The New Kid in Town

I was a people pleaser looking for people to please, so they’d love me.

When I was in 1^st grade, my family moved away from the brief, but well-established life I’d known. I remember being a happy kid. I don’t know if that’s completely true, but that’s what the old photos portray, so maybe it is true? A smiling little cutie pie flanked by two gorgeous, adoring parents, a beautiful baby brother, and world of possibilities.

We moved away from NYC to pursue new possibilities, my parents buying us a big house, so much bigger than the 2-bedroom apartment we lived in before. My brother and I each had our own bedroom; I got to go to a new school, and was promised that I would make new friends. Going into 2^nd grade, I was filled with hope that it would be exciting. It wasn’t exciting at all. It was hard and scary. I was a stranger and needed to prove my worth. I didn’t remember ever feeling that way before. It took more than a year to start fitting in, to lose my “new kid” label. I began to feel like everything would be okay, that I’d be accepted, and that things would work out, after all.

In 3^rd grade I experienced something pivotal that impacted my whole life, then, and for many years to come. I was diagnosed with epilepsy after having grand mal seizures in front of my classmates. It changed how they viewed me and it changed how I interacted with them. I found myself alone again, back on the desert island I occupied the year before. The kids were afraid of me, not understanding what they witnessed––they kept their distance––except when they were being cruel.

I had one or two casual friends in elementary school who knew my story, but when it came time to move on to junior high, I looked forward to being someone else. Going into a new situation, where a bunch of different schools would come together, offered me an opportunity to start fresh, to rewrite my story. It seemed like things were going to get better for me in 7^th grade. I was meeting new kids, new teachers, without being burdened by my history.

In late September, I was invited to my first boy-girl party. Things were looking up! I was awkward and hopeful. I chose a new top; a long-sleeved navy leotard with a pattern of rhinestone stars scattered across my very flat chest. It was sparkly and I felt pretty. The party was going well until the last half hour when everyone began to pair off to make-out in the dark. I’d never done that, I’d never kissed a boy “that way,” and like so many other times in my life, after all the other girls were chosen, I was left standing alone, looking at the only boy standing alone, this kid named Peter. He wasn’t cute; he was kind of greasy-looking and had pasty skin. We looked at each other, realizing the necessity to save face. We followed the other kids to the dark side of the basement that hid behind sheets hanging from the ceiling. It was unfinished, and we lay down on cold bare concrete, my head resting uncomfortably against a metal support beam. We started fooling around, nothing major, a little messy kissing, Peter slobbering all over my face with his flabby, soft lips. Then he grabbed my hand and brought it to rest on his naked erect penis, that had magically escaped his pants. I gasped. I let my hand rest there, touching it lightly, curious and repulsed, I was frozen by my fascination at this weird appendage. I’d only seen tiny penises before because I babysat and changed diapers, and I had a little brother. But those weren’t like Peter’s. He wanted me to do more, holding my hand tightly, trying to get me to rub it, but I pulled away. Just then, the basement lights came on, and everyone jumped to their feet, quickly re-assembling clothes and hair before we made our way upstairs to our parent’s waiting cars.

I didn’t say anything to my dad when he asked me––with hope in his voice––if I’d had a good time. I said the party was okay and I kept quiet as we drove home in our dark green Dodge Dart, relieved that I’d be alone in my bedroom, and would go to sleep soon. I felt ashamed and thought I’d be in trouble if I said something. It was the beginning of lots of secrets.

The weekend went by quickly, with thoughts of what happened on Friday night popping into my head now and then. I mostly let it go, until Monday morning, when I stepped off my school bus, and walked through the front doors of my junior high into the lobby. Peter was leaning up against the beige tiled wall, waiting for me. He looked at me, and said, “you’re my girlfriend now.” Shocked by his statement, I laughed and smirked at him, saying, “no, I’m not” and watched his face go from freckled and pale to a shade of dark red I’d never seen before.

