Three: Boyfriends and False Hope

At nine years old, I expressed sorrow to my parents at the fact I was not yet an adult. It truly bothered me, like a problem that one knows will not leave because it cannot. Whether I liked it or not, it would be nine more years (or, at the time as I liked to say, “double my life, Mommy!”) before the world would take me seriously.

My frustration led me to an extremely early interest in boys. Everyone at school was still into “crushes,” and even though I still thought being married meant kids, I associated relationships with adulthood and therefore wanted one. It was nearly six years before my first period that I had my first boyfriend.

His name was Cory. The brother of my friend and four years older, he acted as if he were younger than me. Our relationship began on a Saturday afternoon at a horse show. We both rode horses, and that's actually how I met Cory and Amanda's family. I was attracted to him because he was dorky like me and because although he was hyperactive and fun-loving, he was as mature as thirteen year olds can be, and my nine-year-old mind needed at least that.

It was easy to begin dating a friend's brother at nine. Horse shows were our dates. Cory would follow me around wherever I went. He adored me, and I thrived on that. Our relationship was kept quiet from both sets of parents, and quite understandably so. Although the parents on both sides knew we had some sort of crush going on, they actually didn't find out about our relationship (at least, my parents didn't) until after we broke up, nearly four years later.

Cory looked up to me and admired me, and I needed that. I attribute the need to be admired to being a Leo...and, having been born three days before me on July 21, Cory was a Cancer. Our young and innocent relationship lasted four years because we were truly compatible and also completely serious about ourselves. I was like a fifteen year old in a nine year old's body, and he was thirteen going on nine.

My first kiss was one of the most frightening moments of my life. Cory and I sat on his family's swingset in their backyard, waiting to be “married” by his sister, Amanda. She kept getting annoyed with Cory because he was embarrassed and nervous and continued to make corny jokes to make us laugh. I was nearly nauseas with nerves, and when she said Cory could kiss his bride, I nearly threw up. The kiss was quick and wet, and I remember shaking with disgust at the feeling of so much spit. I hadn't yet been diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (because of this disorder I am disgusted by exchanging spit through foods, drinks, sharing eating utensils, and sometimes kisses, depending), so my mind was disappointed when I thought that perhaps I wasn't ready for a relationship because I hadn't enjoyed it.

I wiped off my lips, rubbed the spit on my jeans, and later wondered if my parents could smell it on me.

Cory and I broke up mostly because his family made horse shows less and less of a priority as time went on, and since our parents never knew about our relationship, we never called one another in fear that they would find out after so many years of deceit. We never truly broke up, and Amanda and I eventually went our separate ways. I refused to even think about dating another boy, though, until I was sure that Cory had moved on. After I found out he had expressed interest in someone else, I opened my eyes once again, asking out two different boys in middle school. One boy said he was waiting for a girl in high school (whatever that meant), and the other agreed to go out with me, only for the relationship to be cut short by my removal from the school.

Our Lady of Lourdes—the school I had been at since kindergarten—was open for kids up to eighth grade, and it had always been assumed that I would continue going there. After my brother left because of his need for an IEP that the school didn't support, I became antsy, wanting to leave as well. I hated uniforms. Most of my clothing consisted of bright colors and ridiculous shapes, and the dull navy blue uniforms at Lourdes did not allow that.

To this day, I cannot stand navy blue.

My parents finally agreed to let me start at a new school. Amanda, Cory's sister and my current best friend, would start going to the brand new and currently-being-constructed Rapid Run Middle School. If I went to the school starting in sixth grade, I would go down in history as having attended the first class to go through the school for all three years.

The school was being constructed right down the street from Amanda's house, and one day her mom, Amanda, and I took a walk to go see it. It had rained the day before, and puddles dotted the muddy construction landscape. I admired the size of the school, and I remembered thinking it signified a fresh start. I expressed my hope to Amanda and her mother that I could get my parents to agree with me and I would get to go to the school.

