter obsessed, loved school,
reading and writing), I was still waging war against the head lice, but I was
eager for a new start. To make new friends, and maybe have a friendship like
I’d always read about and wanted so desperately.
I’d met some lovely girls on orientation day who
also loved Harry Potter and I’d hoped
I’d be in their class (I wasn’t). I made some friends, and after a while I was
invited to join the group which contained the majority of girls in our class.
For the first time, I felt included, like I was part of the popular group. No
one knew about the head lice, and I was confident I was winning that war.
I was completely optimistic, that I was making new
friends. Real friends. And then one day a few months into the year, they turned
around and said that they didn’t really like me anymore and wanted me to stop
hanging around them. I was stunned and hurt, but I agreed and left.
Eventually, I found out it was really one girl who
didn’t like me, and the rest (well, some of them) had just gone along with
that.
And I fell into that old pattern from primary
school, alone, bringing books. I tried for a short time, refusing to be cut out
of the group and allow history to repeat itself, but I was tired. I couldn’t do
it for long… I gave up.
I remember one day, we were in PE, one girl in that
group- one lovely girl, who to this day, I remember this moment and am
overwhelmed with gratitude for her; began crying at the end of class. When my
teacher (also lovely and a huge support to me throughout the year, and who I am
still in touch with to this day) asked what was wrong, she confessed that she
didn’t like the way the other girls were treating me. And I was amazed that
someone actually did care.
She added to me after, that it didn’t mean she liked
me and that she thought it was weird how much I liked Harry Potter, but I didn’t care. Because she had cared enough to
feel bad about what was happening to me. Besides, it is kind of weird how much I love Harry Potter (and now Wicked),
but I’ve just accepted that weirdness now.
By this stage, it should surprise no one that, once
again, I hadn’t told my parents what was going on. It did come out eventually,
of course (my frequent breakdowns at home kind of hinted that something was
wrong), but I didn’t feel right saying anything. There was nothing my parents
could do, and I didn’t want them fighting my battles for me.
Towards the end of seventh grade, when this had been
going on for months… I got really depressed. It wasn’t just all the drama at
school, it was that I was a 12 year old girl who wanted a bit more independence
at home, I was trying to figure out who I was… becoming a teenager is a big
deal. I didn’t feel pretty (the fact I still was fighting head lice and
everyone knew about it by now didn’t help), or smart, or worthy of anything.
You know that game where you write your name on a
piece of paper, and everyone has to write a compliment or something positive
about you on it? I keep mine every time I
do that. We did it in English in the midst of all this, and you can tell how
many friends I had.
The majority of comments are vague, impersonal
things like “nice shoes”, “neat uniform”, “nice teeth” (to this day I’m not
sure if that was mocking or not- I have a rather large overbite and a gap
between my front teeth- think Hermione Granger, but crooked). No one really
knew me, and I believed that no one cared. One girl (the one who didn’t like me
in the first place) even once hacked into my email and was talking to my uncle
on MSN, pretending to be me. When we found out and I confronted her, her excuse
was that my password wasn’t hard to guess. (I still don’t know how that
justifies anything).
I’m not sure exactly when it started, but towards
the end of the year… that was my low point. And I began thinking about suicide
and death. Not that I was actually going to go through with it, but I remember
sitting at recess one day and jotting down just notes about how and where it
might happen.
Again, it’s not that I genuinely wanted to kill
myself, it’s just that I believed 100% that if I was to die, not one person-
not even my family- would miss me, and that the world would probably be a
better place if I wasn’t in it.
I was pretty much hastily referred to the guidance
counsellor after that. I remember my English teacher coming to get me from I
think maths… she didn’t say where we were going, just that I was needed (she
may have said it, but I was just thrilled to get out of maths or whatever class
we were in). On the way, she asked if everything was okay. And I, in my old
habit, cheerily responded with “yep!”
Sometimes I wish I could kick my 12 year old self. Why didn’t I ever say that something was
wrong? Even now, at 24, my natural response is to say “yep!” or
“good” if people ask “how are things? How’s it going?” even if it’s not.