Flustered by my response, he sputtered out, “You are. And if you aren’t, you’re going to be sorry.” He looked at me one more time, to see if he’d changed my mind with his threat, and seeing nothing of the sort, stalked away, his shoulders pulled up to his ears, shaking his head and swearing out loud.

After homeroom, I had gym class and while I was in the locker room, changing into my ugly red uniform, one of the self-appointed cool girl bullies came up to me, all sweetness, with concern on her face, and said, “Nancy, I heard about Peter, but I want to hear it from you, what happened? You can tell me”, she whispered, “I won’t tell anyone.”  I froze, and spat out, “Nothing happened! What did you hear?” She went on to tell me that kids were saying that I gave him a hand job, that I gave him a blow job, or worse. Worse? I had no idea what a blow job was, I had an inkling of what a hand job was––did I give him a hand job because I’d touched it? I didn’t think so, but I wasn’t sure. I denied everything. I wasn’t going to admit anything to anyone, especially her.

Within a few hours, it was all over the school that I’d had sex with him, and for the next 3 years I was branded a slut. In 8^th grade rumors circulated that I was a lesbian because I had one best friend, and we spent all our time together. Then she abandoned me because she couldn’t take the gossip. So, I was alone again.

I went deeper and deeper inside, soothing myself with hidden candy, depressed and lonely, angry and untrusting. I depended only on myself.

High school was next. Another opportunity to reinvent myself? Could be. Now two junior highs were coming together, and 50% of the kids would be new to me. I began again, and after a lot of trial and error, found a small tribe of nerdy, artsy kids to latch onto. But I never let anyone get too close. The heartbreak I’d experienced so many times before was not something I wanted to go through again.

This “new kid” theme is one I’ve carried with me throughout my life. New beginnings, new chances to win people over. I got better at being charming, anticipating other’s needs, trying to become indispensable. I’d go into new situations strong and full of personality. I was a people pleaser looking for people to please, so they’d love me. I’d try to fit myself into other people’s definitions of what’s acceptable, what’s likable. It’s a lot of work, and it doesn’t work.

This last week, I found myself alone once more. The meeting I’ve been going to for more than a year became an impossible terrain for me to navigate, and I’m moving on. The details don’t matter right now, though I played an active part in this ending, my stubborn and controlling character traits colliding with others who share those same qualities.

My road to healing is a long one. I spent three days feeling heartbroken and angry, frustrated and misunderstood. It brought me back to my childhood and all the old rejections came to the surface again.

Here I am, looking for another meeting, a place to fit so that I can keep doing my recovery work. A place to continue this work as more of me is revealed. I feel alone and sad, I feel grief over the loss of something that’s changed my life for the better. I’m grateful that I found that meeting. The people there didn’t change my life, I did. I’ll begin again, opening my heart to strangers, not knowing what will come next.

Hope is beginning to replace the hurt.

This time, I’m not going to play that codependent game. I will not be a people pleaser anymore. I’m not going to be the person I think others want me to be. I know that I can be who I am, and that I’m not going to be loved by everyone, just as I’m not going to love everyone I encounter. It’s time to keep doing the work, now more than ever. To not quit––as I might have in the past––and to take care of myself from a place of humility and gratitude, with an open heart, letting serenity come in. Knowing that even though there are times when I feel alone, I’m not. I have me, my Little Nan, my Higher Power––who I’ve named Grace––and the beauty of Program with all its obstacles that are really messages inviting me to grow.

I’m gonna let go of worrying about what others think of me and do a daily check-in on what I think of me. Of what I’ve done well, and what I can do better. I’ve learned that I can’t look for outside validation to define my worth. It must come from within.

There are times when I lose track of who I really am. But then I find her again, and extend my hand to that hurt little girl, and say, “it’s okay, we’ll figure this out together, you’ve got me, I’ve got you, and we’re not alone.”

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