When I Stopped Trying to Fit In

I stood at the community dryer removing my clothes and placing them into my basket to take back home. For a moment I had felt sad, lonely maybe, less; I’m not sure. But whatever the emotion it was only for a brief moment. Then it passed. I smiled to myself because it didn’t matter. I had stopped trying to fit in.

When I had first walked into the shared laundry room of our RV Park, two women had been talking loudly to one another and laughing as they shared a story, but as I entered the area they lowered their voices in a conspiratorial tone as they spoke about events around our little community. I knew both of the women from having been around the small community for a few months. We were all friendly with one another, but as they continued to whisper together within my earshot I understood that I wasn’t part of their inner circle, I wasn’t part of the fold, or in the know. I certainly wasn’t close enough to the pack to invite inclusion into their most interesting and shocking, shared gossip. For a moment that made me feel sadly excluded, but then I shook it off, remembering that I wasn’t the woman I used to be. I smiled knowing it was okay to be different.

I didn’t always feel that way. I used to feel like I was on the outside looking in, like I was a beggar at the window of the restaurant, staring hungrily at the steaming plate of food, wishing for a bite, something to [whet] my appetite for acceptance.

I was the young girl who moved around a lot when I was little. And I mean a lot. I remember getting behind in first grade after moving schools three times in one year, and feeling ashamed that I required a special tutor to catch up to the rest of the class. At six I felt like I didn’t fit in.

I remember second grade, another new school, and joining other girls to make fun of someone else on the playground. I knew it wasn’t right, but I still did it. After all, if it was her it wasn’t me. Do you want to know the most peculiar part? I saw her smiling. It was like the negative attention was better for her than being invisible. I got that. Our eyes met by the swing set, she smiled, and we understood each other on a very deep, painful level. Even if just for a moment. Outcasts.

I remember another new school in third grade. It was the second new school that year. I recall telling a little girl on the teeter totter I was epileptic. I thought if she felt sorry for me she might be my friend. The rest of my time in elementary school I was the kid with the weird disease.

I can recall switching school in junior high, hoping with everything I had that it would be different, that I would be liked. I still enjoyed Barbies and frogs, but I realized quickly that wasn’t what the popular girls were into.

Popular girls. I’m not sure why I fought to be a part of their clique. There were nice girls who weren’t in the top echelon of the socially elite, yet I set my sights high. From sixth grade, throughout high school, I was a cheerleader. I didn’t have a grand affection for toe touches and booty dances. I just thought I would find my place inside that way. Have you ever had your bed short-sheeted at cheerleading camp? Even though I always made the squad, I wasn’t part of the squad. I remember calling my mom in tears at a cheerleading sleepover because everyone was ignoring me and being cruel. It wasn’t imaged. It was the real thing. Once you become a social leper, it sticks.

I look back at the bullying and I thank God social media didn’t exist. I already wanted to fall asleep and never wake up. I can’t imagine if my misery had been shared on social networks. I already weighed 90 pounds because sleep was better than food, or because the cafeteria was where my tormentors gathered. I can’t imagine if pictures had been shot across Snapchat with the caption of Anorexic Annie.