Seeing the guidance counsellor helped a lot, and I
recommend that to everyone. It’s lovely having someone to talk to, who can give
you advice. After confessing what had been happening pretty much all year with
the girls in my class, my frequent visits began to discuss home life and my
general unhappiness.
Eventually, at the end of the year, my parents were
called in for a meeting. And the four of us (my parents, the counsellor and me)
discussed everything. I was supposed to
stay in class, but at recess, I went to go meet a few girls from another class
I’d been hanging around with for a little while… and saw them running away from
view before I could get there. I went back to the office in tears, and mum and
dad came back to take me home.
My strongest memory of that night, is me and my mum
talking in the lounge room, and mum asking me why I could tell all this stuff
to a stranger (albeit a trained guidance counsellor), but not her. Did I think
she was a bad mother, that I couldn’t come talk to her about all this stuff?
And that got me upset, and still gets me upset to
this day. I love my mother. I really do. She’s wonderful. But I also remember
telling her at seven that I wanted to be an author when I grew up, and mum
saying “why don’t you get a real job?”
I think I was afraid of her judging me. And I do
remember once, a year or so later trying to explain what I was feeling to her…
I used the analogy that it was like my mind was a book, but it was in a foreign
language and I couldn’t understand it. Which is honestly how I felt. I was 13
or 14, a teenager, trying to find myself.
My mum’s response was “don’t give me that crap.”
And I think… which I know is stupid… but maybe I was
afraid if I did tell her what was happening, how I felt and what I was feeling…
she wouldn’t love me anymore. She wouldn’t like me. That says a lot about my
state of mind at the time.
I was so used to “friends” and people not liking me,
I wasn’t even able to open up to my mum for fear of the same. If they didn’t
like me, why would my mum? Or why should my mum? Honestly, there’s still a lot I don’t tell my mother because I don’t feel like she’d understand- like me writing fanfiction. And I don’t want her to make me feel bad about myself, when I have so little about myself to feel good about. This is my mother who said nothing for 6 months while I planned a trip to Singapore, then the day before we left, told me how stupid it was going overseas to see a musical, and what was wrong with just going on a holiday for the sake of a holiday and lie on a beach somewhere? (I'd be bored stiff, that's what's wrong with it).
At the end of seventh grade, I met a girl (at swim
school), who would prove herself to be a great friend to me the next year and
all the years since. And through her and a few girls in my new class (I was
moved to give myself yet another fresh start), I finally made good friends for
the first time in my life.
I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, and for
them to suddenly decide they didn’t like me, but it didn’t happen. But I did notice,
that I began to change. I never gave my own opinion, I always agreed with
whatever they were saying. Maybe I thought if I didn’t agree, they’d stop being
my friends, I don’t know. But it took years to break that habit. Oddly, since being a teacher, I’ve slipped back to
being a teenager again.
Eighth grade was fun. I had the most amazing English
teacher (again, who I’m still in touch with) who encouraged my writing and my
love of books. I still have books amongst my favourites that she told me to read
(Chinese Cinderella, Goodnight Mister
Tom). And through her, I began to regain a shred of my self-esteem. Because
someone actually thought I was good at writing and took it seriously- I’m not
sure how seriously my parents have ever taken it). Although I do remember my writing at 13 and cringe.
I admit, even now, I doubt
whether my writing is actually a talent or whether it’s just something I do a
lot (and I do mean a lot. I just
posted my 74th fanfiction- I started writing and posting my
first year of uni). Which makes receiving compliments very awkward, because I always blush and have no idea what to say.
Ninth grade was a good year. I had really good
friends. (And I noticed/developed my particular talent for getting my friends
hooked on things I loved, but that’s another story). And a few of the girls in
that group that had made me so miserable in seventh grade began to talk to me,
which I was grateful even if they didn’t like me still, we could be civil young
adults to one another. And it wasn’t perfect. My sister started seventh grade
that year, and as a proud big sister who loves her family, I liked to say hi to
my sister when I saw her.
According to one of my friends, this was
embarrassing. Comments that implied that were always followed by “no offence”,
but I always did take offence. Was I a bad sister? Because I wanted to
acknowledge my sister when I passed? I tried to brush those comments off, but
they always hurt. Because I’ve always tried to be a good sister and daughter.
