Embracing The Nerd Within...Again

There's no doubt I was a nerd as a child. Sports wasn't my thing and never became my thing. My head was always in a book if I wasn't watching an old black and white film on TV. I found additional pleasure in drawing and writing and that was pretty much the scope of my activities from the ages of 9 through 16. 

Something happened around my junior year of high school which would change all that. Although I hadn't achieved popular status or total acceptance with the "cool kids." I'd managed to carve a niche for myself as a freak and that had it's own perks as I was now that "crazy kid who'd do anything."

After moving to Texas in the summer of my graduation year (1982) I began working and started college which soon turned into quitting college, partying and working to survive. I would say that partying became my primary activity with work secondary and school a distant eventuality...if ever. I wouldn't return to school for many years. I was popular amongst my shifting groups of friends through these years and I always seemed to have a boyfriend, lover or at least a few guys who maintained steady interest in me. I dropped my glasses in early 1984 when I got my first pair of contacts and I was suddenly fresh meat as I still had a baby face and older guys (I'd undoubtably call them predators now) found me irresistible. Where was that nerd? He still inhabited my being but I had no time for him. I needed to project an image that didn't allow him to show up amongst friends. He certainly did emerge when I was alone and had no "image" to project. I amassed a large collection of books over those years. They were simply decoration where others were concerned but in private, I read voraciously. All the while, I continued to fake a "dumb blonde" act (my hair was generally shades of platinum during this time) because I thought that's what attracted older, stable guys with money.

There's a whole bunch missing from this story because it is another story in it's own right. But let's just for the sake of brevity move quickly over the twenty years it took to realize that I missed him--that nerd. He slowly began to emerge--first cautiously, as a stranger from a gentler time--wanting to help me adjust to a new normal. He quietly (he was pretty shy) reminded me that looks were unimportant and that being accepted into "exclusive" groups wasn't a sign of popularity or status but actually shallowness. 

He's actually here with me today as I write this--yet another essay--ruminating on life and enjoying the pen as it moves along the lines of this notebook. I'm totally in love with him!

(Here he is with the Easter "Nest"...1974)

The Great Depression Of 1979

 If I could talk with my 14 1/2 year-old self, I would tell him it would all be okay. On a good day. For me presently, that is. On days when depression takes hold I would probably tell him to run away as fast as he could and not look back. That was the advice of a broken, lonely widow who at that time in my life was my most trusted confidant. She was a deeply troubled but good woman and her name was Rita. When I was 14, she was the age I am currently--and yes, she was clinically depressed. 

I've struggled with bouts of depression my entire adult life. These periods did not originate in adulthood, however. They began far back in my youth. Far enough back that I can't remember the first instance--but I can certainly remember many childhood instances when depression reared it's ugly head. One particular year was literally filled with depression and anxiety. That year was 1979.

(My class photo upon entering high school. August, 1978)

(Here I am at the beginning of my sophomore year. Acne, awkwardness, glasses. This photo was used by my parents to give the police a description when I ran away from home. I think I am hiding some serious sadness here)

The year started with the second half of my freshman year at a private Catholic high school about seven miles from my hometown. The name of this neighboring town was--is--St. Marys. Rita was born and raised there. That school year was anything but enjoyable or pleasant. Each day was racked with anxiety and fear. I had developed a persecution complex because I was heavily involved with a pseudo-evangelical Catholic Charismatic prayer group and was certain I was a sinner of the first class since by that time I was convinced I was "possessed" by the demon of homosexuality. At the same time, that unhealthy relationship had deepened with Rita-the depressive widow. She was my mother's age and she lived alone next door to us. There were stark differences between she and my mother. Rita had a 6th grade education. My mom had high school and some secretarial training. I felt my mom couldn't--or more likely wouldn't--understand me or make any effort to. She tolerated Rita and was even quite friendly to her but I know that my closeness with her was disturbing to my mother. And it should have been! It was a truly inappropriate relationship as I had taken to calling Rita my "best friend."  Along with the middle-aged ladies of the prayer group, she completed my then circle of "friends." I had all but abandoned the childhood boys with whom I had longstanding adolescent friendships.

(my closest friend in 1977-78, our next door neighbor, Rita. A total eccentric at heart, she would be the only person who knew of my plans to run away from home before I actually did)

I was keeping a journal during this time. My first. I kept it expertly hidden as I never wanted my nosey mother to view its contents. This journal was my other friend and confidant. It was also my therapist. In retrospect it truly was. Later in the year my mother did indeed "discover" my journal and castigated me for its contents--especially the harsh words I had for my father. I ceremoniously burned the journal in a rusty barrel located near the alley behind our home. I would love to view the contents of that journal today but my 14 year-old self felt that I was purging those words that had been defiled by my mother's viewing. The relationship with my parents was at an all time low. I probably wrote that I hated them but it was hardly caused by the typical teenage/parent angst. I hated them for our location. I felt isolated. I had witnessed what I then called the "outside world" thanks actually to my parents and numerous trips we'd taken outside our tiny town. I wanted to be anywhere but that small town with what I thought at the time was its small minds. I resented it more each time we'd take one of those trips and return to the rusty hamlet where they chose to make our home. Perhaps they recognized this and in their desperation to placate me planned a trip to New York City in August of that tumultuous year. Dad decided to make it an extended trip as we'd take in Long Island and the New England states as well. 

The potentially bright spot in my year had me feeling excited despite the fact that I clearly was at odds with my two traveling companions for the journey. Dad had booked a room at the famed Waldorf-Astoria Hotel right smack dab in the middle of the most exciting city on earth. Plus, I'd never been there--and was relentless in consistently guilting my folks for not bringing me (then, practically a newborn) to the 1964-65 New York World's Fair to which they brought my other four siblings while sticking me with my Aunt Laura and Uncle Andy. All that resentment for a trip I would clearly not have remembered. Still, it was wonderful to finally see all the places I'd dreamed about. We did everything possible that tourists could do in two days: Statue of Liberty, Empire State Building, World Trade Center and a show with the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall. Part of this trip included a stop at the place where my father went to school at what is now MIT. We ended the trip with a day in Boston and then headed back home through upstate New York. 

(a copy of "GuestInformant" I stole from our room at the Waldorf)

(dad at the outdoor observatory, World Trade Center, south tower. In this photo, he is the age I am now)

If mom and dad had hoped this trip would cure my depression, it must have been a huge letdown for them to realize that it only exacerbated it. My desire to escape my "circumstances" were only heightened with what I saw on this escape. I entered my sophomore year with even more anxiety and now what I could only describe in retrospect as desperation. After a miserable Christmas, I would attempt, in January of the following year, to run away from home. I only made it as far as Buffalo and was retrieved by my parents the same day. But something changed in me on that day. I realized that I did indeed have something within myself that was more powerful than depression. It was something like determination. And I discovered I could use this determination effectively to unhinge the chains that the Charismatic prayer group had on me, the strange and inappropriate bonds I had developed with the neighbor widow, Rita...and an even stronger desire to break free of the place that had imprisoned me for the first 15 years of my life. I spent the summer of my Junior year in Texas with relatives and I was determined to return there when I graduated. I also began making friends with people my own age again and started a long road of acceptance regarding my sexuality. The depressive episodes never went away completely. They still plague me to this day. But all I typically need to do is recall the events of 1979 to put me back on the path. It's nice to have a guidepost.