Loyalty

I really don't understand what the problem is with people...whether the problem is with just the people I know, or people in general, or me.

A caveat: Before anyone reads this and gets unduly angry with me...unless otherwise indicated, hypotheticals in this post are purely hypothetical and don't relate to anyone specifically. They're a mixture of literally hundreds of situations involving dozens of people over a number of years.

I was always raised with the understanding that I was never to let anyone down if I could help it, including myself. As a kid, that meant always going to school, always making my sports practices and games, always going to a friend's house or party if I'd said I would, no matter what else came up that might have sounded better. If I committed to play on a soccer team, I'd better not miss a game unless I was basically hospitalized - even if I had a ton of homework on my plate. I'd made a commitment to my coach and teammates with the understanding that I would have to sacrifice a little bit of myself. My assumption - and I would hypothesize that this is the major source of my problem now - was that they would sacrifice a little bit of themselves in return.

Case in point: I played middle school soccer and in the middle school band. My dad used to attend a yearly magistrates' conference for work, and in the years when it took place in a locale more exciting than Gastonia, NC (that is, most years), the family would go along for the ride. We'd hike through the mountains or hang out on the beach while Dad attended his conference. In my 8th grade year, my dad's state conference was being held in the Outer Banks of North Carolina. None of the family had ever been, and so we were all excited at the prospect of going. The problem arose when I realized that the conference conflicted with both a soccer game and a school band performance. I'd made a commitment in both cases that I didn't feel like I could break. And so, in what everyone else treated as a shocking move on my part, I spent a few days at my best friend's house while my family gallivanted off to the beach. Over the course of those few days, I managed to contract poision ivy, and ultimately was unable to even play in the soccer game (and was in some serious pain for about a week). I did my part in the band concert, playing the snare drum and faking it as best I could on the bells (oops!) To this day, I'm a lifelong resident of North Carolina and still have not been to the Outer Banks. Everyone tells me I should really see Jockey's Ridge.

Even my mom thought I was nuts when I announced my decision to hang around school rather than accompany my family on a trip to the beach. What right-minded 13-year-old makes that decision (this raises the question of whether any 13-year-old is ever in his right mind, but for the sake of argument...) But the fact of the matter was, this was what she had ingrained in me. Sure, the beach sounded better than school. But I was a starting forward on the soccer team and had my part to play in the band like everyone else. I'd promised to go to Party A, so even when sexier Party B came strolling along, I stuck to Party A. I'm beginning to wonder if this is a character flaw...this undying commitment to others. Would anyone else on that soccer team or in that band have made the same decision for me? I'll never forget the moment in my life when I truly began to doubt that they would have. I was on the phone with my best friend, and she had to step away for a second. Half an hour later, I was still hanging on the line, utterly shocked that she could actually forget me and promising myself that I would hang up if she didn't pick the phone back up in a minute or 5 or 10. I eventually hung up after about 45 minutes and spent the rest of the night in a daze trying to figure out how she could completely forget to come back to the phone. The next time I saw her, I had to remind her that she'd left me hanging. She laughed. I laughed. Haha...you forgot about me! No big deal! Was this loyalty, or some sort of confounded self-absorbance on my part? Or maybe just simply naivete.

That phone call has occurred over and over again in my life. Maybe not the actual case of being forgotten on the other end of the phone, but plenty of instances of lacking commitment and empty words on the part of people I know. I take everything that my friends say seriously. If someone promises to call in an hour or tomorrow or next week, I assume they're going to make that call. If someone says they want to hear about thus and such, I assume they're going to make the time to listen. If someone says we're going to watch a movie tonight, or go out tomorrow, or take a trip to Europe in 6 months, I start searching for cheap deals to Prague...because when I say those things to someone, I mean them. And if I can't commit to something right away, I make sure to indicate as much. At the VERY least, if I tell you I'm going to meet you tonight, and for some reason out of my control I cannot, I let you know that as soon as possible instead of letting you infinitely wonder why you haven't heard from me.

