So, I'm choosing to completely ignore the heavy hint from the magazine and sharing it. I worked really hard, and I believe in sharing both my strengths and weaknesses hoping it will encourage at least one other person to face fears along with me and take a stab at something out of their comfort zone.
The instructions for the contest were: "Write about a mistake you've made in your life. Everything must be true." Special thank you to Hannah for being cool with me sharing this story.
MONUMENTAL IMPRESSION
I wonder how many
people spend too much time regretting things they said or did when they were
young and naïve? I have spent a good chunk of my adult life replaying memories
of past mistakes, wishing I could transform them into something else. The
logical part of my brain knows this is not necessary. I know in order to be a
participating member of decent human interaction, mistakes are vital. Without
them we would learn nothing. If I never had to swallow my pride and say the
words “I’m sorry”, I would be one dimensional and cold. In theory, I am
grateful for my imperfection. In reality, I would do anything to bury it
forever.
****
I entered my
seventh grade year with more meat on my bones than most of my peers. While not exactly overweight, I was hiding
under layers of bulky clothing in an attempt to disguise the extra pounds that
had accumulated onto the boyish frame I was born with. My eyebrows were dark
and thick, forcing me to experience the losing end of ridicule from an early
age. Sporting a bad perm, I was
experimenting with thick bangs in an effort to detract attention from my
unkempt eyebrows. Accompanying my
physical shortcomings was my propensity to become embarrassed at the slightest
hint of discomfort with no ability to hide my feelings. At that age I burned
most of my energy trying to blend in or, better yet, disappear altogether.
Before leaving for
my first day of junior high, I willed a piece of dry toast down my throat as I
attempted to look natural for my mother. Successful in my efforts, I then
climbed into the passenger side of our gargantuan family suburban, the only
vehicle big enough to seat seven children.
She and I were quiet during the short car ride to school and exchanged a
quick goodbye before I hopped out, stomach acid bubbling and stinging the back
of my throat. I swallowed hard and walked towards the gauntlet.
I approached the building,
pasty cheeks burning at the thought of having to say hello to anyone, taking in
the crowd of seventh and eighth graders waiting outside. The hedgerow covering
my forehead collected sweat that then dripped into my eyes. Not even the barricade of eyebrows was enough
to protect them from the stinging liquid.
We stood,
herd-like, in the parking lot outside the cafeteria waiting for the bell to
ring. Stomach acid still bubbling, I decided to look for old classmates from
elementary school, hoping a friendly face might calm me down. As I
searched I felt intimidated by the ease in which all the other kids, even my
fellow seventh graders, were chatting it up.
It was as if the whole school had taken turns hosting pool parties over
the summer and forgotten to include me.
They all seemed to know one another and were laughing, complaining and
making fun of people and the first day of school hadn’t even begun. The sickness in my stomach was beginning to
turn a dangerous corner into “outta my way I’m gonna hurl” territory when the
bell mercifully rang.
We hurried along
to our lockers and then our first classes. Stomach calming as I found my way to
each of my classes on time, I found a tentative rhythm and began to believe I
might survive if I could just manage to focus on the mechanics of the day,
boxing out any thoughts of socializing. In the hallways between classes, I kept
my eyes glued to my class schedule, avoiding eye contact.
By the time math
class rolled around at the end of the day, I was feeling more relaxed, having
settled into my antisocial rhythm. I
slipped through the door and chose a seat in front of a girl who reminded me of
myself two hours earlier. Grasping onto her pencil with both hands as if she
were trying to break it in half, our eyes connected and I recognized her panic.
I managed a lightning fast smile before burying my nose in my class schedule,
wanting to be sure I was in the right place, although I already knew I was.
