Tuesday, October 31, 2006

Third Shift Widow

Being a third shift widow has taken a lot of getting used to.

Every night, I breathe a sigh of relief when Brett leaves at 9:30 p.m. Not because I don’t want to be with him, but because then I don’t feel bad about holing up in the study to work on my novel. Since we don’t see each other that much during the week, I try to hang out with him (unless he’s sleeping of course) when he is home.

The problem arises mostly because I am a morning person. My creative flower blooms early. It’s a lot harder for me to be creative at 9:30 at night. So, many nights, I give in and try to read in bed. But then it’s too quiet. I hear every noise and curse my vivid imagination that has masked men violating the sanctity of my home.

Although, I suppose you would have to be a pretty stupid burglar to break into our house. For one thing, Brett’s big old size 16 shoes are in front of both doors. That alone should scare your average burglar. And of course, we have Brett’s personal gun collection which should forewarn the burglar that we take our freedom to bear arms quite literally.

And should the burglar get as far as my room, I have a gun. Okay, okay, so it’s not a REAL gun, but it’s a very cleverly crafted fake one Brett bought for me to use as a scare tactic. It was the only thing I could persuade him to do when he did want to buy me a real one. All the real ones are locked away in a very secure gun safe. The ammunition is also locked away in a completely different secure safe. So, if I DID need to use a real one, I would have no idea on how to do it. So, I just plan to wave the fake one around. Okay, not really, but it gives me a much more tangible feeling of security.

So, reading doesn’t work. So, I turn on the TV for company. I’ve been watching a lot of late night television. Mostly comedies on the WB like Scrubs, King of the Hill, and Still Standing. Actually, I was watching Sex and the City (I know, I know) until I started liking it, and Mom pointed out to me that it’s a BAD SHOW, no matter how late it is.

And, like you had to ask, of course I sleep with two lights on – one in the closet and one in the bathroom. I also have a flashlight and Brett’s day-glow hunting lantern - which glows like the sun – in case of a power outage. I also leave my cell phone on all night – first, in case there is a power outage, and secondly, so I’ll be able to call 911 when the gunmen cut the phone lines.

My flashlight is a Maglite with a very heavy base, so I can use it as a club if I have to fight my way out. I also have our emergency fire ladder ready in case I have to break a window and escape in case of fire, or (yet again) the gunmen. The bunny carriers are also cleaned and ready to go, in case I need to take them with me during my escape. Of course, I have my two fire extinguishers ready in case of a freak blaze (all the fire safety precautions come courtesy of my brother-in-law, the firefighter, who manages to tell me a scary house fire story every time I see him).

I guess I’m prepared as I can be for just about anything.

So, if you are ever out late and want to stop by – I’d recommend you call first. If not, I can’t guarantee I won’t knock you out with my fake gun, club you with my flashlight, call 911 on you, and spray you with my fire extinguisher, before realizing it’s you!

Quantum Loving It!

I have a secret crush. His name is Dr. Sam Beckett.

"Theorizing that one could time travel within his own lifetime, Dr. Sam Beckett stepped into the Quantum Leap accelerator and vanished. He woke to find himself trapped in the past, facing mirror images that were not his own and driven by an unknown force to change history for the better. His only guide on this journey is Al, an observer from his own time, who appears in the form of a hologram that only Sam can see and hear. And so Dr. Beckett finds himself leaping from life to life, striving to put right what once went wrong and hoping each time that his next leap will be the leap home."

Don’t worry. Brett knows about it. Every time that red envelope arrives from Netflix, I rush to see if it contains one of my Quantum Leap discs! So far, I have watched up to the end of Season 3 and am just about to start on Season 4. Only two more seasons to go!

So, why do I love Quantum Leap so much? Well, mainly because it is a science fiction adventure show with two loveable main characters – and it’s clean! Plus, it is fun to see past times and all the predicaments an honest do-gooder like Sam manages to get himself into.

It’s a lot like Sliders, just with less people. I’m also a Sliders devotee, too, in case you wondered. Currently, I own the first seasons of both shows.

My love of science fiction and futuristic adventure stems from years of watching Star Trek: The Next Generation and X-Files with my dad. The two of us would make a “date” by getting comfortable on the living room couches, popping popcorn, dishing out ice cream, and watching alien invasions and brave new worlds. We had a great time. Mom, on the other hand, would forsake us to go watch Murder She Wrote in the other room.

Brett likes sci-fi, too, just not as avidly as I do. He prefers his Band of Brothers DVDs or war movies, over my X-Men favorites. But it’s okay. Our genres come together occasionally. Usually in the form of a Saturday afternoon Star Wars marathon.

So, I’m hoping that when I go home today, there will be that familiar red envelope, and maybe (just maybe) this leap will be the leap home for my adorable, honorable Dr. Sam Beckett!

Monday, October 30, 2006

Generational Friends

Well, how about that last gloom and doom post, huh? Did you feel sorry for me? I apparently did.

Today was such a different day. I felt I had to write about it to balance out the depressing vibe I put out yesterday.

Since the first (and biggest) of our fundraising events is finally over, I decided to use some of my vacation days. I took off last Friday and Monday (today). Originally, my plan was to hole up in my study and work on Sky Seven, now that I’m finally getting a good story arc going.

Ah, but, then I also had to drop off some Mary Kay to a client, and some jewelry from my lia sophia party to someone else. The jewelry belongs to a friend of my mom’s – Jackie.

When I called Jackie to see when and where was a convenient time for me to drop off the jewelry, she suggested we have lunch. I was kind of surprised, since she’s mom’s friend, but I’ve always liked her, so I said “sure.”

So, we had lunch today in the cafeteria of the hospital where she works. Now, when she first said “cafeteria,” I imagined some sad buffet line with limp lettuce and lukewarm soup. I was never so happy to be wrong! This cafeteria was more like a five star restaurant with many, many choices! We both decided on awesome, cheesy, pepperoni, Chicago-style pizza. One slice was big enough to be a meal! And oh, woman was it good!

We sat down to eat and talk, and I found myself having a really, really good time! She’s a very funny lady with a very similar background to mine. She was raised ultra conservative (she doesn’t like to use the word “legalistic”) in a Christian home but didn’t really become a believer until she was older.

She has two kids who are older than me - but not that much. I attended high school with her daughter (well, I was in seventh grade when her daughter was a senior). Perhaps what really connects us is that her husband died when her daughter was only 17.

Her daughter and husband were involved in a traffic accident. Her daughter walked away without a scratch, but her husband died in her daughter’s lap. It was a very sad story. When Dad died, Mom called Jackie up to ask for coping advice. Ever since then, Mom and Jackie have become very close.

After my dad died, Jackie’s daughter wrote me one of the sweetest letters I’ve ever received. She gave me a preview of what my mom was experiencing and gave me great first-hand advice on how to be a good daughter though the grieving process. I’m deeply indebted to her for that.

So, anyway, Jackie and I had a great time! We talked about Christian schools, colleges, our jobs, and the different churches we attended. As we sat there, wolfing down our pizzas, I thought about how much I’d like to see her again. I can imagine us having dinner together or something fun like that.

It’s amazing how the age gap just seems to evaporate the older I get. How it’s easier for me to befriend someone older or younger. Growing up, four of five years seem like a huge age span, but the older I get, twenty and thirty years doesn’t seem like that big of deal in the whole extent of friendship.

So, since I was so gripey and ungrateful yesterday, I figured I better take note of how God really blessed me today. He showed me, yet again, how He gives friends in His due time, not necessarily mine.

Sunday, October 29, 2006

A Stranger in the Room

Sometimes I dread going to church.

Lately, our pastor has been talking about how the true mark of a Christian is how he/she desires godly fellowship within the body of believers – the local church. So, in my daily prayers, I’ve been asking God to cultivate that desire.

The thing is - I know this church is where I’m supposed to be. The preaching is phenomenal. The people are warm and welcoming. There are no cliques. Seriously. It’s a great place.

So how is it that no one talks to me?

Okay, so they talk to me. Hello. How are you? That’s nice. And on to the next person. I’m not saying they’re fake. No, they are undoubtedly the most genuine people I have ever met.

I just can’t seem to make friends with anyone.

At Windsor, I had a wide circle of friends – young and old. Coming in those doors was a rush of relief. I knew everybody and would swing by their pews to get caught up on their lives.

Today we had a fifth Sunday fellowship I knew nothing about. When we went down after the service to wait for the meal, no one talked to me. All the women were (where else?) in the kitchen. Since I knew nothing about the fellowship, I was all alone with the men and children in the common room.

When someone finally did sit down next to me, I latched on to her like a Titanic survivor to a lifeboat. We had a nice conversation. She and her husband are retired, so I was able to talk about Mom’s recent foray into the realm of AARP.

Why do I want to be liked so badly? I mean, c’mon, you know me! I can handle it. I can tough it out. After all these years, I should be USED to NOT being liked.

But, I guess I’m not.

Every time we are at church, I feel utterly alone. You know how I always say that Brett is the “dependent” one in our relationship? Well, when it comes to church, I’m the one that follows him around. Because no one talks to me.

And why should they? I don’t have any kids, and I’m not a stay at home mom. During the fellowship today, I was telling someone about all the work I’ve been doing for our recent fundraising breakfast, and I swear her eyes glazed over. Yet, this same person, when Brett talked about his work, seemed downright entranced.

I can’t tell you the many nights I’ve sat in the pew and watched the happy flurry of other women in the church. They spiral around, skirts swaying, getting caught up on little Susie’s new braces, Jimmy’s schoolwork, or the current home school lesson.

I see how happy they are with their friends, and I long to be back at Windsor with people who looked that happy to see ME.

Or I even long to make friends with those same women. I just haven’t, yet.


I’ve been praying. Lord, if it is Your will for me to have friends at Morningstar, please provide them in Your way in Your Time. Help me to show myself friendly.

That’s been my honest heart cry.

Then, of course, I worry about what to talk about. These are not the people to discuss television, movies, or even pop culture events. I hate to break it to you, but that’s my arsenal folks. That’s all I’ve got.