As I said, I guess a large part of this is just naivete on my part. I try to be as considerate as possible of others, and so I expect the same from them. I'm beginning to think that's especially stupid in my 20s, as everyone seems to be out to take care of #1, and I suppose rightfully so. When else is it so acceptable and so beneficial to be selfish? Certainly not after the kids are on the way. I'm just curious as to why I seem to lag behind all of my peers in forgetting those lessons that were hammered into us in kindergarten. Sharing our toys. Saying "please" and "thank you" and "I'm sorry". Finishing our coloring book page in progress, even if the next one looks more interesting. Abiding by the Golden Rule. When was it that I was supposed to forget? How did I miss the sign?

The result is, it seems, me getting constantly (but ever so politely) stomped into the ground. Phone calls don't arrive, plans are cancelled, promises devoid of meaning. When someone says, "I'll call Tuesday" or "I'll see you this weekend", 8 times out of 10, they're just saying it. It's automatic. While I stew Tuesday night because that call never came, that person has actually never thought again of his statement. In fact, if the statement were resurrected, he would probably have no memory of ever having made it. Now, there are of course those 2 times out of 10 when something actually does come up, when, as my current best friend says, "people have situations to live through." I understand this. No one's life is all about me. Those situations are disappointing, but they don't stab me in the gut. This post is not about them.

The other, seemingly more positive, result is that people state "loyalty" as a reason for enjoying my company. Loyalty. It's the reason people buy golden retrievers or shop at the local hardware store instead of Lowe's. It might sound good on paper, but in my mind, it's only a euphemism for "good dog." You know I won't bite, even if you leave me by myself in the house for a few days with no food. I'll come running to give you kisses, tail wagging and eyes bright, the next time you step through my door. I'm too dumb and too desperate to know better. You really do love me, I know that. You do all the textbook things often enough that I don't doubt that. And in a pinch, you'd be there to take me to the vet. I know that, too. You'd be crushed if anything ever happened to me, and when it ultimately does, you're beside yourself for a few days. In a classic case of not knowing what you had until it's gone, you realize you desperately miss me. So you head out to the animal shelter and find a new puppy, bring him home. You still think of me fondly now and then, but the acute pain fades pretty quickly. I've been replaced.

If the above paragraph seems overly dramatic, it is. But it's meant to make a point. Whether I'm accurate or not about the way people feel about me (or anyone else in their lives, for that matter), the fact remains that from what I've seen, people tend to treat each other with less than that Golden Rule. I'm pretty sure I'm not the only person hurt by false promises. Maybe I should just stop taking everyone at face value, or just stop having faith in people altogether, but what am I left with then? I've wondered many times if I should become as flaky as those around me, but time and again I've found myself incapable of that. It's just not in my constitution. It throws me entirely off balance. And what good is tit for tat anyway?

Again, whether the problem is with me not seeing that apparently blatant sign everyone else saw sometime between high school and college or with society as a whole (should that sign even exist?), I don't know. To be sure, I have a number of friends I can count on, especially when it counts, and I am infinitely grateful for them. Many of them have gone out of their way for me on several occasions, and I would never want to diminish the meaning of those people or those instances. But while this post may seem excessively harsh and angry, the truth remains that those day to day disappointments add up. I'm no saint, and I'd never deserve the right to cast the first stone. I'm just honestly curious as to where my mindset went wrong, and if there's anyone else who wonders the same thing.

Therapy

Once again, I have not written for awhile. I've thought about it many times, but my recent thoughts have often been far too intense and convoluted to share in a blog. At the same time, I need to write now, more than ever. I'll do something I rarely have done...and realize I need to do a lot more of...and that is admit that I am struggling. I know everyone has their demons to fight at some point in life. Everyone has a story. I'm not naive or self-centered enough to think I'm at all alone, however much feeling this far down can certainly make one feel very alone.