Looking back at my hope to go to Rapid Run is so ironic. It is the one building that strikes a fear so deep within me even now, as a grown adult. I shake when I even begin to think of it, and although I have often thought about visiting the wide halls with the red lockers once more just to overcome my fear and anxiety of the place, part of me wants to forget it exists.

That very school nearly cost me my life. It is where I was singled out, ridiculed, had things thrown at me, screamed at me, taunted at me. That cafeteria is my own personal hell, one that has proven to me in my past that kids will stop at nothing to kill someone who is different, individualistic. Thinking of Rapid Run Middle School brings back memories of sneers, taunts, cruel words, cries of agony and homemade nooses.

I had no idea on that day, when I was so hopeful and excited, that depending on my actions, Rapid Run Middle School would either kill me or simply wound me for life.

I cordially invite you to my personal hell.

Two: Researching and Anti-Bacterial Soap

As I write this, it is my birthday. In my twenty-two years of life, I have seen pain, sorrow, joy, happiness, friendships, death, and I have learned many lessons. Nearly everything I know I taught myself. Everything important, anyway.

Will I ever use algebra in real life? Probably not. As much as schools want you to think otherwise, most of it's a crock of crap. College taught me nothing I had not already learned in high school, and high school taught me nothing new compared to middle school.

Don't get me wrong: I love algebra. I absolutely adore math, and sometimes I get the knack for it and pull out one of my many reference books to tear apart some algebra problems with my active mind. I love a lot of stuff that isn't necessary for life, though. Algebra is one of them. Some careers require it, sure, but like I said...that's what college should be for.

What are the important things to learn? How to trust your instinct. When something is instinct and when it is unconscious judgement. How to take care of yourself in an abundance of different situations. That nothing is impossible.

I have always loved to learn. I have a thirst for knowledge that goes beyond whether or not I want to learn. If I go through periods of time where I don't learn new vocabulary or don't go onto science and history websites to learn things about my greatest interests, my mind becomes dull, tired. I have an extremely active mind, one that wants to know the answers to literally everything and anything.

Back in the early 90s, I was on the floor in front of the TV at our second home, the dream home my parents built from scratch, the same home we were forced from only years after we'd moved in. The whitish-gray carpet was rough on my hands, imprinting them with the shapes of the little threaded balls that made up the carpet. I didn't care. I hated sitting on chairs. In most of my earliest memories I am anywhere but a chair: the floor, a saddle, a bed, the kitchen counter...hell, even a potty training toilet.

I was sitting on my butt before the TV, my arms back behind me at an awkward angle only people with “double joints” can find comfortable. I watched the evening news with my parents while they sat behind me on the hunter green leather furniture. The news anchor mentioned something like, “Is anti-bacterial soap actually bad for you? Find out after the break!” This left me confused. My grandma, the sweet and energetic tiny woman I'd known all my life as MaMa (pronounced MawMaw) could write a campaign speech for anti-bacterial soap if she were required to. Anything that kept you and your belongings squeaky clean was something worth having and hanging onto for dear life. If MaMa was behind it, it had to be good for you!

It was the first thing besides horses and drawing such horses that I had ever been interested in. Sad, perhaps funny, but true. I sat before the TV, nearly scratching my head, not hardly waiting for the commercial break to be over so I could find out why, exactly, anti-bacterial soap might not be the best thing since sliced bread.

When the news anchor finally came back on and explained that anti-bacterial soap allows household bacteria to become immune and may, in the long run, end up producing stronger and more resistant bacteria, it was a bunch of mumbo-jumbo to me. Frustrated when the subject changed, I turned to my parents and asked them to help me understand why (and in English, please!) anti-bacterial soap was bad? Even after their explanation, I still didn't understand. And that bothered me.

Quite pathetically, it bothered me for years. I asked my mom on a Girly Day (a day consisting of driving around in her Ford Mustang—or Chrysler Sebring, depending on the year—going to anywhere we could possibly think of to spend money on the most unnecessary and useless items) if she remembered the news piece from years before. Surprisingly, she had, or at least knew what I was talking about. She tried explaining it again, and I still didn't understand.