How about books? You ALL know how I feel about THOSE books – my library is bursting with suspense novels, thrillers, and sci-fi adventure. What do I know about Being a Better Wife and Mother?

Could they like me for who I am? I fear I am too worldly. Maybe I am. Maybe THAT’S what I should be looking at?

But if so, how come all the people at Windsor liked me?

I know this isn’t a very cheery post. But I just had to write it to the friends I DO have out there. You guys like me, right? You’d talk to me, wouldn’t you?

Anyway, I guess what I’m really saying is…if there’s a woman in your church, even if she’s been a member for a while, and she looks lonely – sit down and talk to her. Really talk to her.

Maybe all she needs is to know someone might want to be her friend.

The Perfect Baptist’s Halloween

NOTE:
Now, I have to warn you - you’ll probably only get this joke if you’re a Baptist!

Dr. Joseph Stowell, the previous President of Moody Bible Institute, once told a funny Halloween anecdote. He said when he and his siblings were younger they used to go trick-or-treating every year.

Since his father was a pastor, several of the parishioners became upset. One man even came to his father and said, “I can’t believe that you, a pastor, would let his children participate in this pagan holiday.”

Figuring that maybe the man had a point, Mr. Stowell’s father said, “Maybe you’re right. Tell me, what does your family do on Halloween?”

“Oh, us?” the man said. “Well, we all go out to a movie.”

Ha! Ha! That cracks me up every time!

Halloween – Schmalloween

What is the big freaking deal about Halloween?

It’s a holiday, people.

Yes, I know it’s a holiday with a long and sordid past, when Satanists gather to worship, and when crazies murder people. But are you trying to tell me crazies don’t murder people on Easter? Or that those Satanists do nothing the rest of the year?

Isn’t it possible we’re feeding into the hype by being all paranoid about it?

And yes, it does have origins in the pagan world. But so does Christmas. Is that any reason to (as my Pastor once put it) shoot Santa Claus? Okay, you can save the joke about “Satan” Claus. I’ve heard it all before. You holiday spoilers.

If you ask me, the spooky part of Halloween is how people let their kids go door to door collecting candy from strangers. Now that’s scary. And a little creepy.

What really disgusts me is how some churches try to slap a new coat of paint on good ‘ol Halloween. They call it Hallelujah Harvest Hayride or something insipid like that.

Now, let me get this straight – for your churched-up event, you are going to let all the kids dress in costumes, collect candy, go on a hayride in the middle of the night, and sit around a glowing campfire telling stories. Oh yeah, that’s SO different from Halloween.

Give me a break. The only way you’re ever going to get away from the Halloween comparison is to have your event in February. Try having your hayride then.

So, why am I getting all spun up about Halloween, instead of following my usual live and let live mentality? Because I am sick and tired of having holiday spoilers (you know who you are) try to ruin some of the happiest childhood memories I have.

My Halloween memories are not cloaked in dark, haunted nights. They bask in the glow of friendly front door lights, shining flashlights, and the gleaming bounty of the mound of collected candy counted out under the radiance of the living room lamp.

I relished the opportunity to exercise my imagination – what would I be for Halloween? Decisions, decisions! Usually I settled on Laura Ingalls, Caddy Woodland, and (one year) Mabel from the Grandma’s Attic Series – okay, okay – I loved the “prairie” dress my Grandma made for me and wore it every chance I got!

After getting costumed up, Mom would grab our flashlights, and we’d head out in the neighborhood. All the kids and parents were out admiring one another’s costumes. Turning around, assuming the various flying positions of super heroes, or in my case, pretending to use my “rope” to lasso a cow.

Then a group of us (and our parents) would go door to door, ringing doorbells, sing-songing TRICK-OR-TREAT in chorus, and then THANK YOU as the bite-sized-pieces were dropped into our bags. After a full circle around the block, we’d head back home, where Dad was eating hot buttery popcorn (which he’d share with just a little friendly persuasion), and keeping busy between watching the news and answering the door.

The three of us would look at my haul, and Mom and Dad would do a quick preview of the candy before it would go into the candy jar to (hopefully) last for (at least) a…week, or so!

Sometimes, we’d go over to my cousins’ house and check out their costumes. My Aunt Kathy loved to tell the story of how one year my cousin Charity dressed up like a gypsy. I asked her why she had dressed up to be a homeless person. All the adults thought it was funny, but Charity didn’t talk to me the whole night!

Those memories are warm and fuzzy, and I’m even smiling now as I remember them. I’m sure there was evil afoot (I’ve always wanted to say that) on those nights as well, but those were the nights and the memories that make up my childhood. I refuse to paint it anything other than it was – good, ‘ol (yes, even) old fashioned, family fun!

Now, I agree the times have changed. Nowadays, I do think it’s safer to just take kids to the homes of people you know, instead of opening those innocent bags to everybody and their brother. But I also think it is a great way to be a part of your neighborhood and your community. To build trust within your block and witness to your neighbors.

So, Brett and I will be handing out candy to little pirates, princesses, and possibly-future-purse-snatchers on Tuesday. We’ll get to see our neighbors, compliment those costumes, and talk a while. So that their kids will have the same great memories we do of this fun (and often rainy) night.

If you don’t like it, create your own holiday. Just don’t do it on Halloween. I hear February’s open.

Friday, October 27, 2006

Silent Night

As an only child, I’m predisposed to enjoy solitude. It comes from years of being alone. At first, you battle boredom. Then, you adjust to it. And eventually you come to love and crave it.

I like being alone. I work in a field that calls for me to be constantly interacting and networking with other people. And I love it – most of the time. I can also be a social person – enjoying “nights out” and being with friends. But eventually it can be too much. So, it’s no wonder that, sometimes, when I come home, I enjoy the blissful silence.

One of the advantages to Brett’s six years of late nights was that I had a lot of alone time after work. Having Brett be home now (almost the entire time I am conscious) is taking some getting used to.

But, sometimes, it works out. Like now. Brett’s fast asleep in our room, and I’m getting to do what I love most – write. (Okay, okay, so I’m taking a little break now to post this.)

It’s a cool, silent night.

Not all silent nights are created equal. During the week, I have to dread the silent night scenario that has me home alone, in trepidation of the masked gunmen who could break into my home and kill me.

But tonight, when my big, strong husband is just two doors down, our quiet home is a nice place to be.

As Deep as a Puddle?

I’ve never been a serious person.

Don’t get me wrong. In school, I was hard-working, dedicated, and disciplined. I was an excellent student. But, I’ve always thought that, as a whole, I’m a little more flash than substance.

I suppose it goes with my perpetually sarcastic personality. It’s hard to be serious and sarcastic at the same time.

You know how the Bible talks about how women are supposed to be all sober-minded, sweet, loving, and submissive? Well, I think that those of us who have actual personalities should get extra credit just for trying.

The problem with Biblical womanhood (what a STUPID and overused word!) painted by pastors/churches and whatnot is that THOSE kind of women are, well, boring. I mean, who wants to sit around all the time baking pies, cooing children, cross-stitching samplers, and scrapbooking?

Okay, okay, yes, I know I’m being unfair when I say that.

It’s just that I’m a little jealous of THOSE women who manage to pull it off. You know, those women who actually DO think before they speak? The words are already out of my mouth and on their way to offend someone by the time my brain processes that maybe “overbearing” wasn’t the best descriptive word I could have used.

THOSE women look adoringly at their husbands, instead of mentally calculating exactly how many times he’s promised to take the garbage out and hasn’t yet.

How about THOSE women blessed with the gift of hospitality? With spotless warm and welcoming homes? Gifted chefs?

THOSE women who take charge of their children while their husbands wander around making small talk. Is it wrong for me to think, “Hey, buddy, those kids are 50% yours, too. How about you give her a hand?”

You can see how someone like me might feel overwhelmed. Pressured, even, to be like these women.

The problem is that I’m not. And I haven’t yet reconciled why God might have given me the personality He did, if He expected me to be someone else.

Is it possible to be a godly woman who doesn’t like to cook, hates to clean, and is not overly fond of other people’s children? Is it? I don’t know.

Faced with overwhelming insecurities, I have at times tried to emulate these particular characteristics. I do cook, and my husband swears it’s delicious. But I don’t cook on regular basis. And I don’t want to. I clean, too, regularly, but I spend the whole time muttering under my breath. And kids? Well, let’s just say that I’d rather wait and learn on my own kid before I’m wiping noses and changing diapers.

The question plagues me on a regular basis. Is there a model of Biblical womanhood (ugh!) that fits someone like me? Or do I have to change into a sunbonnet-wearing Laura Ingalls to be a godly woman? Do I have to start churning my own butter? Making dinner every night? Cleaning once a week? Volunteering in the church nursery?

Besides the butter churning, I’ve tried all that. And all I have left is a vague unsatisfied feeling.

When do I feel satisfied? When do I feel my best? When I’m having morning devotions, cuddled up in bed, with a cup of steaming hot green tea. When I’m at work on the phone with press, networking, witnessing to my co-workers, and helping girls to develop courage, confidence and character. When Brett and I are snuggled on the couch watching Star Wars eating frozen pizza. Going with my friends to a movie and pigging out on popcorn and sodas.

Talking about spiritual things with my Christian friends is a blessing, and it’s nice to know they’re not perfect either. They get frustrated, too.

All these years, I’ve fought to go against the grain. From Grandma’s Attic to Donna Reed, I’ve wanted to see women who were educated, intelligent, and thoughtful using those gifts in atypical ways to serve God. To serve Him creatively, outside the comfortable confines of the kitchen and nursery.

Is that wrong? Maybe it is. I don’t know.

I read a book by Elisabeth Elliot once. I didn’t like it. In fact, she was one of the people who perpetuated the idea in my mind that God loves men more than women. Now, I know she’s a great woman of faith, far more godly than I can ever hope to be. All I’m saying is that it’s really hard to be someone like me and still pursue the “ideals” of being the person God wants me to be – if He wants a Laura Ingalls-type, that is.