If you've stumbled across this particular entry, I think I'd ask you to view it as a chapter in an autobiography. It's a little less weird that way. For me, the next several posts will be the beginning of what I hope will eventually result in a lot of healing. I am seeking some professional guidance through this particular struggle, but before I land on someone's couch, I think it will be helpful to get some of my thoughts in order. I did not intend on publishing what follows when I first began to write it, but as I wrote it, I began to see that NOT sharing it is perhaps part and parcel of my seminal problem. I've touched on this fear of total honesty before. So here is the first part of what I'll call Chapter 1, for anyone who's interested. For anyone who knows me well, I'm guessing none of this will be much of a surprise anyway...

Part I : Beyond “Tomboy”

As far as I can tell, the problems began with the freedom my parents gave me to “be myself” when I was a kid. This meant being allowed to wear whatever I wanted, play and play with whatever and whomever I wanted, and cut my hair however I wanted. I was inclined, for whatever reason, to dress, play and style my hair like a boy. Most of my friends growing up were boys, so I was essentially socialized as a little boy. I played sports with the boys and thrived off of competition. I sucked up pain, emotional and physical, and rarely shared feelings with anyone. If I’d shown weakness, I would have been tossed from the club, relegated to loneliness or worse, the world of dolls and pink things. I distinctly remember a couple episodes of demonstrated “toughness” from my early youth. Both occurred in first grade. In one instance, I refused to color in a picture of a flower, declaring to my teacher that I HATED flowers. When Easter rolled around, the class dressed paper bunnies with cut-outs from wallpaper. I battled my teacher over my right to dress mine in shorts instead of a skirt. She refused to allow it. I cringed every time I walked into my classroom, spying my embattled, beskirted bunny hanging on the wall. My resolve only grew stronger from there. My entire sense of self-worth was based off of achievement, and as a kid, this worked out well for me. I was better than my peers at nearly everything I tried and made nearly perfect grades. I scored goals, won swim meets, and was one of only three girls in the county who could shoot a 3-pointer. I was perfectly behaved at school (other than bunny-type incidents). My parents had nothing to complain about, so they didn’t. When I wanted to cut my hair outrageously short in 3^rd grade, they didn’t bat an eye. When I insisted on wearing slacks and a tie to my sports banquets, my dad provided the tie. They were of the “hands-off” school of parenting, as they had both been parented to death as kids. I appreciated this as a kid and understand it now, but I am becoming increasingly aware of the foundation that this helped lay for my current troubles.

I learned early on that something was wrong with me when I constantly got berated for walking into girls’ bathrooms. My sister, 4 years my junior, would be forced to defend me and my presence there. As a kid, I handled this situation by avoiding it as often as possible. I did everything I could to avoid public bathrooms, from developing a habit of going to the bathroom before I walked out the door to holding it for unbelievable amounts of time on long outings. My mother worried for my health when I would refuse to go to the bathroom, but the public humiliation was much worse for me than the physical pain. Anyone who witnessed this situation or heard this story marveled at my “bravery” for “being myself” in the face of such scrutiny and disapproval. While well-intentioned, I hated this form of praise and found it to be blatantly untrue. I was no martyr and I didn’t want to be. I was a coward who couldn’t even walk into a bathroom.

As I got older, I became more and more aware of what an oddball I was. No one cares about an 8-year-old girl running around in Umbros and a T-shirt, but they certainly do care once you’re 18 and in polos and cargo shorts. That was my freshman year of college. I’d spent several miserable years in middle and high school, although I still excelled academically. My middle school years were full of boy bands, weekly visits to the movies to see Titanic, and a still-intense obsession with Dawson’s Creek – facts that people who know me today are surprised to learn. I also co-starred with my newfound best friend on the school’s county championship soccer team. From the outside, I had it all, but in reality, I didn’t really fit anywhere. I was terrified to attend middle school dances – not because of the normal fear of judgment that plagues 12-year-olds, but because I didn’t feel like I would belong. I’d show up in a sweater and khakis, and God knew no boy would dance with me. Soccer and a little bit of theater provided some fun and acceptance, and my blessed favorite 6^th grade teacher managed to find the perfect niche for me as the school’s football statistician.

