divinewrites

I thought this post was going to take one direction and I sat down fully anticipating giving myself to that.

Then 2 things happened.  I talked to a trusted friend on the phone and Shawn Mendes’ newer song, “In my Blood” infiltrated my mindset and now will not release its hold on me until I wrestle with it.

I don’t want to write this.  I am scared to do so, but after my conversation I am compelled to do so, not for my benefit, but in the hopes that someone, somewhere might derive some meaning, healing, understanding, some SOMETHING from it.

I heard a quote today that “indelible in the hippocampus is the laughter…” (C.Ford)  Oh my goodness.  That will not let me go and the moment that I heard that statement I was triggered.  Now there are a number of areas that my head could go in this moment, but there is one that stands out more than the rest and I am not really sure why.

Before I launch into recalling that moment, the lyrics that seem to have gripped my attention are the driving force: ” I’m crawling in my skin
Sometimes I feel like giving up
But I just can’t
It isn’t in my blood” S. Mendes

As I recall the memory I discovered how raw it left me at that time leading me to some specific changes I made as a result and drove some of my perceptions of who I was.

We all reach the gawky, awkward stage somewhere in 5th-8th grade.  Some hit it faster than others.  Some take their time getting there.  Others move through at a slower pace–all the while each of us is thinking, “ugh, can this part just be OVER already?”  It isn’t until we are adults and can think back that most of us will admit loathing those changes that take place during that time period-it is some of the most insecure moments we experience as young people growing up.  The only comfort I can now take is that EVERY SINGLE one of us goes through it to some degree.  We don’t know it at the time.  Nor are we aware that EVERY SINGLE one of us is questioning who we are, why that massive zit had to appear before the big dance, when we will develop into the men and women we are supposed to be, and a host of other earth shattering issues. (we don’t realize that they are not earth shattering at the time.)  I was not unlike everyone else in that regard but part of the problem was that my “development” happened at a much slower rate than most of my classmates.  Therein lay the problem.

As an 8th grader, I was more than impatiently waiting for certain physical attributes to arrive.  They hadn’t-or at least not to any noticeable degree.  This was the case for most of the year until the tail end of it.  There were 2 things that happened that marked this time as particularly awkward.

One of them was the annual scoliosis checks that the nurses conducted on the girls to make sure that they detected any spinal abnormalities early.  To do this, the girls went one-by-one into a separate room, clad in their jeans and bra so that the nurses could see and feel the spine.  Normally this would not be a problem.  For me there was an issue.  I had to wait until the very last to go because I was wearing nothing more than an undershirt under my sweatshirt.  This meant that I had to stand in front of the nurses completely naked on top so they could get an adequate look. Talk about embarrassing.  It was the worst!!!  I felt so small-PUN actually intended there.  I felt humiliated and a freak.  What was worse is that it was around this time that things in that area had actually started to develop–and well, yeah.

See now is when I’d like to be “giving up, but I just can’t-it isn’t in my blood.”  So I will doggedly forge on.   Few people knew about that particular moment, but it was not long before most of my class was introduced to new developments.

Our junior high was 3 floors, with many of the 8th grade classes on the top floor and lunch was held in the gym in the basement area.  I had a class on the top floor right before lunch and temperatures ranged drastically from top to bottom.  Heat rises you know.  I was a thin girl-and had worn a turtleneck sweater (a reddish orange hue), with a pair of jeans on this particular day.  Never being one of huge weight, I never really thought much of what I was wearing.  I did not grow up in a household that paid much attention to clothes, fashion, or really ever talked about my being a girl.  (NO ONE wants that talk–EVER!)  Nor did we talk about items of clothes that would be necessary as I aged.  So wearing a more skin tight sweater might necessitate some awareness that I did not have.  I should have known–I didn’t, but I soon learned.

Remember that I said that heat rises?  Well, that means that the coldest area is closer to the basement and where was lunch held; in the gym-the lowest floor of the building.  And, by the way- as any teen rom com or drama movie will tell you, the lunchroom is the WORST place for social politics to take place.  It is the feeding ground for every insecurity and class distinction is on clear display.  (Mean Girls cafeteria had nothing on ours).  Standing in line, waiting for my lunch a couple of my classmates ambled by and began laughing.  Now, this was nothing new since I had long been the subject of jokes and laughter.  (another story for another time) This time, however, I was totally baffled.  What had I possibly done this time?  I was just standing there….minding my own business.

The popular boys gathered in number, pointed, laughed, whispered to themselves, pointed again and slapped each other on the back for the newest joke.  “Pointy!  So glad to see you out here today!”  The laughter-it’s stored in the hippocampus-it’s the truth.

Pointy?  Wha-huh?  Did I have a pencil stuck in my back pocket?  No.  Was my hair sticking up?  No.  What the hell?  Girls started to titter among themselves–point and giggle as well.  A couple looked sympathetically my way but were not in a position socially to risk saying anything.  (I get that now)  One classmate waited until I had gotten through the line-when I had traveled to a lone table, through the throngs of classmates that now were laughing and pointing and nodding to one another.  High fives ensued.  What?

“Cindy-it’s time you think about wearing something under your sweaters.”  What?  I had an undershirt–no one had talked to me about anything else.  “Cin-(I hated being called Cin-only 1 person was allowed to and he was currently laughing too) things happen when it gets cold out.  Look down at your chest.”

I looked and everyone was waiting for the dawn of realization that took place in that moment.  Things DO happen physically to people when it gets cold out.  The gym was cold, it was winter in the midwest and I had been on the 3rd floor where heat rises and nothing would have been on display.  Now, however, I sat vulnerable in full frontal point(e). (ballet term there with a double entendre)  OH GOD-NOOOOOOOO The worst “Are you There God, It’s Me Margaret” moment had just taken place.  NOOOOOOOOOO, shit.

Humiliated-now the color of my sweater (one I had been so proud to wear because I was little and petite and damn, it was a good color) I had no choice but to swallow hard, grab my tray, dump my uneaten lunch, and leave.  Tears stung behind my eyes-(giving up, but I just can’t…it isn’t in my blood) “don’t let them see you cry–hold it together—choke it down”  Lumps of shame jammed at the base of my throat.  I ran to the bathroom, vomited the nothing contents of my stomach, and knew undeniably that I was the bottom rung of the totem pole.  I may have been smart and a good student, but I was the lowest common denominator.  A title I adopted and kept through the rest of school.

Grabbing my over sized coat, I muddled through the rest of the day and got home, saying nothing to anyone.  It wouldn’t have mattered anyway we weren’t the type of family that shared those things….(we still aren’t)  I had learned valuable lessons that day.  I learned firsthand about the shame of growing up-what ridicule does to the masses, and how to devalue myself.  And, I did.

Out came the baggy clothes, the nondescript colors, the clunky shoes, the lack of jewelry.  I quietly snuffed out any identifying factor that would reveal a woman’s shape or any sense of femininity.  I drew that shame around me like my winter coat and wore it—never reveled in it- and never reveled in the fact that I could have become an attractive young woman, confident, walking with my head held high.  I learned that how I looked. what I dressed like, and the changes that were happening to me were up for scrutiny and I held myself in contempt.

Why now?  Why speak now?  Because shame is contemptible.  I am not contemptible…..but feeling that way is.  Believing I am and was, is.  And, according to one of my classmates who wrote to me not so long ago (We didn’t know…)  Because there are times I felt like “giving up–but I just cant.  It isn’t in my blood.”