That’s right. I said “person.” That’s WHY I don’t like MANHOOD or WOMANHOOD. I know they’re necessary terms, but I always like to be a person first before God.

As you can tell, this is something I have been struggling with for a long time. And I’m sure I’ll keep struggling to find the right path God wants me to be on. But I can tell you one thing.

I’m drawing the line at wearing a sunbonnet.

Oh. My. YUM!

The phrase “Oh. My. YUM!” comes from a relatively new friend of mine.

Her name is Patty, and she’s a member of the Game Night Group that Brett and I meet with once a month. A couple of months ago, we were in the middle of playing a vigorous round of Cranium (often our game of choice) when Patty sampled something delicious. I think it was a piece of cake or something like that.

She was obviously impressed and started to say, “Oh. My. …” and you know what usually follows that combination. She looked around the room and (instead) put a little pause in and simply said YUM! Ever since then, whenever once of us is impressed by something we utter “Oh. My. YUM!

So that explains that. The reason I’m explaining all that is because I just had an Oh. My. YUM! experience.

I decided to heat up a frozen California Kitchen pizza, the five cheese and tomato flavor. It looked so cheesy, gooey and deliciously crusty coming out of the oven. And I thought, “You know what would make this even better? Ranch dressing to dip the crust in!” And, Oh. My. YUM! Was it EVER heaven-on-a-plate!

Brett’s been having his own OMY moments, as well. He’s slowly and methodically working his way through the 2 pound bag of bite-sized Kit-Kats we got for the trick-or-treaters.

I wish he’d never seen the bag. For a guy who claims not to like desserts, he’s plowing through those Kit-Kats with no problem. Every day, when I get home, that bag is a little lighter.

Unlike my out-of-control husband, I (at least) have shown admiral constraint. I’ve only allowed myself 10 or 11 of the little chocolaty treats.

Mmmm…they’re so good! Maybe, I’ll just have one more. I’d hate for Brett to face those hungry trick-or-treaters alone on Tuesday!

Hey, maybe they’d like a pizza!

Thursday, October 26, 2006

Dedications

Occasionally, I suffer from delusions of grandeur.

I indulge the delusion that I may someday become a real writer – with actual books to my pseudonym.

When I allow myself to wallow in my possible future success, I write book dedications. Now most of them are normal – to mom, dad, and husband, but sometimes I get creative.

I was going through some computer files today, and I found this list. I don’t know when I wrote these, but they’ll give you a glimpse inside my twisted Machiavellian mind!

For Dad and Brett
The only two men I’ve ever trusted

For Mom
You believed in me even before I came into being

For October
You taught me to see the world revolving around others

For Kelly
I didn’t know funny until I heard you laugh

For Tania
Your kindness is the only thing that makes reliving my past worthwhile
For Angie
Happiness is a cool, dark theater before a new release
Joy is being there with you.

And lastly…

For Josh
Success is the best revenge.
May you never taste the former and be severely stung by the latter


Ouch!

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

Finding a Good Man

Here's to the liars and the cheaters and the cold mistreaters;
To the Momma's boys who can't make a stand.
Here's to the superficial players;
The "I love ya" too-soon-sayers;
If you hear me girls, raise your hand:
Let's have a toast:
Here's to findin' a good man.

- Chorus to Findin’ A Good Man
Danielle Peck, Country Singer


Lest you believe all my adolescent years were spent huddled in my basement crying, I thought I should tell you about the one good “man” (boy, really) I met when I was 12.

His name was Tony Randall (not the Tony Randall from the Odd Couple – obviously). We met at Camp Joy’s Drama/Music Camp the summer before I entered 7th grade.

I had been to other Christian summer camps and hated all of them - the forced competition in stupid games, the lack of personal hygiene, and the CULTIC focus on “chapel” three times a day. Honestly, how can you ask kids to go to chapel THREE TIMES A DAY?

Anyway, this year, Camp Joy was offering a music/drama camp. Music campers who attended would go to a local college during the day and study music (let’s call it what it was – Band Camp) and do “normal” camp activities at night, while drama campers would spend the day doing dramatic exercises and practicing a play to be put on at the end of the week.

I wanted in! My parents were so relieved I wasn’t giving up on camp altogether that they eagerly signed me up.

When I got to camp, I was happy to find it was exactly what had been promised. No stupid beach ball games or camp cheers. My fellow campers were more like me – mature kids who wanted to have fun AND learn something at the same time. I was in heaven.

I was coming off my second year with Josh and conditioned to not being popular. So, I was pleasantly surprised when I immediately made friends with a sweet, frizzy-haired girl name Alyssa. She lived in Arlington Heights and had come to camp to bond with her French horn.

Alyssa and I explored the camp together that first night. While we were down at the river, she introduced me to a tall, blond-haired boy from her hometown. I was automatically distrustful of boys my own age, but Tony’s kind smile and outreached hand put me at ease. I shyly shook his hand and listened to him and Alyssa regale me with tales of junior high mischief.

The next day, Alyssa headed off to the music college, and I walked alone to drama practice. Halfway there, I saw Tony running towards me. I stopped in my tracks, afraid he was going to run into me. To my surprise, he slowed down and walked the rest of the way with me. He was in drama, too, and excited to find out what our “parts” were going to be.

Well, after auditioning, we were assigned the major player roles of Air Warden 2 (Me – one line) and Hillbilly 3 (Tony – two lines). The good thing about not being major players was that we were able to hang out around camp when we weren’t in a scene. Which for us meant a lot of free time.

When the music campers returned that evening, we all headed off to evening chapel. I had just sat down next to Alyssa when Tony squeezed into our row, right next to me. He doodled funny pictures on his chapel notes, and I had to suppress my laughter during the invitation, when he made squeaky shoe noises.

When we got back to our cabin, one of my other roommates said, “Do you know who sat by you at chapel tonight? That’s Tony Randall! He’s like the most popular guy in our school!”

I was flabbergasted! A nice guy was one thing – but a popular guy – well, that seemed impossible.

At night, Tony and Alyssa and I all hung out together. But during the day, Tony and I went hiking, played foosball, and went paddle boating together.

At the end of the summer, I knew what it felt like to have a guy for a friend. And it was a good thing, since I was about to go back to one of the worst years of my life.

Three years later, when I was a sophomore in high school, our volleyball/soccer teams headed to Schaumburg to play a double header. The boys on the soccer team were arrogant and cocky in the way that only Christian school boys big-fish-in-small-ponds can be. They thought I was less than nothing. Dirt. Not worth a millisecond of their time.

As I lumbered off the bus, I saw a flash of color as a boy in bright orange pants flew by on a skateboard. A crowd of student cheered him on and laughed. I only saw a shock of blond hair and turned to go into the gym with the rest of my volleyball team.
Then I heard, “Ann-Marie, is that you? I can’t believe it!”

I turned around and the tall, popular guy was talking to me. He was pointing emphatically at himself. “It’s me! Tony Randall! Remember? Drama camp?”

He raced over to me and HUGGED ME – right there in full view of my volleyball sisters AND our entire soccer team.

He’d matured into an even better looking guy, and it was easy to tell he was a popular guy. He happily dragged me out onto the soccer field HOLDING MY HAND and introduced me to his ENTIRE soccer team as “this great girl I met at drama camp.”

I was absolutely speechless. I was even more shocked when the soccer game was rained out and the boys had to come inside and wait for us to finish our game.

Tony cheered AGAINST HIS OWN TEAM for ME! Now, remember, I weighed close to 300 pounds at this point in my life.

No one knew what to make of it. Least of all me.

Tony gave me ANOTHER HUG before I got on the bus and told me how glad he was to have seen me again.

As I climbed on the bus, I saw new found respect on the faces of my classmates.

It was a great feeling.

I remembered back to camp when I first asked Alyssa about Tony. About why he was so nice to me. She said, “Tony is one of those rare people. I still can’t believe he’s my friend. He’s just one of those friends who sees what you’re like on the inside.”

So, I’d like to send a thank you out to Tony Randall.

Thank you for restoring my faith in the male gender.

Thank you for being a true friend.

Talking to Myself

I have a confession to make. I talk to myself.

“So?” you say. “Everyone talks to themselves.”

Well, maybe so, but I talk to myself, out loud, ALL THE TIME. In fact the ONLY time I DON’T talk to myself is when other people are there. Mainly because it seems to make everyone uncomfortable.

I started talking to myself when I was a little girl. It was my primary source of entertainment. I’d make up stories and act out parts in the stories – all by myself. I continued my self-talk all the way through school, even college, only stopping when I knew other people were present.

I’m sure I’m going to keep doing it, and if I actually manage to avoid a heart attack before age 50 (unlikely), I think I’m going to be hoot in the nursing home – still talking to myself.

Now, I mostly talk to myself in my characters’ dialogue to see what sounds real. What would a futuristic cop say? What would an 18th century farm girl say? Does it sound real?

Often I entrench myself in my characters and try to think, speak, and act like them to get a better feel of how to write for them. And sometimes they manage to break through into my consciousness.

Case in point - I’ve been working on Bruised for almost a year now. In the beginning, I knew I wanted to have hot, identical teenage twins be the best friends of one of the main characters. I even asked my boss if I could “borrow” her sons’ names for the twins.

They were only supposed to show up occasionally. But the more I wrote, the more they managed to wheedle their way into the story. Now, they’ve become vital to the story line. Don’t ask me how that happened! It’s like they wrote themselves in.

I’m serious.

Currently, I’m working on Sky Seven and have had a tough time figuring out some of the dialogue. Last night, I huddled under my covers and played both of my main characters as they argued about a life-and-death situation.

My rabbits probably think I’m insane.

Of course, this has been one BIG advantage to Brett working third shift. I never talk to myself (well, hardly) when he is around. Because I don’t want him to commit me anywhere. But now that he’s gone the entire night, I’m able to get a lot of “work” done on my stories.

Sometimes I worry about not being able to talk to myself if we ever have kids. I would hate to damage their psyche by talking to myself. Well, more than I’m sure I will have already done just by being me.