By my freshman year in high school, sports had slowly begun to elude me for a number of reasons and I instead immersed myself in other pursuits, although I played golf until I graduated. A social life was relatively unimportant to me, and in later years I’ve been shocked to find out about the parties that went on at my acquaintances’ homes in high school. I didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, and might have gone “out” to a movie 3 or 4 times in high school. I didn’t even have a curfew. I had the best friend I’d had in middle school and spent most of my free time hanging out at her house…playing softball or soccer…or attending her select sports competitions. My other best friend in high school was my history teacher. I would arrive at school ridiculously early…as early as 7am…to hang out with him. It was a relationship based on mutual need, from what I can gather now. He had a hard time fitting in with anyone at the school. I also had a hard time fitting in and was excessively intellectually mature for my age. Both of us caught quite a bit of criticism, and fairly so in a school where the high school football coach had been “let go” for having an affair with the student body president. Looking back once again, it’s pretty clear that my parents should have stepped in here as well. I know I would have heard the bells and whistles going off if my child were skipping out of the house an hour before she had to so that she could hang out with a teacher every morning. But I’m also pretty sure my mother was relieved to see me connect with someone so well, and thus allowed the visits to continue.

I was too busy with schoolwork, clubs, sports practices, and other various extracurriculars to pay much attention to the oddities of my social life. Once again, there was little for my parents to complain about, so they didn’t. On the inside, however, I was beginning to feel like I might be missing something. By the time I’d graduated from high school, I still had not come close to having a boyfriend. I hadn’t even come close to being kissed. I danced with my first boy at the end of my 10^th grade year – at his going away party. Despite my lack of socialization, I knew these things probably should have happened. I’d crushed on 3 or 4 boys in high school, two of whom I admired from afar for years and one of whom was my male best friend, Marc, that first dance. But other than Marc traveling up to take me to senior prom after he’d moved away, nothing romantic ever came my way. At the same time, I understood what was going on. Who would ever want to date me? I was mistaken for a boy on a regular basis and could not have possibly been attractive to the opposite sex. If I were a boy, I wouldn’t date me, either. Dating me would require putting up with all the bullshit I put up with on a daily basis. It would require knowing that assumptions were being made about you the second someone laid eyes on you. It would require constantly being on the defensive like I had begun to be. I began to use my unconventional appearance as a tool to test everyone I met. If people could like me despite my appearance, they were worth hanging on to. Why should I change my appearance to make people happy, and how could I ever judge people’s intentions if I did?!

The consequences of my appearance began to take a more and more severe toll on my self-image as I tread into the depths of adolescence. Being a teenager is tough enough on anybody – the expectations, the lack of respect, the awkwardness, the acne – it can be downright miserable if you glaringly don’t fit in. I began to fear meeting people, as doing so inevitably involved an exchange wherein a current friend or family member or I had to explain to the new person that I was indeed a girl. My dad would get especially angry in these circumstances, glaring at whoever the unsuspecting, well-intentioned soul was and hissing, “SHE’S my DAUGHTER.” This led to several awkward conversations in which I asked him to please calm down in such situations. People didn’t mean to insult me – they couldn’t really be blamed, after all. I’d have made the same mistake if I were them. In any case, that wasn’t the best way to make a first impression. I also dreaded fresh substitute teachers, who would always pause and give me a half-confused, half-annoyed look when I answered to “Megan” on the roll call. The situation was especially ridiculous given my reputation as a near-perfect student. A few kids would giggle in class, and someone would usually confirm that I was, in fact, who I said I was. Then there was the bathroom comment at a Burger King on our way to the beach one summer. As per usual, my presence in the girls’ bathroom had been questioned. I assured the interrogator that I was a girl. She shrugged her shoulders: “The boys and the girls – they all look the same these days.” Or the soccer referee incident at a tournament in Winston-Salem. The ref openly questioned my presence on the team, commenting to me as he walked past, “Well, I’ve seen girls on boys’ teams, but never a boy on a girls’ team!” I told my coach and my mom. Both were furious and both had a word with the ref. I played horrendously that day. As it turned out, it would be my last game with the select soccer team that I’d come to love – my only semblance of normal socialization in high school. I seemingly let all of these things roll off my shoulders, but in reality, every instance weighed me down just a little more. I never spoke to anyone about it – I was far too embarrassed and far too emotionally inexpressive to do such a thing. Looking back, that contrived toughness caused far more problems than it solved. When I eventually DID begin to talk about the emotional pain that had been inflicted on me, I realized that most people had just been waiting for me to address the issue. People weren’t stupid – they knew I didn’t just forget the comments that were made to and about me. I should have given my family and true friends a lot more credit a lot sooner.