But all good things end eventually. This time, I moved at the end of ninth grade. We
kept in touch for a while, but only one (my swim school friend), has remained
consistently in touch over the years… even when we sometimes don’t talk for
months.
I was scared… moving and starting a new school.
Scared of it happening all over again. I didn’t eat at school for the first
three weeks of tenth grade, because I felt sick all the time. And I wondered if
it was me, whether I was incapable of being genuinely liked. And what kind of
person was I, if no one ever really liked me? What did that say about me? Sometimes
I still feel that way.
And for a few months, I was dreadfully homesick for
Sydney. And then it got better. I didn’t make any real friends or good
friends, but by now I was happy to spend
every moment not in class in the library (the librarians and my teachers liked
me). And I was still getting along with everyone… people in our grade knew me,
and I had no clue who they were. I was still the girl who was weirdly obsessed
with Harry Potter, but I didn’t have
any real issues.
And the whole head lice thing was slowly getting
better and if anyone knew about it, I didn’t know they did. (They were finally
gone in the last year of high school, and that was a wonderful help to my
self-confidence).
And one of the girls in the group from my old
school, sent me a beautiful email one day, completely out of the blue (which I
hope like hell hasn’t gotten lost in subsequent moves) to apologise. I cried,
and I can’t find the words to tell you how much I appreciated her effort and
the courage it must have taken to write the email.
I forgave her, of course. I’ve forgiven them all,
because I don’t want to have to carry around hate for the rest of my life. It’s
bad enough I have these scars and this crippling self-doubt and self-esteem
issues left to live with, without having to carry around hate for other people.
It’s just not worth it.
But those years of primary school and especially
seventh grade had left their mark. My self-esteem was still very, very low. I
rarely spoke up in class, even if I was sure I knew the answer, because there
was a small voice in my head that said if I was
wrong, people would laugh at me. I’ve had more breakdowns in class than I
really want to admit, just stressing so much over school. Including one
memorable occasion in a Legal Studies lesson…. I had a major panic attack.
Which is awkward when it happens at school. Everyone at church is used to it by
now. Luckily, my teacher was also used to it (people breaking down, not me
specifically) and was great about it. And he raised the excellent point it was
much better to break down in class rather than the actual HSC exam (HSC is the Higher School Certificate. It's the big exams you take at the end of high school in Australia and if you want to go to uni, it counts for that too).
To this day, I feel that… people have so much faith
in me. So much belief in my abilities, more than I ever have. And as a
perfectionist, I have high expectations of myself. And I feel that if I don’t
meet those standards, of myself and of what others believe I am capable of,
that I’ve let them down. And I hate letting
people down, because I know the feeling.
When I survived high school and sat my HSC, I got an
80 in Legal Studies. Now, that’s really good for me. Usually, as hard as I try,
I’m an 65-75 type of student (except in maths, but oh well). So, I was pretty
happy with an 80. But I wondered for months afterwards if I’d let down my
teacher, because I’m sure he believed I was capable of getting… maybe not 100,
but 90 (Ok, that could be me speaking again).
I still struggle with the self-esteem thing. It
wasn’t until I was nearly eighteen that I felt like learning to drive was
something I was capable of (I’m 24 and STILL on my L’s. Although I went for my P's a few weeks ago. I failed, but I went for them. It counts).
It also helped that when I was 15, after we moved
and I’d started at my new school, that I became a Christian and started going
to church and found my church family. Yes, for the first few months (and at
various low moments in my life over the past few years), I seriously wondered
if they really liked me or whether they were just friendly to me because they
like my sister (who is much more outgoing than me), or because we’re Salvos and
that’s what we do!
And it took ages before I was willing to admit my
own opinions and not just agree with what was being said. But it helped that
all my quirks- the weird Harry Potter obsession
(and now the Wicked obsession), my
writing, my emotional breakdowns for no real reason, my music tastes (which no
one really likes)- they embraced them all and supported me with them, because
they know it’s important to me and part of who I am. And I can’t tell you how
grateful I am for them, and how much I miss them all now (because of me living
in the middle of nowhere and everything).