I also talk to myself in my car. Thankfully, I think most people assume I’m on a hands-free phone. Hee, hee. I’m not.

I’m just the crazy lady in the lane next you.

Running with Scissors

Yes, I know Running with Scissors is the title of a new movie starring Annette Bening and Brian Cox. And no, I’m not that interested in seeing it (although the critics are predicting an Oscar nomination for Annette Bening’s fantastic performance).

That’s not why I titled my post.

I’m actually writing about a disturbing Discover credit card ad I saw on TV last night. I had seen parts of this new ad while watching TV before but never the whole thing. When I did, it was VERY disturbing.

The ad shows thousands (maybe millions) of child-sized scissors dancing in the street. People just stare at the scissors at first, but then eventually everyone begin throwing their credit cards to the happy little scissors. In one scene, a lady “feeds” the scissors with her credit card, much like one would feed the birds. In another scene, a mother lets her child in a stroller gleefully feed the scissors. The ad ends with what seems to be a ticker tape parade for the scissors.

Now, am I the only one who would FREAK OUT if this really happened? If scissors developed minds and took to the streets? Exactly how safe would it be to have thousands of sharp implements crowding our streets? What if they stopped being happy? What if they turned on us? It’s like something straight out of a Stephen King novel.

And why on earth would a mother encourage her child to PLAY with a possibly unstable pair of scissors?

Overall, I think the marketing people at Discover did not think this one through. From now on, when I see that commercial, I’m going to think of people’s bloodied corpses tossed by the wayside as scissors take over the world.

Meanwhile, I’ve taken all my scissors and locked them in my drawer.

Better safe than sorry.

Sunday, October 22, 2006

Relative Rivalry

I thought my own family was a little nuts.

That was before I met the Soderstrom family. For people who manage to seem normal to the rest of the world, there’s a whole lot going on under the surface.

A whole lot of scheming, that is.

Brett and I have decided not to participate in any of it.

We went up to Geneva this past Saturday. Brett had decided to help his dad with some yard clean-up. Then, our delightful sister-in-law Sally (The Hostess with the Mostest) invited us to come on over afterward and have dinner and game night with their family.

When we showed up at Brett’s dad’s house, his brother Dave was there with his three children. As I wrote (in minute detail) earlier, Dave and his wife have decided to (just arbitrarily) not like us anymore. They’ve also stooped to spreading ridiculous lies about things we’ve apparently said. None of it is true.

I used to think that Brett’s sister Lisa was exaggerating when she said that Dawn painted her to be manipulative and mean to the rest of the family. Since then, I’ve found myself wondering if it is just that Dave and Dawn like to “start” things.

You know, how some people are never happy unless they are fighting with other people? Well, I think they may be like that.

Back to Saturday – Dave ignored us, and we were just ourselves. We’ve decided that they can’t fight with people who don’t care.

However, I did start crying like crazy when Brett and I were going through some of his mom’s things. I loved her so much and there are times I can’t believe she’s gone.

Poor Brett’s dad. The Soderstroms do not show emotion, nor do they talk about their feelings. And here he was, stuck with a Rehfeldt-Trotter who lives to “get it out” and express her feelings.

Poor guy – I was an emotional train wreck. Just coming off Dave and Dawn’s rejection and then diving into grief over missing my mother-in-law.

I eventually stopped crying, before we got over to Bill and Sally’s. Thankfully, their friendship and fellowship saved the weekend for me. Brett and I decided not to bring any of D&D’s negativity into Bill and Sally’s. I’m sure they don’t want to be in the middle, anymore than we would if the situation were reversed.

Anyway, Sally made delicious appetizers, along with sweet and sour meatballs, ham, scalloped potatoes, and ice cream sundaes for dessert. It was delicious! Brett and I were in heaven, after two weeks of grilled cheese, tomato soup, and frozen pizza.

God bless the good cooks of the world!

During dinner, our nephew Bryan (Bill and Sally’s oldest son) called to tell us his big news. He’s engaged! We were thrilled! He’s 21, an MP in the National Guard, and one of the sweetest “kids” I know. I can’t wait to meet his fiancĆ©e, Katie. I should have the chance, since they are planning to wait two years before getting married.

We also learned that our nephew Steven (Bill and Sally’s youngest), age 12 (but so tall, he looks 14), is trying out for the Olympic starter team in soccer. If he’s accepted in the program, that means we might see him playing in the Olympics one day. That would be SO cool!

After dinner, Steven made us watch a soccer movie with him. It was actually surprisingly good. We also played Scattergories, which yours truly won. *A-hem* Words are my life!

It was a sort of mixed-feeling weekend, but we still had a really nice time. Thanks to Bill and Sally.

Oh, and to my mother-in-law’s socks, which my father-in-law gave me in hopes it would make me stop crying.

And you know – it did. :-)

Craving Catalogs

I harbor a secret love of catalogs!

Brett will tell you that I attack each catalog armed with sticky-notes and avidly mark every page with my “must haves.” Now, of course, I rarely actually ever buy anything, but going through each catalog is like a virtual shopping spree.

It makes me happy, because I love to shop and just the mere possibility that I might actually buy some of these things gets me excited. It makes Brett happy, because I’m happy without him having to spend any money.

My favorite catalog is What on Earth (
www.whatonearthcatalog.com). I ran across their website one day while googling my dad’s name – Bob. It turned out that they had a whole collection of “Bob” wear. Sweatshirts, T-shirts, drinking glasses, nightlights, calendars, throws, pillows, and even more.

Well, everyone knows I much I loved my dad. So, I bought a cheery red sweatshirt that proclaimed me as “Bob’s Daughter.” I’ve had many people stop me on the street and ask where I got it. Almost all of them had a “Bob” in their life!

Anyway, back to the catalog – ever since then, I’ve been on their mailing list. A lot of the stuff is junk, but some of it is just downright funny.

I just thought I’d “catalog” (ha, ha) them for you!

T-Shirts:
Honorary Ooompa Loompa

Best Marriage Advice: Love, Honor, and Negotiate

Empty Promises, Calculated Betrayal, Sociopathic Greed, Just Another Monday.

Freelancers Unite! Say 10-ish at the coffee house?

I may not be right, but I sure can sound like it.

Give me ambiguity or give me something else

Cereal Killer

I drive way too fast to worry about my cholesterol.

Eat well. Stay fit. Die anyway.

Lead me not into temptation. I can find it myself.

It’s better to have loved and lost than to live with a psycho the rest of your life.

Not all men are annoying. Some are dead.

Normal is relative. Just not my relatives.

With luck and planning, I’ll retire at 149.

You see three braches of government. I see firewood.

God loves you. But I’m His favorite.

Overly Caucasian. Do not place on dance floor.

Always late. But worth the wait.

National Spelling Bee Runnerer-Up

Left Handed but Always Right

I used to be indecisive, but now I’m not so sure.

Friends are God’s way of apologizing for your relatives.

If the definition of beauty gets any thinner, no one will fit.

Visualize Whirled Peas

People are more violently opposed to fur than leather because it’s easier to harass rich women than motorcycle gangs.

Baby rompers:
General Mayhem
(in camouflage)

Major Trouble (in camouflage)

Bundle of Oy

Nobody puts Baby in a corner!

Oh, come let us adore me!

Look at it this way. In 40 years, I’ll be changing your diapers.

Aprons:
My cooking hasn’t killed anyone. Yet.

Many have eaten here. Few have died.

I’m sorry. Your opinion wasn’t in the recipe.

I have a kitchen only because it came with the house.

On a Serious Note:
On a plaque -
And if I go while you’re still here…

Know that I still live on,
Vibrating to a different measure
Behind a thin veil you cannot see though.

You will not see me,
So you must have faith.

I wait the time when we can soar together again,
Both aware of each other.

Until then, live your life to the fullest.
And when you need me,
Just whisper my name in your heart,
…I will be there.

My absolute favorite:
On a plaque -
Here’s to good women.
May we know them.
May we be them.
May we raise them.

My other favorite catalog is Signals (
www.signals.com). They have a much more classy selection!

Happy shopping!

The Bully Chronicles: Repercussions and Absolutions

I think it is pretty obvious that what Josh did to me - how he abused me for those three formative years of my life – has had profound repercussions on my psyche.

I never trusted boys my own age after that.
I learned to make fun of myself before others could do it.
I became sarcastic and cynical.
I was forced to advocate for myself, when no one else would.
I’ve had a really hard time trusting authority of any kind.


There are many more, but those are the ones that immediately come to mind. I’m 28 years old, and I’m still working through the damage caused 18 years ago. It will always be a part of who I am, but that doesn’t mean I’ve surrendered to it.

One important part of working through abuse is forgiveness. Have I forgiven Josh, D, D2, B, C, S, and J? That’s a tough question. And one I’m not totally willing to answer.

But I have forgiven the bystanders.

Those who stood by and did nothing while I was persecuted. Those in authority who didn’t believe me. And the remaining few who still don’t believe it could have happened.

My parents
My teachers
My principles
My classmates


Just getting to that point has been a journey. And I hope someday to get to the point where I can add more names to that list. I really do.

But I’m being transparent and honest when I say I really don’t know when that will be.

The Bully Chronicles: Sightings

I’ve only seen Josh one other time since the last day of 7th grade.

Three years later, when I was sixteen, I was in Hilander picking up some groceries. I rounded a corner and saw him.

He was standing there – laughing and talking to a friend, holding a frozen pizza. He had shaved his head, developed muscles, and grown about a foot, but I still would have recognized him anywhere. His eyes were still the same, gorgeous ice blue.

After the initial shock, I practically fell over trying to get out of sight. I pushed my cart all the way to the end of the store and hid behind a cardboard display. My bladder loosened, and I felt the familiar knot of panic begin to grow in my stomach.

I waited there until I saw him check out and leave. Then I waited at least five more minutes before going back out to my car.

I haven’t seen him since.

Of course, I’ve googled his name. Tried to locate him now. I’m not really sure why. I don’t think I would ever contact him.