Our teacher
entered the room and started what I now recognized as the standard welcome
spiel and passed around some handouts. In the gentle murmur accompanying the
distribution of papers, I made more eye contact with the girl behind me, throwing
in the occasional smile. By the end of class, as we stuffed our new textbooks
into our backpacks I felt confident enough to spark conversation. Before I
could change my mind and without looking up from the pressing work of zipping
my backpack, I blurted out the only thing I could think of, “Ugh, I hate math”
although I didn’t really hate math. I heard the quivering in my voice and started
blushing. I wanted to take it back. The panic from that morning told me I
should have quit while I was ahead and left the socializing for another day.
Before the sweat on my forehead had a chance to collect, I was comforted by the
matching tone in her response, “Me too.
I hope she doesn’t give us homework right away.” We stood up at the same
time, introducing ourselves as we hoisted, with great effort, our backpacks
onto our shoulders and headed out the classroom door together to find our
lockers.
****
Getting to know Hannah
was effortless. After that day our friendship blossomed into one of the closest
I’ve had in my life, even into adulthood.
We had so much in common at times I felt we were the same girl in
different bodies. We made each other
laugh so hard our bellies hurt every time we got together. We shared a love of music and had regular
dance parties in our living rooms to Billy Joel. We cried over the same corny movies and were
in complete agreement that every human being on earth should be required to get
a dose of “Dirty Dancing” every other month at the very least. We stayed up late during sleepovers, talking
about our latest crushes and made up elaborate stories about what our first
kisses would be like and who they would be with. We made time capsules and buried them in
spots around Hannah’s house, knowing full well we weren’t burying them deep
enough to actually allow them to stay put very long.
One evening at
Hannah’s house, we were watching a movie neither of us had seen before. I don’t remember anything about the movie
other than a scene where two women were exiting a bedroom wearing bathrobes,
surprised by an unexpected visitor. It
was clear the characters had been naked together in the bedroom and I was
mortified. At that age, the thought of kissing anyone at all was scandalous. Always one to lock the bathroom door while
showering, for fear of being walked in on by anyone including my own mother, the
idea of being naked with someone was too much for my shy, preteen imagination
to bear. Add to this a totally new
concept of two women…well, I could barely keep my skeleton from jumping right
out of my skin.
Trying to remain
calm, I resisted the urge to run for cover by gripping the armrests of the
oversized chair I was sitting in, determined to keep my body movement to a mere
squirm in my seat. Hannah and I tended
to defer to humor whenever we were uncomfortable. So, assuming she also wanted
to shrivel up and die of mortification, I said in an exaggerated, obnoxious,
“trying too hard to be funny” tone,
“EEWWWWWW!!!” I had been expecting
Hannah to join in and help me overcome my panic as she always did, but she
stayed quiet. I managed to steel my way
through the heart palpitations and was relieved to realize she hadn’t noticed
my sweaty, red face as the moment passed.
We finished the movie in awkward silence. I was more consumed with my discomfort over
the actual movie to wonder why Hannah hadn’t matched my reaction so I left her
house that evening without discussing it.
A few weeks later
during a sleepover at my house, we sat together in my darkened room defying
sleep and sharing secrets. We were
trading confessions about personal fears, embarrassing stories, and crushes
when Hannah said, “Remember when we were watching that movie a while ago and
you were grossed out by those women? I’m sorry, but that was…well, I guess it
disappointed me. You know, you don’t really know anything about any of that and
I think it’s kinda rude to judge.”
I stammered,
stalling for time as I considered my response.
I knew I had let her down for the first time in our friendship and
wanted to take shelter in the nearest cave.
She was finally seeing the “real me”. The imperfect, immature,
disappointing side of me she probably thought didn’t exist. Instead of
retreating and changing the subject though, I decided to trust our friendship. I
swallowed my embarrassment and managed to ask her to tell me more. I vowed to
open my eyes to the world. I wanted to
do this for the sake of our friendship, but also because I knew she was right.
Hannah and I
remained close into the beginning of high school but started drifting apart as
we made friends in different social circles.
