Early Isolation

As far back as I can remember, I’ve known I was different. I experience the world as if my face is pressed against a window, watching others interact and have fun while a force field of sorts holds me back. Sometimes, I step away from the window because the loneliness of being on the outside looking in is debilitating. I want to join the others, I want to hear what they are saying, laugh at their jokes, and feel welcome in their circle, but I don’t know how to approach them and insert myself into their sphere. Even when I try, it’s an awkward attempt—always. Though, there have been times when I am accepted, when I feel connected, a part of something bigger than myself, but those moments are short lived, depending on geography or special interests.  When I—or others—move on the bond breaks, severing the sense of belonging I relished, always knowing it wouldn’t last.

In elementary school, I was the kid who sat alone. If I couldn’t press my body into an actual corner, I would sit hunched over, eyes on my desk, limps pressed close to my torso. At a young age, I became a master at making myself small. The less space I took up, the less visible I would be. I didn’t want to be seen. I didn’t want to be noticed. If I could have made myself invisible I would have—I still would—because it’s the act of being seen that made me self conscious. A byproduct of being noticed was that I couldn’t just be. Others observed my awkwardness, my mistakes, my differences, and they commented on them. I was six by the time I learned that there was a difference between being completely alone and being alone in a group. The former was comfortable and safe, a preference, while the latter felt like a weight pressing down on my chest, making it nearly impossible to breathe. The kid who stands out, the kid who struggles to properly insert themselves in social situations, becomes a target. By second grade, I was acquainted with name calling and ridicule, though specific examples aren’t clear in my memory until middle school.

Lucky for me, lunch wasn’t too bad because I went to Catholic school. Back in those days, desks were always lined up in even rows, everyone facing forward, back straight, hands folded. There was no lunch room. We brought our food in lunch boxes, sandwiches mostly, not much else was easily portable, although occasionally someone brought soup in a thermos. I always hated that. The soup leaked and the liquid dribbled all over everything in my bag, upsetting me every time. With our homemade lunches, we ate in our classrooms, at our desks, which we weren’t permitted to move. It worked for me. Classmates ate around me and they chatted over me, but since I got to sit in my own seat, I happily avoided the awkwardness of trying to find a place to go. A place to fit in. As I ate, I withdrew into myself. I have no recollection of what I thought about or how I occupied myself when I first started school, but as I got older, I used lunch time to do homework. It was a great excuse to avoid being social, plus it enabled me to get some work done so that when I got home I could have a little extra time to myself, to do as I pleased. 

It was working in groups or breaking into teams during gym that I despised. Very little unsettled me in school a s much as being forced to work with others. I despised collaborative activities. I still do, particularly if I’m forced to work with people I don’t know very well. When working in groups we were expected to sit with our groupmates and discuss whatever project or assignment we were given. The room always got a little warmer and I found it impossible to look at anything other than the desk in front of me. I absolutely dreaded having to speak, to share my ideas, which never seemed all that good compared to everyone else's. Confidence has always been lacking. Seriously, maggots have a better self-esteem than I do. 

The worst was when we got to pick our own groups. Everyone else seemed to like that best because they got to sit with friends. I didn’t have any, so I often held back alone in my seat waiting for the teacher to notice, hoping it wouldn’t take long or that she wouldn’t make it obvious that I had nowhere to go. It should not have been hard to walk up to a group, and say, “Hey, can I join you?” But an overwhelming fear of rejection, of being seen, held me back every time. And yet, ironically, once the teacher forced me into a group, I ended up doing most of the work. Whatever was delegated to me, I did because that was the expectation, but then, because I didn’t want to do poorly, or rather because my parents absolutely refused to tolerate less than stellar grades, I ended up doing what everyone else neglected to do. While they were busy talking, laughing, and making plans for the weekend, I concentrated to the best of my ability to get everything done. It wasn’t until I got to college that I started advocating for myself, requesting to work alone.

Of all places, I should have exuded confidence in gym class. When it came to athletics, I always excelled. But in choosing teams, skill is always secondary. Captains select their teams by naming their friends. Repeatedly, I stood on the sidelines, watching as classmates who were slower and less talented were called to join one side or the other. Often, I was the last one picked. And if I wasn’t dead last, then I definitely landed in the final five, withdrawing deeper and deeper into myself with each name called, wishing I could disappear completely, wishing, at times, that I didn’t exist at all.

It sucks going through school without a friend. As a child, there were other kids who lived on my block, kids who were close in age, but I never got along with them. Always there was conflict. I wanted to have friends, I wanted people to play with, but my interactions with peers often ended in tears. I don’t remember details, only the strife, the getting picked on, the laughter aimed at me, the running home and feeling somehow less than. Even today my mother will talk about how I couldn’t get along with anyone. How she was always fighting battles with other children’s parents because I’d come home slinging accusations between sobs.

Through the eyes of the child I was, the blame lays with my peers, the kids who were always poking fun and picking on me. Through the eyes of the adult I’ve become, I know that my perception was most likely skewed. The other kids were undoubtedly mean, but my inability to pick up on social cues, my lack of similar interests, and my inability to properly regulate my emotions and tone of voice most likely prompted their cruelty. The truth doesn’t absolve them of guilt, it doesn’t rewrite them as kind or compassionate characters from my past, but it does highlight the role I unwittingly played in their negative interactions with me. The pattern was established when I was really young, but it still took a diagnosis for me to recognize my fault in it. If only I knew what was wrong with me back then. If only I understood all those years ago. I’m not sure what I could have or would have done differently, but perhaps a little more self awareness would have permitted me to present myself in a way that wasn’t quite so abrasive.