I guess I just want to know who he is now. And does he remember me?

I don’t know what would be worse – if he didn’t feel any remorse or if he didn’t even remember me.

Because, let me tell you, I’ll never forget him.

The Bully Chronicles: The Last Straw - Part II

I was tempting fate by calling my mom. My parents had forbidden me to talk about Josh. But it was either call my mom, or run out in Riverside traffic and try to end it all.

Using the phone inside the miniature golf attendant’s booth, I called my mom and begged her to come pick me up. She was really surprised I had called her – panicked, rambling, and pretty much incoherent – at work.

After she talked me into calming down, I told her I needed her to come pick me up. When she asked why, I started to tell her about Josh, shortly before she cut me off. She said she didn’t want to hear anymore about Josh. Desperate, I told her about everything, but she only stopped me when I recounted how D has said ****.

“He said that?! He’s a teacher’s kid!” She was shocked. All I could think was “THIS is what works?” I thought about all the times I could have told her how D and B always swore at me.

Mom said she would be right over. I told Mrs. V. that I wasn’t feeling well, and that Mom was going to pick me up. I watched the school van drive away and leaned against the cool brick building.

Mom showed up shortly after and was in full war mode. She drove me back to school and stormed into the principal’s office. She told me to tell the principal everything.

I reported the events of the day and tried to ignore the eye rolls from both my mom and my principal when I talked about Josh. But when I told about D's swearing and Josh’s forbidden radio, my principal seemed to sit up a little straighter.

He told my mom he would “look into it.” I knew he meant D’s swearing, not my “fictitious stories” about Josh.

Mom drove me home, and I prepared for three months of freedom. I was already dreading 8th grade, but I’d learned to enjoy every Josh-free moment.

It was halfway through July when my friend DC called.

“Did you hear about Josh? He got expelled for bringing a radio to school? Can you believe it?”

I couldn’t believe it. I just couldn’t believe one of Josh’s lemmings had finally developed a backbone and collaborated my story.

Later, I learned that D, faced with possible expulsion for swearing, had finally broken down and admitted Josh had brought a radio on the field trip.

D didn’t have the power Josh did, so several of my classmates told our principal that he had sworn at me during the trip. When faced with loyalty or survival, D decided to save his own neck.

I felt like I had just won the lottery! It was over. Even though I was frustrated that Josh had been done in by a radio, and not three years of relentless abuse, I was still elated!

After that joyful summer, I entered my 8th grade classroom with trepidation. I was still afraid our principal would relent, and I’d see Josh sitting there, waiting for me. But there was no Josh. And, as I searched my classmates’ faces, even Josh’s friends, girlfriends, and henchmen, I saw nothing.

The girls were smiling, waving me over, and none of the boys even gave me a passing glance. I was free!

I was finally free.

The Bully Chronicles: The Last Straw - Part I

It was at that moment, crouched on the floor, my face stinging from the backhanded slap, I realized I wanted to die.

All I could see were my high school years stretched out endlessly in front of me. Every day a nightmare, followed by another nightmare, as Josh would continue to torture me.

Everyone would just go on not believing me. My classmates would remain mute. And I would have to endure every single awful day.

In my crouched position, I began to consider my options. I could run out in traffic and try to get hit by a car. I could slit my wrists with a butcher knife. Or maybe, I could ask Josh to help me end it all.

I could see him cheerfully agreeing and then killing me in the slowest and most painful way possible.

Maybe I wouldn’t ask Josh, after all.

What brought me to this point? Believe it or not – an end-of-the-school-year miniature golfing field trip with my 7th grade class.

Josh was still mad about the tennis shoes I had ruined. Not to mention the audacity I had shown in even attempting to challenge him. So, for the last two weeks of 7th grade, he ratcheted up his usual tricks to make my life even more miserable.

He taunted me every second the teachers weren’t watching. Shoved pencils in my back, slammed my head against a locker. Stole my homework. Tripped me. Kicked me.

He’d corner me and threaten me until I’d say what he wanted me to say – “I’m fat. I’m ugly. I’m stupid. No one likes me.”

That phrase became my mantra from 5th to 7th grade. I got so used to repeating it “Louder!” “Louder!” (until he was satisfied with my volume) that I’d start to say it when he’d come toward me, just to avoid the confrontation.

I was SO ready for school to get out.

Our homeroom teacher, Mrs. V., announced our end-of-the-year field trip would include lunch at the fifties-themed Beef-a-Roo and a trip to a miniature golf park. Personally, I didn’t care. The trip would take place on the last day of school – and THAT was what I was looking forward to.

When the day finally arrived, I was actually a little excited. We’d all been allowed to wear casual clothes, as opposed to our rather dowdy school dress code. It was a beautiful early summer day, and everyone was talking and laughing.

We all waited by the entrance, as Mrs. V. brought the school van around. Josh was on the far end with all the other boys, and so far he hadn’t paid me a bit of attention. I was relieved and hoping he would give me this last day of school as a gift.

Mrs. V. pulled the van up, parked by the entrance, and motioned for us to climb aboard. I was so distracted I hadn’t even noticed Josh moving up the line. He gave me a vicious little smile and whispered in my ear, “Don’t think you’re going to sit in any of the seats. You sit between the door and the seats.”

I stared at the narrow space, realizing I’d have to crouch down just to fit. I shook my head, “No way!”

“Yes, way!” Josh motioned to D, who brutally hip checked me into the van. I rubbed my sore hip and realized that if I didn’t do what he said, the day would just get worse.

Maybe, if I did it, he’d leave me alone the rest of the day.

Yeah, right.

As I crouched in my assigned position, Mrs. V. twisted around and asked why I was sitting there. Josh spoke up, “Well, there just isn’t enough room,” he gestured around the van to my classmates who had (on his orders) spread out to fill the seats. “Ann-Marie volunteered.”

“Oh, okay,” Mrs. V. turned back around, and I cursed the fact that Mrs. V. was the most absent-minded of all our teachers.

When we got to the Beef-a-Roo, Josh waited until Mrs. V. was getting out before he gave me a solid kick. The kick forced me out of the van and left me sprawled face down on the parking lot. Mrs. V. saw me brushing dirt off my arm and asked what had happened. I took one look at Josh’s cocky face and lied. “I tripped.”

Josh had given the class clear instructions. No one was to sit with me. Gulping down fresh tears, I sat by myself as the rest of the class played the jukebox, laughed, and joked. I started to get up once, but I looked over and saw Josh shake his head. I slid back down into my lonely booth.

Mrs. V. came over and asked why I was all by myself. I told her I wasn’t feeling well. She gave me a sympathetic look and went to go play the jukebox.

I just wanted the day to be over.

I rode in silence on the way over to the miniature golf park. I went through the motions of playing the game with my assigned group and didn’t even squawk when Josh calmly drove a golf club into my shin. The end of the day was almost near, and I could look forward to three glorious months without Josh.

We were all back in the van when Mrs. V. realized she hadn’t paid for the games. As she toddled off, blissfully ignorant, Josh seized the opportunity.

He’d secreted a radio away in his jacket – strictly against school policy – and tuned the station to (gasp!) rock and roll. He groped his current girlfriend, as he and his henchmen sang along, and the rest of the class looked somewhere between embarrassed and excited.

My crouched position was causing my legs to cramp, and finally one of them gave out on me. I lost my balance, and I careened toward the side of the seat to try and grab the armrest.

That was my mistake. I missed the armrest completely and grabbed the next nearest thing – Josh’s knee. I clutched his knee – just for a spilt second – before I realized what it was.

But it was too late. Josh smacked my hand away and just stared at me in amazement.

I was scared speechless. Someone turned the radio off, and the rest of the class just gaped along with me. I scrambled back, away from Josh, and grabbed the back of the front seat.

D was sitting in the front seat. He must have done something to tick Josh off, since he had been assigned the humiliating shotgun seat. Trying to ingratiate himself back into Josh’s good graces, he told me to get my **** hands off. I let go of his seat like it was on fire.

D’s expletive broke the weird spell that held us all. Josh swung back into action, wrenching my wrist, and pulling me towards him. He held me with one hand and backhanded my face with his other hand. He let go of my wrist, and I fell backwards in stunned silence against the door.

My classmates, even D, looked a little shocked. Before, Josh had waited until we were mostly alone before abusing me. This was the first time he’d done it, this brutally, in front of the entire class.

And THAT was the moment I knew I couldn’t keep living like this. I felt panic rising up in my throat like vomit and I knew I had to GET OUT OF THERE.

I found the door latch and stumbled out in the parking lot. I ran to the bathroom and threw up. Then, I sat there heaving and thinking. I knew that I couldn’t get back in that van. I just couldn’t.

So, even though I didn’t know what was going to happen, I did the one thing every kid does when they’re in trouble.

I called my mom.

Friday, October 20, 2006

The Bully Chronicles: Failed Retribution

I only tried to get even with Josh once. Just once. And he punished me so severely, that I never tried it again.

I would have rather ended my own life than defy him again.

They seemed like innocent tools – a pencil, two pens, and tennis shoes – but they combined to make one of the worst days of my life.

It all started in science class. Our teacher, Mr. S. was a free thinking kind of teacher who shunned the idea of assigned seats. Now, most kids would welcome that kind of freedom. Not me. I knew it would give Josh even more leeway to persecute me.

I knew I was probably in for it when I caught Josh whispering to B and D before class, periodically looking over at me. I sat down. Josh sat right behind me. I’d move, and each time he’d follow me. I think I probably sat in every seat in that class trying to get away from him, but by the time the bell rang, I was trapped. Josh behind me, with D and B on either side.

As Mr. S. began teaching, writing on the blackboard, his back to the class, it began.

Poke. Push. Grind. Josh thrust his newly sharpened pencil through my sweater into my back. I shifted to one side. It didn’t help. Poke. Push. Grind. He was on his tenth poke, when I’d finally had it.

I raised my hand and told Mr. S. what was going on. He shot Josh a look and told him to knock it off. Josh raised his eyebrows and proclaimed his innocence. Mr. S. didn’t care, however, and turned back to the blackboard.