The last three places I ever expected to make good friends, real friends like the ones I’d wanted for years; were Twitter, uni and the Wicked stage door in Perth. But I did.
Uni was fun. Throughout my BA I made my first best
friend, and all that drama of high school was gone. The Dip Ed was a full on
year where I had multiple breakdowns, wondering what the hell was I going to
teach anyone, and why did I ever think I could do this? But my beautiful
friends, who have proved themselves to be real and wonderful friends, got me
through it. And likewise, encouraged (well, tolerated) my obsessions and
quirks. I admit, I was afraid that come graduation, they’d fade away like so
many have before them, but so far I’ve mostly been proved wrong (although it is easier
now with Facebook and internet).
And in the last few years, I’ve gotten back in touch
with my first best friend from primary school, and I’ve travelled interstate to
see her twice (yes, one time was to see Wicked).
I’m Facebook friends with several girls from primary school and from that group
in seventh grade.
For a really long time, I felt it was my fault that
people didn’t like me. That if I had talked less about Harry Potter, or something, people would have liked me and wanted
to be my friends. Honestly, I still feel this way a lot. You'd be surprised how much I worry if the people I meet through musicals really like me or if they're just being polite.
It took me years- and even now I have to remind
myself sometimes, that it’s not my fault. Yes, I love learning. It’s why I’m a
teacher (well, one of the reasons).
Yes, if I find something that speaks to me (Harry Potter, Wicked, etc.) I get very
passionate and obsessed with it.
I was quiet. I’m an introverted person, who is very
shy and doesn’t like change (I’m not as quiet now, I don’t think).
For a long time, I felt bad saying anything specific
about what happened. I just kept it simple saying “I didn’t really have
friends” or “I had trouble with friends at school”, because in my head, it
didn’t feel like bullying. I wasn’t getting punched or beaten or threatened.
I was just… not liked. And excluded, and ignored.
Which I know now is still bullying.
Sometimes the worst kind. “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will
never hurt me”? LIES.
Broken bones may ache when it rains, but they heal.
Sometimes I’m not sure if words ever stop hurting. Why else do we remember them
so clearly?
It’s a fact of life not everyone is going to get
along, I know that. But I will never understand why some people feel it’s okay
to be mean to the people they don’t like. I still rant to anyone who feels the
need to say nasty things about celebrities they don’t like- not they don’t like
their acting skills, or the music they do, but as people- when they’ve never
met them.
Bullying- any kind
of bullying is horrible. And it affects you (I won’t say “the victim” because I
hate that word) for life. Being a
teacher? Do you know how crazy it sounded to me that I’m in charge of these kids (me? In charge? Are
you nuts?)? And that they’re going to listen to me and do what I say? My own
siblings don’t do that!
But it can get better. It was a great moment for me
when I left high school and decided I wasn’t going to contact anyone. If they
really liked me, they would contact
me. And a few do. There are times, when I have to stop and just look at things.
Because it seems incredulous to me, that I have friends. Who actually, genuinely like me. All around the world. It just doesn’t seem real.
I know what it’s like to feel so incredibly alone.
To feel like this hell is never going to end, and to feel just so tired so
having to keep putting on a brave face and a smile. And I know how much talking
to people can help. I don’t know whether this will help anyone, but if someone
has or is going through something vaguely similar, but feels bad or guilty for
wanting to speak up- don’t.
I still can’t talk about this sort of stuff with my
mum. I hope one day I can. But I’ve found it easier to talk to close friends,
or yes, guidance counsellors. But this- typing this out now, is the first time
I’ve ever talked about everything at once, from primary school, right through
to uni and now. And I may have cried the whole way through, but it feels
therapeutic doing it. Looking at everything in perspective.
No one should be made to feel bad about who they
are, and what they love. Whether it’s Harry
Potter, Wicked or whatever. Things speak to us. That’s why they’re made. Writers
write books to create a world for their readers, to make their characters feel
like friends, to give you messages and experiences and something real to take
from it all.
It’s why (besides the catchy music) I watch Glee. It has flaws, but it has this
incredible message and heart about it, about embracing who you are. It’s taken
me years to be able to say “This is who I am”, but I can now. And I like who I
am. But I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever stop wondering if other people like who
I am too.
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