My Story Part 2

There came a time around 9yo that my hospital stays were less, but never entirely gone. Because my mom was a single mom and barely making it, we moved about once a year to a different apartment. Then when I was 9yo, my mom married a man 22 years her senior. This union was to be a blessing in my life as it gave me a stability that I never experienced before. We moved to San Jose, California where my new dad owned a home in a high class area with good schools and friendly neighbors. I could finally settle a bit, although our family life was stressful to say the least. Both of my parents worked as my mom still needed health insurance for me. So my brother and I were on our own after school. He did his own thing and I watched TV from 3:00 to 9:00 taking a break when the news came on. This pattern, which began in the hospital, would become my addiction. There were times my mom hired a “nanny” to watch us. I don’t know if there was a nanny shortage back then, but she seemed to hire overweight women who just sat around all day and did nothing. I remember wanting to shave my legs for the first time and our nanny drilled into my head over and over again that if I shaved my legs, there was no going back. She put the fear of the razor into my head! Of course, I ignored her. By the way, she was right….once you start shaving, you can never stop.

My brother and I had a strained relationship with our new father. He already had a grown son and I think being a dad again was difficult to say the least. He married the woman he loved, but gained a daughter who was sick all the time and a son who was struggling with his own emotions. I can only guess, since my brother has not told me, that his emotional turmoil was due to his anger and frustration surrounded losing his father to divorce and having to deal with a sister that was getting all the attention. I look back and wish I had loved him better. He really did need me. But I was not there…emotionally OR physically. So when he came into teenagerhood, he acted out in many ways which included drugs and criminal activity.

Being at a stable school and not being in the hospital so much gave me the opportunity to make friends. My first best friend was in my class in the 4^th grade and walked the same route home as I did. Because of my shame, I would never think of talking to her. Too scary! One day, she was walking up one side of the street and I was on the other. She yelled across the street, “Hey! Do you wanna come over tomorrow and see my new hamster?” And as any kid knows, that’s all it took. We were fast friends and still connect even today. Stability began to give me a slight confidence that I could manage this thing called life. There was school, friends, sleepovers, many trips to the candy store with my best friend riding on the back of her bike. Could I actually be normal?

Junior High was wonderful for me! I loved changing classes and was known for doing my hair a different way each day. I would use ribbons and flowers in my hair and get really creative. I still only had a few friends, but that is all I needed. The summer before my freshman year, everything changed. My best friend decided to try out for the basketball team. She asked if I wanted to try out too. As you can imagine, a small weakling like myself could get smashed on a basketball court. But I saw that there were also cheerleading tryouts. I do not know what came over me, but I decided to try out for cheerleading. Ugly me. I knew I wouldn’t make the squad, but something in me just pushed me to try. I practiced and practiced and practiced. My parents lived on a golf course and so they had a huge window that faced the golf course that was tinted so the golfers could not see in our house. I could see myself from the outside into the window so I used this as a mirror to get every move precisely right. The day of the tryouts came looming over me as I daily practiced my routines. The day finally arrived and I was so nervous as I walked to the gym. Why was I doing this? How could I be a cheerleader? But I gave it my best shot. I stood by myself in front of the current cheerleading squad with a few teachers. I went for it. I was precise. I was loud. I had spirit. I made two mistakes, but kept my composure through the entire, torturous routine. They thanked me and asked me to sit down. I had to wait for every single girl to try out and then we were told to leave the room so they could make their decision. I knew my mistakes cost me from being picked. I berated myself for making mistakes. Oh well, I thought, maybe next year. We were all asked to come back into the gym and get the results. They called one girl and she jumped up yelling and hugged all the girls around her. They called another. Same reaction. Screaming. Hugging. Then, to my utter amazement, they called me. I just sat there. I must not have heard them right. They called my name again. I stood up and jumped up and down. I think as I was in a daze as a couple of the girls hugged me and congratulated me. The rest of the names were called, but I didn’t hear any of them. It was like the room was moving in slow motion around me. This was the best thing that ever happened to me. I was a cheerleader! I was a cheerleader! Maybe I am worth something after all?

This new elite social position did wonders for my confidence. People started talking about me. They would say that I was cute. That I was pretty. This shocked me! Me, pretty? That’s impossible. But as the year progressed, these comments became more common and I began to entertain the idea that I might be pretty. My freshman year was amazing. It’s the year my peers saw me. It’s the year I began to look at myself…and not hate what I saw. But as you know, dear reader, shame can take many forms and is not easily extinguished.