At the end of my 6th grade year my teacher, Mrs. Gueswel, wrote in my yearbook how proud she was of me in that I didn’t give in to peer pressure or “fakiness”. It was the gauge to which I set the rest of my school years. It’s one of the reasons I didn’t ever try cigarettes or drugs. It’s how I knew I was still me. I went through some hard times for the next couple of years, socially speaking, and those words always helped to keep me true to myself, even when it would have been easy to give up and do what would have made me fit in to one group or another. I got through it, and I was a better person for it. I was able to make the best friends I could have asked for, and I showed them my own vulnerability and unconditional acceptance, and they felt comfortable coming to me when they had a problem. I was perfectly at ease with their imperfection and content with my own. My flaws helped shape the foundations of what I lovingly refer to as Staceyland, the name I use to refer to the place in my mind that defines me.
In my quest to live a better life as a grown-up, however, I have forgotten how to be a great person. Somewhere along the line, I let myself become convinced that in order to be worth the hassle of knowing me, I had to have a job, or look a certain way, or live life how everyone else wanted. I started giving up pieces of myself to fit into what other people wanted me to be. Funny thing is, I failed at being what they wanted, so not only did I give up myself, it was for no good reason. I could never seem to keep a job for long. I let others’ opinions guide my life decisions. I knew I couldn’t please everyone, but I tried. When one decision I made caused some people to be happy, it would make others angry. When I made another decision, the roles would reverse. Without fail, either way I tried it, I ended up unhappy, because I entirely stopped doing what it was I wanted to do. The creativity I had always found dripping from my pores had dried up. I even let someone convince me I didn’t know how to be beautiful unless I did it their way. I grew bitter, cold, and uncaring. Without realizing it, I built up walls to hide my vulnerability. I became critical of others’ mistakes, hated myself for my own mistakes, and pushed everyone away. Staceyland fell into ruin.
For several years, when I looked at pictures of myself I saw nothing behind my eyes, and it scared me. Still, I couldn’t figure out what had happened to me and why I felt (and looked) so empty… I had forgotten the words that kept me rooted to myself for so many years.
It made me vulnerable to the actions of a sociopath, and I’m not sure now if I will ever recover. Well, it feels that way at least. At first, I thought I had met the person who would help me get back to me. I was surrounded by their energy and charisma, and I was hopeful for the first time in a long time. We had many long conversations about personal change, wherein I spoke of how I wanted to be how I was before: caring, open, happy. Time and time again I was told that “everyone wants to be what they were in high school”, and that I should strive to be something else. I struggled to make my tormentor happy, to squish myself into the mold I was persuaded would turn me into who I wanted to be. I was criticized relentlessly. No matter what I said or did, I wasn’t fitting into the form set out before me, and was subsequently told that I was just not trying hard enough. I lost even more of myself, became confused. Eventually, my actions stopped being about helping myself to become a great person again; they were about pleasing a bully. Walking on eggshells turned into the primary focus. My head swam, and I tried to slip away quietly, only making it worse. For a while, the tormentor clung to me, calling daily and inviting themselves over with a frequency that felt panicked and frantic (or maybe that’s just what it made me feel). When I finally got the courage to say I needed time alone to figure myself out, I was actively shunned: invited to the parties and then dramatically ignored. After several months of no contact, I think I am finally free, but I get nervous thinking that maybe one of these days I’ll be contacted again under the guise of “working things out”. I think we both know “working things out” means “I couldn’t control you for a while there, but I’m coming back full force now”. I’m afraid I won’t yet be strong enough for a second round. Hopefully, it won’t come to that.
I feel that the last couple of years happened the way they did for a reason, though. To remember the words that had always meant so much to me, I needed that pain. To find my optimism, my positivity, I needed to see with clarity the monster suit I was wearing. I needed to lose myself completely so I could start over and rebuild from the foundations of Staceyland. I needed to see the damage letting other people define me could cause. The walls hiding my vulnerability are still up, much to my chagrin, but I am taking them down, one brick at a time. I feel a change in the wind, and my sail is full. Finally, I can see some semblance of who I used to be, covered in the rubble of a neglected playland my mind had once created. My new goal is to salvage what I can, wipe away the rust and clear out the debris of almost a decade of disregard. Now that my eyes once again hold the lively shimmering bits and baubles of my Me, I am confident it won't happen again. I can no longer bend to peer pressure or “fakiness”, or I may lose Me for the remainder of my life.
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