Finally, one year in middle school, I was in science class, and we were learning about the human body's immune system. I learned how the body adapts to its environment, and that fascinated me. For example, the teacher said, showers are great and feel nice, but if you rely on bathing every single day and suddenly miss two days, your body is caught off guard. If you are subjected to a virus or strange bacterium within those two days, you are more likely to pick it up and get sick or infected.

My mind lit up. The anti-bacterial soap! My God, I finally understood! The bacteria became immune to the ingredients that could hurt it in the soap, and it evolved. How beautiful, how interesting! I quickly grabbed my student planner and jotted down excited notes. It was something new to research!

I was a dorky kid. I was like a boy who wanted to be a girl. My interests included reading, writing, drawing and researching, but I was fascinated with make up and girly stuff because I simply didn't understand it. I hated dolls. I couldn't stand most kids my age because they seemed so immature. Saying this years later brings laughs, but I am as serious as can be. I was ready to be grown up as soon as I was born.

I was the type of kid who didn't want to play with the other kids at family get-togethers. Kids weren't interesting. They talked about stupid things and really didn't know anything. Adults, on the other hand, talked about things my young mind was fascinated in. The stock market, the latest presidential election, real estate markets...heck, even anti-bacterial soap. Things that other uninteresting kids knew nothing about.

I can remember always being against the idea of marriage because every married couple I knew when I was little had kids...and I didn't want kids. I knew I was different for this. My girl friends would have their dolls sitting on their beds, all dressed and nice and neat. Meanwhile, my idea of toys was a set of Hot Wheels, buildable tracks, or a sketch pad and colored pencils. Kids were never interesting to me, and the kids I was friends with were usually at least either smart or interesting.

I told my mom I didn't want kids when I was ten or so. We were in the house that I would finish my childhood in, the one where I would eventually try to take my own life, the one with the hardest lessons to learn. My mom had mentioned something about when I had kids, she knew I'd be this type of mother, or whatever...the message was made. I was having kids. It was only natural.

I looked up from my homework and I said, “I don't want to have kids.”

She chuckled and said, “Probably because you can't imagine being a mother. Just wait until you meet the love of your life and you'll want to have a family. Once you're married you'll feel different.”

I remember not wanting to reply because I knew I didn't want kids. I knew. It wasn't something like the career I had in mind...I wasn't sure if I wanted to be a meterologist, a jockey, an author, or an astrophysicist, but I had plenty of time for that. Kids? I was more sure than anything else in my life: I didn't want them. They weren't interesting, and they were cruel.

Ironically, I believed kids were cruel even before they encouraged me to take my own life. How right I was.

One: Early Memories and Sweet Revenge

Who am I? I am a woman. I am a daughter, a mother, a sister, and a friend. I am a person who has always strived to help others simply because there aren't enough people in the world who help. I am a person who enjoys listening to life stories and learning from them.

I've always been different. Since I was young I knew I was unique. Not unique in the way that people are. Everyone is an individual. Everyone has qualities or lack of qualities that makes them individuals. Technically everyone is, in their own way, “unique.” But there are those rare people who never fit in. Our minds never seem to rest on the same level as other people and we are truly unique.

My first memory is being rocked in a rocking chair by a little black boy who took care of me in foster care. It was before I had turned ten weeks old. An old 80s episode of Bugs Bunny played on the TV, the ridiculous sounds of the cartoon characters echoing in the background. I remember looking down at my feet. They were small, curious. I remember not knowing exactly what was going on. The only thing that stands out in this memory is the little black boy's voice singing “You Are My Sunshine” to me. He sang this to me in the rocking chair, his voice magnifying over anything else. I don't remember if he sang it well. I don't remember looking up at him but I do remember the black arm cradled around my tiny body. I remember not being able to care about anything else or focus on anything else but his voice. I was his world. That felt nice.

My next memory is lying on an old brown couch my parents had after I was adopted into Ohio. I was still young, less than a year old, I'd say, and I was wearing a light pink onesie as I laid on the couch. I adored my brother Rocky, and he adored me. I remember him coming up to me, shaking his fingers at me with a big, silly grin on his face, and pushing his hands toward my stomach, proclaiming, “Goochie goochie goo!” I'd burst into laughter at the tickles that ensued.