One day in high school I ran into her in the girl’s bathroom. I was startled to notice her looking
distraught and tearful. We hadn’t talked
in a while, but I instantly wanted to reach out. I asked her what was wrong and she said, in an
unconvincing, dismissive tone, “It’s nothing, I’m fine.” In the moment, I knew we had lost our
connection. I told myself she was going
to be okay because she had new friends she could talk to and that it was probably
no big deal. My gut told me it was something
more but it wasn’t my place to pry. I
wasn’t her best friend anymore. We
eventually went our separate ways for college.
While on summer
break during my college years I was visiting with a mutual friend of mine and
Hannah’s. I learned Hannah was doing
very well, having come out of the closet that year. I had never consciously considered the fact Hannah
might be gay but at the same time wasn’t shocked. If she had started putting
the pieces together during high school, I imagined how terrifying that must
have been. We grew up in a small rural
town and people who were “different” were routinely teased and treated as outcasts. Chances are, the bathroom moment had nothing
to do with her sexuality, but it set me wondering if I had contributed to any
fear she may or may not have felt while coming to this life changing
realization.
I thought of my
reaction to the movie and worried it was the only picture of me Hannah had in
her memory. I pictured her in junior
high, starting to suspect her sexual orientation and seeking acceptance from
her best friend. My heart broke as I put
myself in her shoes, seeing that door slam in her face for the first time. I’ve
never been able to shake the worry, even though the logical part of my brain
knows we grew apart because of common adolescent circumstances. Still, if I had
reacted differently to that movie, could I have had a chance to keep her
company during what must have been a lonely, difficult path? I had blown it.
Since that time,
I’ve seen Hannah once or twice and we’ve kept tabs on each other on
Facebook. She is married to her partner
and they just had a beautiful baby girl.
I’m so happy for her and wish I was more a part of her life especially
now that we are both mothers. I
occasionally comment on her photos and she and I have had a few friendly
exchanges but I’ve resisted the urge to try and push my way back into her
life.
****
As I started writing
this piece, I sensed a hesitation so stubborn, it was keeping the memories and
words from flowing as freely as I had imagined they would. I know Hannah is one hundred percent out of
the closet, but was worried about respecting her privacy all the same. I wanted
to check in with her to let her know I planned to write about this experience
and our friendship. I felt I had already
disappointed her once and never let myself live it down. I didn’t want to feed
that flame anymore.
Before I lost my
nerve I messaged her, telling her about the contest and my intentions. In just a
few short minutes, I got Hannah’s reply which included, “'I’m
so sorry if this is disappointing, but I don't remember the time you're talking
about. Absolutely don't mind you telling
the story. I hope I was respectful in
the moment, and I'll work on remembering it eventually.” I laughed out loud as I felt the
self-inflicted shame rise off my shoulders in a cloud of mist and disappear
into the air. I had spent at least
fifteen years worrying; worrying something I said when I was young and naïve could
have made this monumental impression on Hannah when all that time the
monumental impression was exclusive to me.
My reaction to the movie was the
younger me trying to fit in with my peers.
It’s not who I am and it never was.
Of course Hannah would know that.
I couldn’t believe I had been so hard on myself and that I hadn’t given
Hannah any credit at all. Instead of
assuming she judged me for a childish mistake, why hadn’t I had more faith in
the friendship I knew we shared at the time and in the logical, forgiving
person I’d always known her to be?
I
wonder how many people do this kind of thing.
This isn’t the first time I’ve apologized to an old friend for some past
friction or wrongdoing, only to find out the other person has no recollection
of it. Regret and shame are rude like
that. They hang on well past the “lesson
learned” phase. No matter how much we
tell ourselves we’ve made amends and owned up to our mistakes, our attempt to
show negative self-talk the door is undermined because the minute you turn your
back to reach for the knob, it slips away and sets up camp in the spare bedroom. I won’t make the same mistake the next time I
open that door.