So I got to 18 and my freshman year in college. Things were going pretty well by outside standards – I was at Duke on a full scholarship. But it was then that it began to become clear how socially stunted I really was. I had no desire to drink and in fact mounted a personal crusade against it in my mind for reasons I don’t really understand. Neither of my parents influenced me in that direction, and in fact, I think they probably would have preferred me to be a little more of a loose cannon. In any case, I went off to Duke knowing all of one person – a calculated move since I’d been so miserable in high school. I was determined for things to be different in college. Since I didn’t drink, I rarely went out in those first few months. I was still quite content to stay in on a Friday night, even if the rest of the dorm was out partying. I made friends with pretty like-minded people and judged everyone else. Now that I look back, I’m wondering if part of the crusade against drinking had to do with a fear of the social scene that accompanied it. I knew I wouldn’t fit in with the Greek element and I certainly was not prepared to go out dancing at clubs. I didn’t look the part, so I wouldn’t even attempt it.

Then came the summer of 2003. I lived with 6 other BN scholars in 2 apartments in Columbia, SC. I worked at an internship for a non-profit called Family Connection, which served the needs of parents of disabled kids. Here was a field where I’d excelled in middle school – working with disabled kids. They don’t tend to judge you like everyone else does, and I think I found some respite myself in the time I spent with them. In any case, the internship itself was miserable except for a family with whom I conducted regular home visits. The summer came to a head when I was sent to spend a week shadowing in the various departments of a local hospital. I spent the first day in the children’s cancer ward, trying to grasp the terror their parents must have been facing. Day 2 was to be spent in the surgery waiting room – until I was actually sent in to watch a spinal fusion surgery. Day 3 was to be spent on an ER shift – until I received a call a few hours before informing me that the hospital would rather I not return. This resulted in long talks with the director of Family Connection, a woman named Pat Head (haha) and my scholarship advisor about why I was not invited to complete my shadowing. This further resulted in Pat Head berating me for the way I looked. “You look like a 12-year-old boy,” she told me. That scar still bleeds today. It made the most pacifistic kid in our apartment so angry that he swore and then threatened to beat Pat Head if he ever saw her. The crux of the matter was this – the hospital had been uncomfortable with my appearance. Girls who look like boys are not accepted in Columbia, SC. In her tirade, Pat Head succeeded in making me feel like the outcast who made all the other outcasts feel better about themselves. In a roundabout way, though, she did me a favor. Her grossly inappropriate behavior caused me to bleed – and in doing so, began to allow me to release the 10 years of pent-up anger, confusion and frustration that had begun to severely weigh me down. I talked about everything with friends for the first time, in conversations that lasted into the wee wee hours of the morning. I no longer cared whether or not I was awake for work in the morning. But those conversations were life savers. As I alluded to before, I was shocked to find out that my friends were wholly unshocked to hear all I had to say. They reassured me that I was fine in their eyes and that Pat Head could go to hell. At the same time, they gently nudged me into transforming my appearance – for my own sake. The thought of being able to walk into a bathroom free of criticism finally trumped my desire to test people with my looks. I’d have to find another medium for that, and as it turned out, I certainly would. I began to grow out my hair, with no promise of changing anything else. After all, I could always cut that hair off again.