I knew I was different after I started taking up an interest in horseback-riding. Not for that very fact alone, of course, but for the undeniable guilt that caught me when I realized I could never repay the favor that the horse had given me. It wasn't fair, I thought, how my parents paid for me to ride on the horse for an hour when poor Fancy was only going to be ridden over and over again on any given day, and none of the money went to her. Sure, it was an impractical thought. But it was also complex for a six year old.

I remember not fitting in while I went to preschool. The other kids wanted nothing more than to play with each other, pick boogers and try to cut their hair. I remember wanting to be different. I wanted to be the only kid that went to kindergarten and remembered what I had been taught from preschool. There was an apple with my name on it on the wall amongst a cluster of others. My name was the only one of its kind, and I remember feeling strangely proud of that. I was different. At a young age, I wanted to learn rather than play, and I strived to be different rather than fitting in.

I was always good at that, and it wasn't always good.

I went to Our Lady of Lourde's elementary school, a place of uniforms, brown tile and cedar chips for vomit piles. They had a building strictly for music class and Girl Scout meetings. The carpet was rough and a dark grayish-blue, and I remember the smell of spit would permeate the air whenever we were forced to play our stupid and generic musical instruments: the recorders. I never could play that thing, and I remember envying the kids who could.

It was there, though, in that very music room, where I was ridiculed for the first time. I don't remember why, but I can see the kid clear as day. His name was Ryan, and he had bleach blonde hair that stuck up in murderous spikes. He had cerulean blue eyes that would have been pretty if it weren't for the evil and mischief so obvious within them. We sat on the floor of the music room one day, and I was overly aware of the kid I didn't like sitting a few feet away. While the teacher couldn't hear, Ryan looked over and said the one word that insulted me like no other:

“Baby.”

I nearly cried. Call me ugly, call me a loser, call me anything but that. My six year old first grader mind could not comprehend being called a baby. At the time, I didn't know the meaning of the word “mature.” Yet, that's what I considered myself. To be called a baby was to insult me to the fullest extent, to say that I wasn't every one of my six years.

I was a vengeful kid. I was teased and prodded at so much that I couldn't help but keep what I called “The Revenge Notebook.” It was a little magenta colored notebook I hid in the top drawer of my bedroom desk. In it, pathetically organized, was the person who had hurt me in one column, what they had done in the next, how I would repay them in the next column, and finally, how long I had to get revenge before it didn't seem worth it any longer.

I remember so much about being a kid that I don't pretend that kids are innocent. My memories of childhood are so awful that I am relieved to be an adult. Kids are the most cruel people you could ever imagine, if you could only remember. Well, I do. Who I am today proves that surviving childhood can either quite literally kill you—or simply make you stronger. And why do I say this, you ask? Because sure, as a kid, I kept a Revenge Notebook. Most of the time, it was simply for daydreaming. Other kids killed animals for fun or enjoyed watching others cry. That is the true evil.

Are you wondering if I got revenge on Ryan? Whether you are or you aren't, I will tell you. I did. Oh, yes, I did. It was something I had not planned to work out so perfectly—I actually hadn't planned it at all. I made up my mind to simply avoid Ryan rather than seek him out for revenge. Yet Karma, my good friend and most beloved colleague, had a different idea in mind.

One day, in that same music room, the teacher scolded Ryan for talking in the middle of class. I felt a twinge of satisfaction for having him shut up for good—I never had heard a single positive or productive word come out of that terror's mouth—but out of nowhere, the blonde haired kid started to cry. His cruel blue eyes welled with tears, and he wiped at them before they could fall with the wrists of his uniform's sweatshirt sleeves.

Then he looked over at me, if only by coincidence. I stared back, and I smiled as if to say, “Baby.” Ryan looked away, embarrassed and defeated. I turned back to the teacher, but every once in a while, I would look over at him with a grin of satisfaction on my face.

Needless to say, Ryan never bothered me again.