It wasn’t enough to deter Josh. Now that I’d embarrassed him, he began to poke harder and grind the lead deeper into my back. I knew it would be useless to raise my hand again, so I tried to grit my teeth and ignore it.

Josh must have sensed me giving up, since he snickered softly as he continued the poking. I think it was the snicker that made me mad. I looked down and saw that Josh had propped his feet on either side of my desk.

The brand new black and white BK tennis shoes he’d been bragging about stared up at me. I knew he’d paid $100 of his own money to buy those shoes.

My anger just seemed to come to a head. I don’t know what I was thinking. And I would profoundly regret it later, but my patience was exhausted. I uncapped two of my blue pens and, with pre-meditation, drew a line up the front of each shoe.

He was surprised. I’ll give him that. He dropped his feet down so fast they thumped on the ground. Tempting fate, I twisted around and smiled triumphantly.

He lifted the pencil and was about to stab me in the back- literally - when we both looked up and realized the room had gone silent. Mr. S. stood there, in front of us, privy to the whole incident.

He looked down at Josh’s now streaked shoes and said, “Serves you right.” He took Josh’s pencil away and wrote him a detention.

My glow of triumph faded almost instantly. I’d just meant to get a “little” even with Josh. Now, I’d ruined his new shoes, embarrassed him in front of the class, and gotten him a detention.

Oh, yeah, I was in trouble.

I could practically feel the waves of anger rolling off Josh during the rest of the class. I was on my feet, out the door, and on the way to my next class on the first peal of the dismissal bell. Running for my life.

I managed to stay out of his way the rest of the day, even though he shot me murderous looks in every class. For the next couple of days, I walked with friends everywhere and tried to always keep a teacher in sight.

Of course, I was going to be punished. I knew that. I just wanted to postpone it for as long as possible. So, when it did eventually happen, I marked it up to really (really) bad timing. And of course, the fate that had doomed me to be Josh’s whipping girl.

“It” happened on a Tuesday afternoon. For our recreation hour, the girls had Home Economics Class and the boys had Gym Class. I finished my Home Ec class assignment early and got a hall pass to go to the bathroom.

The bathrooms were right off the side of the gym. As I headed down the stairs and made a left turn toward the bathroom, I saw the boys running around in their gym shorts, playing basketball. I didn’t think anything about it. I assumed their coach was keeping an eye on them.

Later, I would learn that their coach was busy in the locker room catching up on paperwork. He’d left them unsupervised and unknowingly made that horrible day possible.

Just as I was realizing I had no friends with me, and there were no teachers in sight, Josh was making his way towards me. He motioned to B, D, and D2 to block my path. I found myself propelled away from the bathrooms into the narrow closet that housed the basketball racks.

D2, a moody boy and good friend of Josh’s, pinned me behind one of the racks, as B and D double checked for any adults. They gave the all clear to Josh.

One by one, he emptied the racks and distributed the balls to the three boys. As he handed them out, he grinned maliciously at me. I think he could see I was almost vibrating with dread.

My bladder, which had been full to begin with, now threatened to give out on me. It took everything I had not to wet my pants in fear.

D2 threw the first ball. It hit me in the stomach. I tried to leave the closet, but the four boys pummeled me with basketballs. My head, my stomach, my thighs, my legs, and even my arms were throbbing in agony by the time the basketballs lay silent on the floor.

I was doubled up on the floor, trying to catch my breath enough to stand up. Josh came in and stood over me. I looked up at him just in time to see the basketball coming at my face. I clutched my sore face and half ran, half stumbled to the bathroom.

I sat in the stall and took inventory of where it hurt. Everywhere. I don’t know how much time passed. It felt like an eternity. But eventually, I washed my face and limped back to class.

I hurt for the next couple of days. I saw Josh watch with satisfaction as I had to sit gingerly and move with caution.

The next time we had science class, Josh sat behind me again. He proceeded to poke me with pencils and propped his ruined tennis shoes on either side of my desk. My two pens sat there in front of me, their caps still on. My motivation was gone. He’d finally broken my spirit.

That night, after I was in my room for the night, I took a pair of scissors and slowly cut up the pencil marked sweater. I just couldn’t take looking at it anymore.

In fact, I couldn’t take looking at that face in the mirror anymore, either.

The Bully Chronicles: The Charmer

The thing is, when he wasn’t actively tormenting me, I could see why people adored Josh.

He was good looking, smart, funny, and oh, could he be charming! If he liked you, well, you would soon be the recipient of flowers, teddy bears, and romantic mixed tapes!

Occasionally, Josh would give me a break. A week without any abuse. These were few and far between, but very welcome. Each time it happened, I would allow myself that sliver of hope that maybe he’d forget how much he hated me. Or he’d find something else to do. Or just lose interest. Whatever, just so I could go back to being completely ignored.

Then, it actually happened. For a month. I was elated. Josh left me alone. A couple of times he even held the door open for me when I was with a bunch of my friends. Before, he would have slammed it in my face. But now, he’d actually smile at me.

I wasn’t naive enough to think he liked me or anything. But I was so relieved, that I even tried to like him a little. It wasn’t that hard, really, when I stopped dreading his presence. He was so charming. He had a way of looking at you that made you go all gooey and warm inside. Like you were the only person in the room he cared about.

My parents saw the change in me. So did my teachers. I was a different person.

Then, one day, Josh sat down at the girls’ lunch table. He was laughing and flirting with some of the girls, and then he turned to me. “I hear you have the new Amy Grant tape.”

“Yeah,” I admitted nervously.

“I was just wondering if I could borrow it,” he asked, smiling.

“Sure, I guess.” I tried to sound low key, but I was thrilled! Maybe he actually wanted to be friends. I just couldn’t believe my change of luck.

I brought my tape to school the next day and gave it to Josh. He accepted it gratefully and promised to return it soon. I was on cloud nine the whole morning.

At lunch time, Josh reappeared at our table again. This time, he carried a bag of candy. We all looked at each other and giggled. Josh had this tradition of bringing candy to the girl he was currently interested in. I wondered if it would be DS, A2, or DA this week.

“I got this for you, Ann-Marie,” he held the bag of candy out.

I was speechless. So were the other girls at the table as they rapidly revaluated my status. I started to reach for the candy, when I saw Josh suddenly move his hand up. The bag of candy wasn’t really candy. He had emptied the bag and filled it with steaming nacho cheese. With precision, he squirted the greasy mess out of the bag and onto my shirt.

The other girls gasped. I think one of them giggled nervously. Hot tears welled up in my eyes as I pulled my sticky shirt away from my chest and raced out of the lunchroom down the hall.

I ran all the way to my locker where I kept my extra set of clothes to change into after gym. That’s when I saw it.

Josh had methodically ripped out all the tape ribbon from my new Amy Grant tape. It was all there, looped over the coat hook and plastered against the back of my locker. It looked like my locker had been T.P.’d with tape ribbon. In the center of the mess, he’d taped a note.

“Thanks for the tape!” – Josh

From then on, I never allowed myself to think, even for a moment, that he wanted to be my friend.

The Bully Chronicles: An Honest Mistake

Our high school classes were housed on the floor above our monstrous gymnasium. Often, when the younger kids were at recess, they would accidentally throw a basketball up the stairs. The ball would roll down into the hallway, and during the class break, we’d roll any stray balls back down to the elementary kids. It was an everyday occurrence.

Then, one day, I made an honest mistake. A horrible, honest mistake.

I got a pass from study hall to go out to my locker and get some homework. When I was out there, I saw a basketball in the middle of the hallway. It was a brand new, red and black, Michael Jordan edition. Figuring one of the elementary kids had thrown it up there; I gently rolled it down the stairs. My friend, DC, came out of study hall just in time to see me.

A few minutes later, when the class break bell rang, I heard Josh. He was asking everyone if they had seen where his new basketball was. The realization sunk in. I had just thrown his new basketball to the wolves – the little kids who often destroyed everything in their path. I sunk back against my locker and held my breath as one by one my classmates denied having seen it.

Suddenly, and without thinking, DC blurted out, “Hey, Ann-Marie, didn’t you roll a basketball down the stairs earlier?”

Josh’s head whipped around as he narrowed in on me. “You did what?”

I looked at DC, her mouth an O, as she realized her mistake.

I tried to explain that it was an accident. An honest mistake. Josh had his fists clenched at his side, but he finally relaxed them. The whole high school – even the Seniors – were looking at us. Josh might have had the entire 7th grade under his thumb, but he didn’t have the student body.

He seemed to calm down. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll just go get it, then.” I watched him disappear through the door to the stairway and thought I had dodged the bullet.

Later that day, our history teacher gave us seatwork assignments. When I finished mine early, I got a hall pass and went out to my locker. I was kneeling down looking for a book when the basketball smashed into my neck. The impact forced my head into the back of my locker. I could taste blood in my throat. More blood dribbled into my mouth from my nose.

I staggered back to a sitting position. And there he was, smugly holding the basketball he had just bounced off my head. I wiped the blood from my nose and swallowed the lump in my throat before I stood up.

It was my intention to pass him. To get back to class. But he had other ideas. He blocked my path and shoved me against the wooden door of a deserted classroom. I could see my sweaty face and drying blood in the wood’s shiny reflection.

He pushed the side of my head flat against the door and held it there with the basketball. He whispered angrily in my ear. “You better never touch anything that belongs to me again. You understand?”

I nodded the best I could under the circumstances. He finally released the pressure, let the basketball drop, and walked back to class.

I just slumped against the side of the door, sucking in air through my bloody nose. That’s when I saw her, DC, standing just outside our history class door. She waited until Josh passed her and went back into class before coming to me.

“I’m so sorry. That was so stupid of me.” She found tissues in her locker, and I wiped my face clean, while she cleaned the blood off the inside of my locker. When I had finally composed myself, DC gave me a little shoulder squeeze, and I did the only thing I could do.

I went back to class.

