2010-02-24

Another bit from "Bullied."

Still here. Still picking away and editing this nasty pile of words I threw together in November (although NaNoEdMo doesn't officially start until next week.

In case you're just coming in, I took part in NaNoWriMo this past November, although I rebelled about a week or so into it and wound up writing NONfiction instead. 50,000 words in 30 days. It was awful.

BUT, I think at least 20,000 of them are worth working on, so that's what I've been doing. The working title is "Bullied," and it's about, well, being bullied. Here's another chunk of text that I've been tweaking:

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I had become a veritable emotional time bomb, my rage always more or less just below the surface. What I could not express at school, I would let rip at home. Anything could set me off -- my sister coming in and changing the channel in the middle of something I wasn't even watching anyway, the sudden discovery that we were out of those little Entenmann's chocolate chip cookies. I would rail and scream, and crumple into a ball sobbing.

My mother made me an appointment with a therapist. It would be the first of many therapists I'd have over the years.

I was simultaneously thrilled and horrified. The fact that I had to go see somebody validated my tumultuous state of affairs, but it also confirmed that I was batshit crazy. I bounced between wanting to tell everyone that I had to go see a shrink, and praying to God that nobody would find out. Because, really, all I needed was to have the girls discover this additional flaw in my character.

To ensure that I would not be seen entering or exiting A THERAPIST'S OFFICE in the immediate area, my mother found someone suitably far away, in downtown Plymouth.

I have really only hazy memories of actually speaking to My First Therapist�. I don't remember much in terms of what we talked about. I'm sure we talked about what was going on and how I was supposed to be dealing with it. I remember that he was a kind-looking man, and that his office was full of books. I remember being disappointed that he had a standard sofa for me to sit on, and that I wasn't going to be lying on a black leather chaise lounge while he took notes and made "hmmm" sounds as I spilled my tale of woe.

I went every Saturday afternoon. I enjoyed the rides over, listening to Top 40 on the car radio. I also liked wandering around downtown Plymouth while my mother spoke to the therapist after our session was through. There was a diner across the street, and I would sit at the counter and order a milkshake, which arrived half in a glass, and half in the stainless steel mixing cup. The time I would spend in the diner afforded me some ambiguity; I was just a normal kid sitting at a counter and drinking her milkshake. Nobody in the diner knew that I was unpopular, "troubled" and seeing a therapist.

Other times, I'd visit Pilgrim Hall. I'd immerse myself in colonial history, learning about samplers and hornbooks and whispering sticks, round pieces of wood that would get stuffed in the mouth of kids who were caught whispering. I found myself longing to have lived in colonial times.

Occasionally, my sister would accompany us. Sometimes this was because she had nothing better to do, other times it was because the therapist wanted to talk to her, gauge her take on the situation, make sure that she wasn't being unduly influenced or affected by my outbursts. On those days, she would come with me to the diner, where we'd order our milkshakes and sit in silence, neither one of us able to express what was happening. Constant (albeit bickering) companions through childhood, there now existed an impenetrable mire of sadness and confusion between us.

I felt as though my sister -- everybody, really -- couldn't understand how I wasn't able to just get it together and be like other kids. I couldn't explain it myself, other than I knew that it was pointless. Even if I pretended to enjoy the things my classmates did, even if I had a proper uniform and lost 20 pounds, I understood somehow that I would still be conspicuously out of it. It was just too late for any sort of reinvention. The girls would not buy it, and neither would I. As miserable as I was, I wouldn't betray myself, even though I had only the vaguest sense of who that self even was.

lisamcc at 7:56 a.m.



1 comments so far
Mark
2010-03-02 18:31:28
I'm glad you're exploring this and writing about it. It's really honest and raw and I kinda feel a little voyeuristic reading it. Hopefully that didn't sound as creepy as I think it may have. I was trying to be encouraging and I think it just came off poorly.
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