The Bully Chronicles: Kiss and Tell

Each year our class would go to a local nursing home to sing Christmas carols. Then, we’d get back in the school van and head back to celebrate our last day before Christmas vacation.

In 6th grade, we were climbing back in the van when our teacher realized she’d left something inside. She told us to sit still and be good, and she put Josh – Josh! – in charge.

I was riding shotgun in the front seat next to the teacher, since Josh had told the class to spread out, so I couldn’t sit with them. Then, of course, he volunteered me to our teacher for the front seat. I didn’t really care. I was just ready for a vacation from school and from Josh.

Josh had been “going out” with DS, a frizzy haired (but nice) girl in our class. As soon as Mrs. C. left, he swapped seats with the girl sitting next to her. He put his arm around her and began boasting that he was going to kiss her.

He met my eyes in the rearview mirror. “Now, don’t you tell anyone about this,” he said, almost jokingly. Then he kissed DS! Some of the kids laughed. Others just rolled their eyes. By the time Mrs. C got back in the van, Josh was back in his seat and DS’s cheeks were bright red.

On the way back, I think I even smiled. I thought it was kind of sweet that DS had gotten kissed. She was pretty nice to me, after all, and I was happy that the most popular boy in our class liked her.

Later that afternoon, after our class party, we were all dismissed to go play in the gym. Everyone except DS and Josh. We all exchanged nervous glances as we left the classroom. It was pretty obvious someone had told the teacher what happened in the van. I was relieved. I hadn’t told anyone, so for once Josh couldn’t blame me.

DS emerged from the classroom first. She was in tears and headed straight for the bathroom. Josh came out next. His face was expressionless. He marched straight over to B and D, who were busy flirting with A2. I was playing basketball and watched them across the gym, wondering what they were talking about with such intensity.

Then I saw Josh turn and look at me. I remember the panicked feeling. “He thinks I did it.” How Josh could think I would tell on him was crazy. I mean, I’d have to be some kind of stupid to do that to myself.

B and D strode toward me as I looked for a teacher. There was none in sight. Our teachers were finishing their last chores before Christmas vacation and trusted that 6th graders would be okay in the gym unsupervised.

The boys reached me and smacked the basketball out of my hands. Josh picked it up and threw it directly at my head. I didn’t really feel the pain. I was still kind of in shock-panic mode. I did notice the other kids spreading out to the outer reaches of the gym. Not seeing. Not noticing.

“Why did you tell on us?” Josh demanded as I rubbed the side of my aching head.

“But I didn’t!” I protested.

“Yes, you did. Someone just told me they heard you tell Mrs. C.”

I couldn’t believe it. One of my classmates had lied to Josh to protect themselves. I continued to protest, but Josh just shook his head.

“I told you not to tell,” he reminded me as he pushed up my sweater sleeve. B clamped his hand on my other arm as Josh slowly raked his fingernails down my bare arm from inside elbow to wrist. I stared at the five red lines, seething inside. I tried to pull away from B. I was going to go tell a teacher. I finally had proof! But B yanked me back, and D shook his head.

That extra second made me rethink going to the teacher. They would just say I’d done it to myself. And I’d look like a fool. Again. So, instead, I pushed my sweater sleeve back down and stood against the gym wall while the three of them played basketball (and kept guard) until our parents showed up to pick us up.

As I climbed in Dad’s van, I pushed my sleeve up, debating whether or not to bring Josh up. It was a forbidden topic, and the red lines were already a little faded. I decide to focus on my two FREE weeks, instead of having to drag my Dad to the principal’s office (again) just to be called a liar (again).

Looking back, I wished I had showed him. Maybe that would have been enough. But at that time, all I could think about was getting out.

Several years later, when I was a Senior in high school, my friend A2 approached me.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” she said. “Remember back in 6th grade? Well, I was the one who told Mrs. C. about Josh and DS. I know it was stupid, but I was really jealous of DS and wanted them to get in trouble. Josh was so mad when he came over to us that I told him I’d heard you telling Mrs. C. I’m really sorry. I’ve felt really bad for all these years, and I just had to tell you before we graduate.”

I was shocked and surprisingly (after all that time) a little hurt. Hearing her say that brought back a flood of memories and the phantom pain of those humiliating red lines.

I forgave her, of course. It had been so long ago, and Josh was long gone. And we’d become pretty good friends.

But part of me wanted to tell her to go look up Josh, and let him know I’d been telling the truth.

After all, those five red lines went a lot deeper than just my skin.

The Bully Chronicles: Everyday Disgrace

In the beginning, I wasn’t silent about the bullies. I told my parents, my teachers, my principal, and my pastor. But, one by one, they were influenced by the lack of any “witnesses” to my bullying.

I remember more than one time standing in my principal’s office with Josh. We’d stand side my side and tell our “versions” of the story. Josh was always absolved by his witnesses, and I began to realize that I was losing any credibility I might have had.

“If this kid keeps doing all this to you, then how come no one else sees it?” my mother would ask. When I explained how the other kids were afraid of Josh, she’d say, “Oh that’s silly. He’s just a little kid.”

It wasn’t silly. It was accurate. Two of my classmates have since told me they were racked with guilt at various times because they didn’t step in and tell the truth. But, as one girl told me, “I was so afraid he’d start to pick on me that I was actually glad he chose you.”

My parents got real tired, real fast, of hearing my “made-up” Josh “stories” and finally – they had enough! I was forbidden to talk about Josh at home, and any pleas I made to switch back to my old school fell on deaf ears.

So there I was. Stuck. I tried to make the best of it. Sometimes it wasn’t all bad. Occasionally Josh would feel generous and leave me alone for a day or two, but that never lasted long.

I’m sure I’ll end up leaving some things out as I recount what he did to me, but these are the ones I remember in detail. Each moment is burned in my psyche.

In the end, I’m not even sure it was the big things that drove me to contemplate suicide.

I’m pretty sure it was the every day little digs, pokes, slaps, and shoves that almost did me in. The not knowing when or where it was going to happen.

Just that it would.

The Bully Chronicles: Stepping on Toes

The bullying began with something really small – my toes!

Shortly after I beat the never-beaten-before Josh in a game of Around the World using Math Flash Cards, our class lined up to go to the bathroom. Josh and I were chosen as “Line Leaders” since we had been the top two at Around the World.

We stood outside the bathroom, waiting for another class to finish their turn. Our teacher wandered off to talk to the other teacher. I remember this moment very clearly – Josh looked at me, smiled, and deliberately stomped down on my foot! I yelped and grabbed my foot. Our teacher hurried over to see what was wrong.

“He stepped on my foot!” I tearfully pointed at Josh.

Our teacher fixed her eye on Josh. “Did you step on her foot?” she asked sternly.

“I don’t know what she’s talking about,” he lied.

I could see the confusion in our teacher’s eyes. We were the two smartest kids in class. We were both well-behaved. Finally, she asked B, who in line behind Josh.

“Josh didn’t step on her foot,“ B corroborated Josh’s version.

Mrs. Swanson then asked A1 in line behind me. I saw A1’s cheeks flush bright red. “I didn’t see anything,” she claimed softly.

I couldn’t believe it. The rest of the class was keeping an eye on Josh, who I imagine gave an imperceptible smug smile. Mrs. Swanson had no choice. She had to believe the kid with the witnesses. So, I had a sore foot and a new reputation as the girl who made things up.

After that pattern was established, it became unbreakable. I dreaded our three-times-a-day bathroom breaks, because whenever he could, Josh (or one of his boy lackeys) would step on my foot – hard. I’d try to move out of the way, but then I’d get in trouble for not staying in line.

I told my parents about it. They talked to Mrs. Swanson, who had to admit she’d never seen Josh do it. She also had to deliver the bad news that no one else in the class had seen it, and proposed that perhaps I was making it up.

I wasn’t, of course, but my parents were torn. There wasn’t any proof, and I had just started school. Maybe I was lacking attention? So, they told me to just try to stay out of Josh’s way.

Well, that advice turned out to be impossible to follow.

Letting Bygones Be Bygones

I realize that reading about my schoolyard bullies might get a tad depressing, but I have to tell you that writing it all down has been an amazing stress reliever for me.

I’ve been carrying this burden around for years. Occasionally the subject would come up, and I’d share my bully stories with someone. They would always just stare at me in surprise and say, “That happened to YOU in a CHRISTIAN school?” They were always shocked.

It is shocking that it happened, but (looking back now) I can see the unique set of circumstances that combined to make it possible.

Many people, who went to school with me, in other classes, can’t believe it happened. They don’t remember any of it and try to convince me it wasn’t as bad as I think it was. But I refuse to sugar coat my experience just so someone else can have hazy nostalgic memories of our school. I’m sorry. It did happen and being able to finally expose it brings me a great deal of much needed, long suppressed relief.

My classmates, however, don’t question it. They know. They were there. And a couple of times, when faced with people who thought I was exaggerating, they have backed me up.

I appreciate it now, but I often think, “Where were you back then?” I guess I know where they were – scared and afraid of making themselves a target for Josh’s rage. I know. I understand. It’s just that it was awfully lonely out there in the cold by myself, you know?

So that’s why I’m committed to finishing The Bully Chronicles. I promise it’s not that much longer. And soon I’ll be back to my opinionated, funny self. In fact, a lot of what happened during those years made me who I am. In order to survive those years, I learned the art of self deprecation, cynicism, and sarcasm along with a finely honed sense of humor. So, in part, that’s why I am the way I am.

Perhaps the most important thing I learned from Josh was to laugh at myself – before anyone else could.

But if you think I’m going to thank him for that, well, you’re crazy!

Back to the bullies…

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

The Bully Chronicles: Beginning

I was ten when my parents decided to switch churches.

My mom had been hired as a daycare teacher at the school operated by the new church. One of their rules was that in order to teach there, your family had to attend church there. So, we prepared to switch.

My parents asked me if I also wanted to switch schools to the new school. I wasn’t sure. I loved going to Rockford Baptist. The kids in my class were great, and I was learning a lot. I also loved my teachers. However, I could see how much easier it would make things for my parents if I agreed to switch schools. So, I did.

I met Josh, along with the rest of my classmates, at the beginning of my 5th grade year. Almost immediately, I was starry-eyed over my new teacher – the lovely, enchanting Mrs. Swanson. The new class was about the same size as my old class, and I’d already made several friends in Sunday School the summer before school started.

I still remember standing there in front of the class as Mrs. Swanson introduced me in that perfect ladylike way she always seemed to have. I was a little nervous, but excited, as I surveyed my classmates. It was comforting to see a few familiar faces. None of the new faces seemed threatening, just curious.

It didn’t take long for me to settle in and be part of the class. Unfortunately, it also didn’t take me long to discover that Berean was almost a full scholastic year behind Rockford Baptist. Sitting at my desk, reviewing the material, I realized I had learned almost the entire curriculum the year before.

Thanks to my year’s head start, I began to get straight “A’s” and quickly caught up to the smartest kid in the class – Josh.

Josh. Don’t ask me how a ten year old kid managed to be so charismatic. People were just automatically drawn to him. He was smart (and also, I discovered later, conniving, manipulative, and a master of deceit). He could also be charming and sweet, if he wanted to be. In fact, part of the reason nobody believed my abuse stories was because Josh was so highly respected. He had everybody fooled.

He had fantastic eyes. Believe me, I know. I saw them up close. You can’t avoid that sort of thing when someone is yelling inches from your face or slamming your head in a locker. I saw his eyes sweet, charming, mean, nasty, and enraged. They were piercing ice blue and tilted just slightly upward. Add perfect skin and sun-kissed blond hair, and you’ve got the most popular kid in school.

Josh exuded confidence. He’d perfected this self-assured walk – where he’d stick his hands in his pocket and just kind of shuffle forward. It was VERY “Aww, shucks, I’m just a regular guy” and yet VERY “But a cool regular guy.”

The girls in our class were crazy over Josh. During the three years I knew him, Josh “went out” with almost every girl in our class. Except, of course, the obvious lemon in the bunch – me.

Josh was used to being the class’ star pupil, and he wasn’t at all sure he wanted any company. I think that maybe, at first, he tried. Long before he began to ridicule me, he made a comment on how “we” were the smartest kids in the class.

I eventually surpassed him and became the top student in the class. Little did I know how that would affect the next three years of my life.

The Bully Chronicles: The Henchmen

If Josh was King of the Bullies, then B and D were definitely his henchmen. When Josh decided he wanted to taunt me, he would send them to corner me and keep me in a certain spot – safe from the prying eyes of any teachers.

There I’d be – hanging out with the rest of the girls in my 6th or 7th grade class, somewhere on the playground or in the gym – and I’d see them coming towards me. Their faces set in steely expressions, their feet synchronized, arms pumping and fingers pointing. They’d advance upon me and command me to “Stay.” Like I was a stray dog.

They would laugh and flirt with the other girls and then give me a slanted look. The rest of the girls would get the hint and scatter - often looking back at me over their shoulders.

Then, the henchmen would do a little reconnaissance.

They’d spot the teacher. If the teacher looked over at us, all she’d see were three kinds hanging out. Not one teacher ever noticed I was only standing there because I was frozen to the ground in fear. Sometimes, the spot would be perfect. There would be no teacher. Other times, the henchmen would make me move to another spot where we would all wait for Josh.

They’d stand on either side of me, like guard dogs, until Josh arrived. Then they’d step back, and watch Josh go to work on me. Often, they’d join in on the taunting. After my humiliation was over, they’d leave with Josh. And I was alone.

There were things I never understood about the henchmen.

For one thing, they were both more than a “little” pudgy. Yet, they laughed the hardest when Josh made me repeat “I’m fat. I’m ugly. I’m stupid. No one likes me.”

Over and over again, I was forced to say it. And it never ceased to amuse them.

D was a pudgy, but tall, kid who had been adopted by one of my school’s teachers. B was big (even bigger than I was) and menacing when he was with Josh. But when they weren’t with Josh, they mostly left me alone.

I figured out pretty early that they had agreed to be Josh’s henchmen, only to protect themselves from becoming his targets. They weren’t even necessarily Josh’s friends – just a tool he could use. And they were okay with it, since it kept them out of the line of fire. And, since I understood, I was more lenient in my views towards them.

Not that I can ever forget their mocking faces, taunting voices, or the time they tried to “out swear” one another on creatively mean nicknames for me. That was their own little game they like to play while we waited for Josh to amble on over to us.

After Josh was expelled at the end of 7th grade, B and D left me alone. In fact, I’m not even sure we ever talked about those moments – even though D and I were in the same 8 person graduating class.

When I was in college, I came home one weekend for my cousin Brad’s high school graduation from my alma mater. I had lost over 100 pounds since high school and looked pretty good (if I do say so myself) in a little deep purple suede number.

I saw D across the room. Later, he came up to me. He had recognized me. He actually tried to flirt with me. We were both single at the time, and he wanted to take me out to dinner. A million thoughts went through my head. I saw the charming face in front of me morph back into the twisted yelling face that had called me names. Had kept calling them, even when I begged him to stop.

I smiled at him. “D,” I said. “I’m still the same person inside. And I’m sure you are, too. You didn’t want me then. And I don’t want you now.” As I walked away, the 7th grade girl inside me stood up and cheered.

The other day, I was eating lunch with Carleen at T.G.I. Fridays. As we were eating, I looked around the restaurant. That’s when I saw him. B. Sitting there with some guys eating dinner. He lifted his head, and our eyes met across the room. I saw the light of recognition in his eyes and a sliver of embarrassment and shame passed through them. It wasn’t much, but after all these years, you know, it was enough for me.

I don’t know what B’s doing nowadays, but I do know D’s been married, divorced, and gone though drug and alcohol rehab programs. And I guess that’s why it’s a lot easier for me to let go of what they put me through. They were under Josh’s spell, and his thumb, just as much as I was.

But it seems life has paid them back, and I don’t need to add any more to their sorrow.

Enough people have been hurt.

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

The Bully Chronicles: Volume I

I was bullied in my Christian school from 5th to 11th grade.

Those six years stand out in stark contrast to the rest of my life. The verbal, emotional, and physical abuse I endured at the hands of those bullies shaped the rest of my life.

Those are the scars I bear everyday. Their familiar voices whisper to me. They tell me I’m fat, ugly, and that no one will ever love me. They chant my insecurities in chorus and laugh loudly at my failures. They try to remind me how I am, in every possible way, a ludicrous, disgusting mess.

My shame in being bullied lies mostly in the fact that one no one ever believed me. Not my wonderful parents, not my teachers, not my principal, and not my pastor. At first, I thought it would just go away. So, I tried to ignore it.

But when the lack of adult intervention caused the boys to become braver and more hostile, I began to complain to the adults in my life. Some told me to keep ignoring it, and it would go away.

Other adults told me that the boys “liked” me and that’s why they were “teasing” me. After being corralled into the gym’s ball closet and hit repeatedly in the head with basketballs by the bullies, I’m glad they didn’t “like” me all the way to a broken jaw.

My classmates were the only ones that knew the truth. But they were afraid. Afraid that if they stood up for me, they would become the bullies’ next target. And I couldn’t blame them. So they stood by and did nothing. Some of them even blamed me for things they had done to upset the bullies. And, of course, the bullies never believed my protestations of innocence, and punished me mercilessly anyway.

I’m detailing the bullies’ actions in my life stories collection, but I thought I could sketch them out here, one by one.

Elementary/Middle School
Main Bully – Josh
Henchman 1 – B
Henchman 2 – D

High School
Bully 1 – C
Bully 2 – J
Bully 3 – S

Let’s start with the lesser of all the evils, as posts about Josh could tend to get a bit long.

My high school bullies were a walk in the park compared to middle school. It was not a pleasant experience by any means, but infinitely more bearable.

My cousin Charity says I should “forgive and forget” what these guys did to me. I have to remind her that although she wasn’t popular in high school, these guys didn’t make fun of her for sport. They simply ignored her. I would have given anything to be ignored!

C, J, and S were all in the class ahead of me. Most of the time they left me alone (for which I was grateful, especially after my everyday harassment by Josh in middle school), but occasionally they dragged out their verbal bats and used me as their piƱata.

I remember two instances, specifically. These are (of course) not counting all the sarcastic remarks and guffaws made in public at my expense.

C, J & S all sat at the same table in the lunchroom. One day when I walked into the lunchroom, C stood up, pointed at me, and yelled, “Ahoy! It’s Moby Dick! Look at that blubber! Run for cover!” At that point, in a moment that must have taken a great deal of planning and choreographing, the entire high school dove under their lunch tables. I stood, alone, in the doorway.

I don’t know how I didn’t cry. I know I wanted to. Perhaps the hardest thing was seeing the faces of the people I considered my “friends” peeking out from under their tables. Their eyes were penitent, apologizing to me. But I was expected to understand, since I “knew how it was” if they didn’t “go along.”

A second vivid memory of C, J & S happened in the economics class the Junior and Senior classes shared. The highlight of the Junior/Senior Economic Class was the end of the year life-size Monopoly game. The economics teacher has created this wonderful game board, complete with giant dice, where members of the class were their own game pieces.

We worked the whole year with the promise of playing this game. It was a tradition in our high school.

We started to play the game, and at one point, our teacher had to leave the room and left C in charge. C began to mock me saying that I should represent “houses” on the board, since I was as large as a house. J chimed in saying that I should represent “hotels,” because they were even bigger. My face was burning with embarrassment while my classmates laughed.

They made me skip my turn the next few times, until the teacher eventually returned. At the end of the class, J was behind me walking out. He whispered, “Get out of my way. You’re so big I can’t even get around you.”

I held up pretty good all the way to the bathroom where I locked myself in a stall and cried until the ache went away.

There are other incidents, but those are the two I remember in detail. Now, I know there are a lot of people out there who had much worse experiences with high school bullies than mine. I send them my empathy.

But mine did hurt. Even a whale as large a Moby Dick can feel pain.